Author: Terry Mancour
Date: 2012-01-18T18:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: The Goblin Invasion Is On... ...and a wizard's work is never done! After facing a hopeless siege, an implacable foe and an impossible escape, you would think that Minalan the Spellmonger would be able to rest -- but the armies of the undead goblin shaman Shereul (known as the Dead God to his human victims) are rolling over the western reaches of the rustic Duchy of Alshar and is headed toward the heart of the Duchy of Castal. Thousands are fleeing for their lives as hordes of goblins pour out of Boval Vale and devastate the rugged fiefs of the Alshari Wilderlands. And the super-charged shamans

Warmage

Book 2 Of the Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Copyright 2012 © Terry Mancour

As always, special thanks to my beautiful wife,

Laurin Council Mancour

The Alshari Wilderlands

Dedication:

To my brothers,

Chester L Matthew Mancour

And

Andrew Luke Mancour

Kin, Comrades, Allies, Friends, Alibis,

All that brothers should be,
and so much more than I could ask for.

Chapter One:

The Slaughter at Grimly Wood

Grimly Wood, Late Summer

I surveyed the battlefield at Grimly Wood from horseback, looking out over the heads of the formations of infantry and the clusters of light cavalry, hearing the sounds of a thousand suits of armor rattle and hundreds of horses complaining about their burdens. I looked toward the distant line of the foe, barely visible in the mists and shadows that haunted this dour little land, and I had but one thought:

I really had to pee.

I should have gone earlier, I knew, but I was too worried about the battle to take the time. That was understandable: it was the first battle in which I was in command of the Ducal forces, and I was as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night. I had gotten little sleep the night before, and when I was awakened by my trusty servant an hour before dawn to hear scouting reports, I was still too busy to tend to my personal needs as messengers came and went and decisions had to be made. I’d managed to eat couple of camp biscuits with a rasher of bacon washed down with a big mug of weak beer but that was as much food as I’d managed – and now that beer was haunting me in an increasingly uncomfortable fashion.

I should have gone before I donned my armor, because once you put it on there’s no easy way to pee without removing a good portion of it. I had even stopped when that last chain skirt was being strapped around my waist and almost went, but then Captain Rogo had come with important news about the scouts, and I postponed it again.

By the time I mounted Traveler, I realized I was in dire straits.

I should know better. I’m not just some petty lordling elevated to command through favoritism or accident of birth. I was a trained warrior, a master wizard, and a veteran warmage of the bloody Farisan Campaign – not to mention a survivor of the hopeless Siege of Boval Vale.

I knew I was risking certain distraction and possible illness, a condition the healers call “belly rot” – what happens when a man’s intestines or bladder is full when he sustains a wound to the lower abdomen. One of the first things they teach you in Basic Infantry Training (which, despite my magical profession I had been obliged to endure) is to “lighten your load” before you step onto the battlefield.

This was a particularly important battlefield, too, and a particularly important battle. It wasn’t a decisive engagement, really, but a sustained skirmish which we were almost certain to win. But what happened on this battlefield and how would set the course for the many, many battles to come, I knew. This was the first time that the encroaching gurvani were being faced with a foe who not only expected them, but who knew what they were dealing with.

This lightning-fast campaign was but the opening salvo between two titanic powers: on our side was the massed professional military aristocracy of the Five Duchies, stout warriors with bright swords and snorting steeds and the favor of the gods (or so we told ourselves).

On the other was the gurvani horde of thousands – hundreds of thousands, actually. Gurvani were known as the Mountain Folk in some places, scrugs in others, but they were usually known as goblins – ‘gurvani’ was the name they called themselves. The average specimen stood four to five feet tall, covered in black hair, with a face like a terrier crossed with a pig. They’re as smart as most human beings. They use iron and practice warfare. They have a tribal culture that sticks to the mountains or remote valleys. Ordinarily gurvani were peaceful, or at least not warlike. Their warrior societies spar with each other to solve inter-tribal disputes. A few tribes raid human settlements to steal chickens or a pig or a bushel of potatoes, but for close to two hundred years even that was rare.

Until now. Now they were led by a kind of super-shaman. The ancient undead head of a defiant shaman who led the last major war between my folk and theirs, to be more precise.

His name had been Shereul, when he was alive. Two centuries before he had led the last major organized resistance to human settlement of the northwest of the rustic Duchy of Alshar, where it abutted the Minden Range. He had lost several battles against the Alshari knights and their shining lances, and sued for peace. . At a truce meeting between him and the knights, he had been betrayed and slain in the sacred valley of his people, so that we could settle their lands. To add insult to injury, they chopped off his head and put it on a pike while they systematically cleared out the sacred valley of the goblins by slaughtering everyone in sight. Since then, the gurvani had been dispossessed from their sacred valley and their sacred caves and Shereul wasn’t very happy about that

Now he was just called the Old God by the goblins (we called him, more accurately, the Dead God) and he wasn’t just undead – which would have been interesting enough, thaumaturgically speaking. He was also encased in a perfect sphere of a peculiar kind of green amber, known to scholars as Irionite. It’s absolutely rare, a translucent stone that shimmers like an emerald in the sunlight and is lighter in your hand than you’d expect. It’s magically potent – actually, that’s an understatement. It’s magically profound. A tiny shard a centimeter wide can give most magi almost unlimited power. I’ve got a perfect sphere of it three centimeters wide, which makes me an extremely formidable warmage.

But irionite not only animated Shereul’s thoughts, the huge mass of the stuff encapsulated his entire brain, giving the Dead God truly divine levels of magical power. How powerful? Just his existence is enough to threaten the nature of Reality itself in his proximity. Using that power he had secretly raised an army of almost a million gurvani back in the depths of the Minden Range and then launched a genocidal war on us.

I guess I shouldn’t leave that part out. It’s pretty important. It’s why I was here, about to slaughter a bunch of hairy goblins at a misty, rocky little fief in northern Alshar called Grimly Wood. It was late summer, now, almost autumn, and as I sat on my horse and tried to distract myself from my over-full bladder with reflections of my life and its purpose, I couldn’t help but realize that it had been an eventful summer. Hells, it had been an eventful year.

The previous autumn I was a spellmonger in a quiet mountain village called Minden’s Hall, in a peaceful little valley stuffed full of happy peasants and contented cows, far to the west. I was doing a pretty good job of curing warts and casting love spells and making hens lay more prodigiously, while trying to forget about my service in arms, when the Dead God decided the time was right to launch his very inconvenient genocidal horde of goblins on an unsuspecting humanity – and he picked Minden’s Hall for the honor of first slaughter.

And the first item on their agenda was the conquest of the blind valley of Boval Vale in which I was living. It had once belonged to them, had some deep religious significance to them, and was also the perfect staging area for a wider war against the scourge of humanity in the Five Duchies.

Shereul wasn’t just relying on his magical innate power and half a million goblins pouring in from secret mountain caverns to conquer us; he had also given to an elite corps of magic-using gurvani shamans shards of irionite chipped from his sphere. Each one made the shaman the match of any warmage. Luckily their skills were crude. But their enthusiasm and the sheer power of the stones left the control of Boval Vale never in doubt. The local lord, who had some inkling that his generously large castle would someday have to defend against vindictive goblins his ancestors had betrayed, conned me into staying to protect the villagers and defend his indefensible fief from the inevitable conquest.

I fought like hell those few desperate weeks. I won my own little chunk of Irionite, endured a siege, and met some magical Tree Folk (non-humans, like the gurvani. Unlike the gurvani, they generally don’t want to kill us), found a girlfriend, knocked her up, founded an elite unit of irionite-augmented warmagi, led numerous covert missions to harass our besiegers, led a peasant’s revolt against the rightful lord of the Vale, and ended up saving almost everyone using a powerful spell through a mystical tear in the fabric of the universe fueled by a four-hour long session of magically powerful sex. With my ex-girlfriend.

Of course, I couldn’t escape through a portal that I was holding open, so I got stranded at the castle with my warmagi comrades and only narrowly escaped with my life, mostly because the Tree Folk figured I needed to warn the Five Duchies about what we were about to get pounded with.

And that’s how I spent my summer. As I said, it was eventful.

Ishi’s tits, I had to pee.

Things had been almost calm since the great escape from Boval Vale. No one tried to kill me, I just travelled a lot. After we warmagi regrouped and celebrated the unlikely fact that we were still alive, we all agreed that the invasion deserved the utmost attention from those in power, and we needed to start pushing the Dukes of Alshar and nearby Castal to raise a defense of the realm. I split them up and sent them on various missions, and then I made my way back to where I had sent the rest of the villagers, the grounds of the magical school I (and my ex-girlfriend) had attended. What a spell had done in the blink of an eye had taken two weeks by horse.

By the time I got there, the refugees from Boval Vale had all been relocated to a ducal castle fifty miles up-river, and after thoroughly debriefing my old masters at the academy, warning them of the imminent danger and showing off my new witchstone (that’s what the peasants call Irionite), I had to spend another seven days on a barge up-river to make a similar report to the Authorities, namely His Grace, the Duke of Castal, who was spending his summer at his cool riverside northern palace, Wilderhall.

I arrived just in time to be summoned to a full Ducal council to explain the situation to Duke Rard of Castal, who was suddenly coping with a full-blown invasion on his frontier when he had planned to be hawking and fishing and hunting. Duke Lenguin of Alshar – where Boval Vale sent its tribute and pledged its fealty – had received two other Alshari warmagi from my unit to warn him. Duke Lenguin, who was likewise in his summer palace at picturesque Vorone, had a reputation as a connoisseur of fine wines and had an excellent knowledge of hunting hawks, but he had never been to war.

I was born in Castal, myself, so I went to the Duke of Castal not only because Castal was the next Duchy that would have to contend with the invasion, but because by all accounts Rard IV was a wise, just, and responsible leader of men while his brother-in-law Lenguin was . . . not.

That being said, it still took a while to convince Duke Rard and his ruling council that I knew what I was talking about, and even longer before he appreciated the magnitude of the threat, and even longer for him to grant the resources and troops necessary to face the threat. The Dead God and his furry minions weren’t just another goblin uprising you could throw some local knights at, after all. They were employing battlefield magics that no baronial court mage or common warmagi could hope to counter.

The Duchy needed me and my newly-augmented warmagi, they just had to see it. They were reluctant, especially when I named my price, but in the end they came around, after over a week of me playing at intrigue and court politics. Then there had been problems with the Magical Censorate, and an irate meeting with the Censor General, who wasn’t at all happy about recent developments and expressed that displeasure with a warrant for my head, but in the end, after many things were decided and many secrets were revealed, I prevailed.

Now I had in my war chest a warrant and commission naming me Special Marshal of Castal, and another one from Alshar, and over three-thousand men to lead into bravely into battle. I had been ordered to conduct an expeditionary raid into the vanguard of the invasion of northern Alshar to see . . . well, to see if the horde had any chance of being defeated. A force of three thousand troops wasn’t enough to even make a dent in the legions that were marauding across Alshar, but that wasn’t our purpose. I was here to make it look like Duke Rard of Castal was Doing Something, instead of sitting back and waiting to see if the incompetent Alshari could handle it alone.

Lucky me. Three weeks later, here I was, on horseback, in the field, bravely leading my men into battle while trying hard not to think about how badly I had to pee.

Our force had moved out from our staging area at the village of Cleston, the last one in Castal, and had marched northwest as far and as fast as we could. We stuck to the Great Western Road at first, but soon after crossing the marker that delineated where Castal stopped and Alshar began, we moved off the road and headed out over-country. The roads were getting too clogged with fleeing civilians, anyway, and for lack of anything more productive to do the Alshari Duke at Vorone was drafting every man he could get his hands on. I badly wanted to avoid getting sucked into another round of court politics, so we avoided an unpleasant diplomatic incident and ranged northwest through the scenic Alshari Wilderlands.

The further from the road we went, the more we saw signs of the invasion – peasant refugees on the road or crossing fields, nervous merchants moving stock to more easterly locations, priests relocating to sister temples across the river. The local lordlings were shutting themselves in their castles and sending what men they could spare to Vorone. I’m sure we looked like just another column of mercenaries.

We had crossed through two little fiefs without incident, and as far as the tiny lordship known as Grimly Wood (comprised of about twenty square miles of scrub forest, discouraged fields and rocky hills in the bosom of the Wilderlands) before we encountered the first direct evidence of the invasion: smoke on the horizon in three or four places.

Soon after that we had a couple of skirmishes between our scouts and theirs. I was pretty certain we’d hit the tip of the spear of their invasion. Or one of them. The scant dispatches that had reached Wilderhall before I left indicated that there were at least three and possibly as many as five columns of goblins marching from Boval now, each legion comprised of upward of ten thousand. Each seemed to have a different task, but all were bent on looting, raiding, and killing along the way. Their stated aim was to kill every human in their path: men, women, and children.

I tried not to dwell on that. Needing to pee helped.

Grimly Wood was nearly deserted, because your average peasant has a lick of common sense and went elsewhere at the first sign of trouble. The decrepit motte-and-bailey Castle of Grimly Wood (home and seat of House Grimly, the head of which, Sir Geston of Grimly, was still holding forth – because your average petty noble doesn’t have a lick of common sense) was fortified and ready to receive our people if the battle turned into a rout. I didn’t think that was a likely possibility.

I had taken counsel the night before last, using my arcane powers to scout ahead and measure the strength of our foe. I had a pretty good idea of the enemy’s composition. Warmagic is good for that. We were in luck, in that it seemed to be an outlier of a larger force. There were roughly seven hundred lightly-armed goblins in the dense woods of Grimly Wood, more of a marauding mob than an infantry unit.

They had found their way into the thickest part of the wood at dawn. It was a stand of trees too twisted to be timbered. They probably liked it because it was dank and dark and foreboding, choked into shadow by neglect and overgrowth. It’s not that they have bad taste. Goblins are nocturnal, and prefer such places to sleep during the heat of the bright day. Plus they have the advantage of being largely cavalry-proof. Goblins don’t ride horses. And horses don’t like goblins.

But I didn’t let their defensive position worry me. If there was ever going to be an easy victory, it would be here. We had the advantage in almost every way. We couldn’t lose. So the previous night when I realized we could strike and be victorious, I called a quick council, hammered out a simple battle plan, ordered the men readied, the castle prepared, and certain magical defenses and preparations made.

So here I was. Ready to attack.

And I really had to pee.

“Marshal Spellmonger!” one of the mercenaries called to me – Ancient Fargal, if I recalled correctly, from the Orphan’s Band of light infantry – a big, lumbering hulk of a man built more for plate armor than a bowman’s jack. He spoke in a wide Wilderland drawl. “Scouts report most of the furry bastards are in loose formation now, at the north end of the wood. Lots of spears. Some have hung back deeper in the wood, though, milord.”

“The spears are for the horses,” I nodded. “Probably looted them across Alshar. But I doubt they really know how to use them yet. Gurvani use javelins, not thrusting spears, and certainly not pikes. Behind and above them you can expect the shaman and chief, where they can direct the battle in safety,” I decided out loud. “Expect to see a bodyguard of about ten for each of them.”

“I’ll alert the men, milord,” he promised.

That shaman had me almost worried. I’d seen him during my field-scrying, or at least glimpsed the spark of his shard of irionite. The Dead God had been giving out robin egg-sized chunks of irionite to the goblin shamans like it was candy in preparation for the war, and while they were undoubtedly potent devices, the shamans themselves were very limited in the kinds of spells they could cast. Irionite gave you power, but it didn’t give you the imagination or the technical tools to use it effectively. It’s a matter of sophistication. Technically speaking, we human, Imperially-trained warmagi were miles ahead of them in technique. It might prove to be one of our only real advantages.

I sighed and forced myself to quit stalling. I had to pee and I had to fight, and the sooner I did one or the other the sooner I could get to the other one.

I led Traveler down the hill about half-way and stopped to talk to a group of archers, who were happily lobbing arrows into their mist in the hopes that they would strike something – or at least make the goblins keep their heads down. They did so with impunity, because the range of the average human bow was twice that of the short bows and slings that the gurvani carried. But they might want those arrows later, when they had better targets, so I ordered them to stop while I looked around.

From Traveler’s back I could see where the gurvani were holding up. They had dug into a narrow space at the north edge of the wood, between a massive bolder and small hillock, next to a field full of half-ripened wheat that would never be harvested. They had felled a few trees and created a make-shift bulwark to discourage us from hitting them from their flanks (their leader must have been one of the bright ones). I called upon magesight – that’s a simple spell that can do a lot of things, but right now I used it to view the goblins as if they were but a few yards from me.

There were at least six hundred of them, and they were armed as I’d come to expect of goblin raiders: a leather belt or weapon harness, some colorful tribal jewelry, iron-headed javelins, a sprinkling of short bows and slings, and everyone carried a knife and one of those traditional iron-headed clubs they enjoyed bashing our brains out with so much.

They were outnumbered, out-armed, and in the blinding light of the sun. They had no reinforcements within a day’s brisk ride, so they were trapped. Better yet, tactically speaking, they were prevented from moving in formation by the very defenses they’d erected.

They were planning on waiting for us to attack, no doubt because they had their shaman telling them that with the Dead God’s blessing and the power of his witchstone, they were invincible against us, blah blah, grunt growl blah.

He might have been right, too, under normal circumstances. A gurvani shaman with a witchstone would have made an assault by even three thousand a dicey matter, if he knew his craft. I’d seen the goblin shamans’ magic first-hand. The night of that first attack in Boval Vale I’d dueled one in the vanguard of the invasion, severed his hand in battle, and claimed his witchstone. But not before he’d given me a very hard time with his primitive spellcraft.

And that was far from the last time. During the siege I’d seen the power of the gurvani witchstones in all of their glory, as the Dead God’s minions used them to bind the horde together under his will. Even without the magical head in the ball of amber, they could be formidable.

And they did have a sophistication, of a sort. There were at least two classes of shaman, the rural sort of tribal witchdoctor and the much more educated – and more fanatical – class of shaman that served as the eyes and ears of the Dead God. They were easy to spot, as they dyed their black fur with lime to make it a ghastly white, but there was no way to see that when you’re scrying. Their spellwork was much more sophisticated, and they seemed less prone to arrogant stupidity when they used their power. I was hoping the magical corps attached to our enemy was the former, not the latter. Not that I couldn’t have vanquished one – I’d done it before – but I was looking for an easy victory here, and that would not have counted.

I suppose I could have just ordered a cavalry charge and taken our chances with both spears and magic. That’s what an ordinary military commander would have done, and damn the casualties. But that would have been messy and inept. Sure, we would have won – but we would have lost men and horses, too. We had a long campaign ahead of us, and I wanted to keep my men as safe and as ready to fight as possible.

I rode to the hay bale that had become the gathering place for the officers and captains, likely because one of the Orphans had set up a small keg of mead there. I wasn’t in the mood myself – had to pee – but I did find the man I was looking for there. I didn’t even bother to dismount, for fear of an embarrassing accident, so I called to him from horseback.

“It’s time to summon your men,” I ordered the steely-eyed mercenary archer captain. His name was Rogo “Redshaft” of Nirod, a lean and dangerous-looking man wearing red leather covered by a well-made but unadorned green cloak. He and his five-hundred bowmen were some of my best-trained forces, mounted for travel and able to work in nearly any kind of country – and his homeland was just over the Pearwoods hills in the Castali Wilderlands, so this was as much like home as he could ask. There were five hundred mercenary archers, too, among the Orphan’s Band, but they were light infantry, unmounted, and acknowledged the Nirodi yeomen their betters.

That was because Redshaft’s men took their craft seriously. They were excellent archers, either sniping or volleying in formation. The Nirodi boys begin practicing at the butts at age seven and keep it up daily until they’re full grown. It was how they remained a Free Town amongst a knot of greedy nobles. The Nirodi weren’t mercenaries, strictly speaking – Nirod owed service to the Duchy for their free status, and this was how they were paying it. I was thankful for that as I gazed with magesight at the enemy. “How many arrows have you in stock?”

“Milord, the Duke saw fit to send eighty arrows of the first quality for each man,” he answered with a slight deferential bow – I still wasn’t used to that. He was easily twenty years older than I. “As we’ve expended none in anger, we have that full complement.”

“Have you noticed anything about our friends’ use of bows, captain?” I asked as I watched the distant goblins squint in the glare of the sun. “I value your professional opinion.”

He shrugged, making his waxed red leather armor creak. “Just that they don’t shoot as far as ours, I’m happy to say!” he chuckled. “We’ve marked a rough line ahead that I think is the limit of their bowshot. I got a couple of fellows up there watching, taking the odd shot,” he admitted. “But every shot from them furries is far short.”

I nodded. “But have you seen them volley their fire?” I asked. He looked up, startled.

“Why, no, milord, they’ve been a-sniping, but no volleys,” he agreed, after a moment’s thought. “Not much for ‘em to shoot at, yet . . .”

“No, that’s not it. At Boval, they didn’t do it, either. Or only by accident. They’ve only used the bow for a few centuries, and mostly for hunting, at that.”

“Aye, firing a bow in war is a whole different matter,” he agreed, sagely.

“Let’s give them a lesson, then,” I decided. “Have your men and the archers from the Orphans take formation here, behind this line. From this angle, with the sun behind us, they’ll have a hard time seeing them in flight, so they’ll have a hard time keeping their shields up. I want you to prepare to instruct our foes in the art of volleying.”

He saluted sharply, “Yes, milord! I suppose they should learn from the very best,” and hurried off, shouting orders, all business. His men responded quickly. In only moments the field began filling up with archers. I was impressed – I hadn’t gotten used to commanding like that yet. Well, I hadn’t gotten used to having people actually listen, yet. It was refreshing.

I nudged Traveler over to the Orphan’s field camp and had Ancient Raric order a company of light infantry to screen the archers while they prepared. Then I sent a messenger to Captain Kaddel, the grizzled old veteran who led our mercenary medium horse, the Hellriders, and gave him orders. Then I settled a dispute between two companies of infantry over who should take which duty, and by the time I was done with that little squabble, there were nearly a thousand bored-looking archers standing around and waiting for orders

Redshaft was waiting a little more patiently than his men, so I rode with him to the front of the formation and addressed them.

“Good morning, ladies!” I began, sarcastically. There was a low chorus of chuckling from the old joke. “You see that knot of black-furred goblins between that rock, and that hill?” There was a sea of nods and mutters of agreement. “If you ladies would be so kind, I’d like to see that entire area covered with arrows. I mean covered: I don’t want to see the grass. Or anything moving on it. At least six or seven volleys. Is that understood?”

There were some lusty cries of agreement, and I grinned. Usually archers are excess baggage on a campaign until they’re really needed, then they’re indispensable – but poorly used. More often, the thick-headed gentry reserve all the fun jobs for themselves and the cavalry, to win themselves greater fame and honor and glory and whatever else it is that knights like to eat. First blood was an unexpected treat for the Nirodi. And the first test of my abilities as a field commander.

Because I wasn’t a knight. I was a spellmonger and a warmage, and neither of those jobs usually led to military command. I’d overseen troops before, at Boval Castle, but those were scared peasants fighting for their lives. This was my first time commanding a battle with professional troops in this big in open country. I was willing to part with the opportunity to die gloriously in a cavalry charge to keep from spoiling it.

As the men got into formation under the shouts of the ancients and the corporals, I was about to relax in the saddle and watch . . . when my bladder once again reminded me of more pressing business.

This time I didn’t hesitate – this was the first spare moment I’d had in hours. I slid ungracefully from Traveler’s back with a noisy thud, and took two steps forward while I frantically un-fastened my pretty new borrowed armor. Three straps, five buckles, then the gambeson and underclothes – it was a trial, and I’m sure it was amusing to watch. I just barely made it, coating a nearby rock with a powerful stream and issuing a sigh of relief as the first volley went off, five hundred bowstrings singing in near-unison, and the resulting whoosh of flight. Then the other half of the troop let fly.

By the time I was done pissing and fastening up my armor, they were on their third volley, and I was strolling back to my horse, able to think clearly again. Getting back on a horse while in armor – unassisted – was no easy task, and I sheepishly used my witchstone to help me, hoping no one saw me do it.

When I was able to survey the carnage from horseback, I was even more impressed with the archers. Under magesight the make-shift gurvani redoubt was a mess. The little hollow they’d hidden in was only a hundred yards wide, and the whole area was covered in arrows, blood, and snarling, dying, little black bodies. It was a lot worse than a similar attack on human warriors. The goblins wore little armor, and their shields had been nearly useless.

They sometimes carried small leather bucklers, used in hand-to-hand duels or melee combat, strong enough to deflect one of those little iron-headed clubs they traditionally use. But there were only a few of them among them and they were ineffective against a three-foot long composite arrow with a five inch long steel head, propelled by a seventy-pound bow operated by a man who got paid to do nothing but practice archery every day.

As I watched the fourth volley sing into the air I could hear the moans of despair from the surviving gurvani even at this distance. Some were wise enough to seek cover, up against the boulder or under the corpses of their comrades, but most of them just stood there, their arms over their heads, peering blindly into the sunlight and awaiting death.

Four volleys meant two thousand arrows peppered that little hollow. At least a quarter of them had hit their mark, they were so densely packed, and by my rough estimate there were only maybe two hundred goblins who had escaped injury. I counted them silently as they scurried between volleys to rally the troops. The archers were preparing for a fifth volley when I felt the wind pick up from the west . . . and a tingle in the back of my mind that suggested that someone else was casting a spell.

There are only a few magical things you can do when you’re receiving fire with no way to shoot back. The gurvani shaman had hit upon one he could actually use. Witching the weather is no great feat, once you know what you’re doing, and even weak magi can manage to tug on the elemental forces of nature to raise a breeze. A really good one could manage to raise a real air elemental (think of it as a big piece of angry air that feels really good about itself). There were Seamagi who specialized in weather magic, although the official rule-of-thumb among us classically-trained magi was to leave the weather alone – affecting it is one thing, controlling it is quite another.

But a hefty breeze running across your field of fire is going to mess up your accuracy a bit. The fifth volley saw some arrows go astray while high in the air, but enough of them landed where they were aimed to continue the decimation. Had he been fending off only a few archers, that would have been far more effective – but when you’re facing massed fire, it’s like trying to divert the rain. The wind might move it around, but you’re still going to get wet.

But I couldn’t let the shaman stop us. “Cease fire,” I called to Captain Rogo, and he nodded. He gave the command and the men all went at ease as one. No use wasting arrows.

With magesight I could see the addition of another thousand arrows hadn’t improved the gurvani’s situation. But there were still some stirrings of life, as the surviving war leaders tried once again to rally the decimated raiders with screams and shouts and singing – and gurvani singing is rough.

When they didn’t hear another volley right away, they saw it as a sign of progress and began cheering. It took them a little while – about five minutes, but they finally got a little less than a hundred relatively-hardy goblins together, where they screamed at us and waved their weapons around defiantly amidst the stacked corpses of their comrades.

They surrounded one leader in particular, a tall (that is, almost five feet) muscular gurvan chieftain who bore a wooden round shield, a thick-hafted axe, and an over-large steel cap all looted from some human stronghold. He had decorated them all with gurvani glyphs to obscure the human markings, so he looked more than a little odd. As I watched he started chanting something in his folk’s guttural language that got them all singing loudly. Before long, those who weren’t screaming, moaning or dying were chanting defiantly in unison. It was horrible.

Apparently they thought that their shaman’s magic had prevented any more deadly arrows from falling from the sky. Their chanting grew more regular and rhythmic, and a few had recovered enough from the attack to pick up bows or javelins or slings and ineffectively launch a few back toward our lines.

Then a fresh group appeared from the south, out of the forest – that had to be the shaman and his guards. At his appearance the goblin chanting turned into a savage cheering – help had arrived!

I searched him vigorously with magesight to confirm my suspicions: he was indeed a country bumpkin shaman, not one of the elite acolytes of the Dead God. I could see the idiot, wearing a dirty white sash and elaborate wicker headdress, strutting around the field with his bodyguard stirring up the few survivors’ morale. He was quite the showman, doing a mad little dance that elicited howls from his fellows. Then the chieftain gave an impassioned speech that got them roused up again, too. They were all congregating in the center of the valley preparing, no doubt, to receive our charge. After all, they knew enough about human warfare to know that after the archers are done volleying, that meant that the big nasty horses would come down on them next. But I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. Not when the Nirodi hadn’t finished with their fun.

“Captain Rogo, please inform the men that I will pay five ounces of gold to the owner of the arrow that ends the life of that cocky little fellow in the colorful hat, out there. And a couple of bottles of wine, too. Prepare the next volley.”

“Oh, yes, Marshal!” he grinned wickedly. “You heard the Spellmonger! Five big and two bottles to the man whose mark takes that hat! Archers ready!” he shouted, as the Orphans suddenly had a reason to compete with their Nirodi comrades. I felt extravagant and lordly – five ounces of gold is the equivalent of five years of taxes for most peasant families. I had a war chest full of it.

While I waited and watched the goblins continued to work themselves into a frenzy of defiance, their shaman at the center/ Then all one-thousand bowstrings of my men twanged at once. For a brief moment there was a storm cloud of wood and steel that obscured the sky. Nor did my men wait for their arrows to land before they had launched again – everyone wanted that money. And the wine. I’d barely let them have a beer ration in the last three weeks as we’d made fast time across country – those boys were thirsty.

When I finally ordered them to stop, and ordered the light infantry in front of them to slowly advance, there wasn’t much left of the gurvani band at all. ,A deadly thicket of arrows grew thick as weeds on the field watered by blood. We’d be able to glean most of those back up, too. The few survivors left among the bodies tried to put up a fight, but my men swept through and slaughtered the lot of them. There was no quarter in this war. Not if we ever wanted to win.

One of the Hellriders’ messengers rode back to me ten minutes later, informing me that of all the enemy that remained, only nine had not been killed or injured permanently, and those nine were being bound to be sent to me later for disposition. The shaman, of course, was dead, he reported, and presented me with the arrow he’d determined killed him, so I could note the archer by his chop for his reward. Then the messenger looked around and cautiously opened a grimy rag, revealing a dazzling green gem.

I’d cautioned them all about even touching any witchstones they came across on this campaign on the very first night of my command. Unless they were properly cleansed of the Dead God’s influence, they were dangerous even to seasoned magi. If a regular human without Talent touched one, it could produce a strong psychic shock that would make them unconscious, in shock, or even kill them outright.

The scouts had wisely recovered the shard without touching it. With trembling hands, the young man handed me the treasure. If five ounces of gold could buy his family five times over, then this stone could buy his barony five times over – if anyone would consider selling such a thing. I absently tossed him an ounce of gold as a reward, and sighed as I stared at the pretty thing.

This one was like most I’d seen, a rough-shaped stone with a flattish surface on one side where it had been cleanly hewn from a larger piece. A year ago, I would have said that it wouldn’t be possible to have a witchstone big enough to cut, but a year ago I thought I’d have more love spells in my future than war spells. Each of these witchstones had been pared away from the massive sphere that contained the Dead God’s mysterious head – which explained their tightly-bound connection to him.

I took out my own stone from the worn silk bag around my neck and stared at it a moment. It had started out life like this one, uneven and rough, but a king of the Tree Folk had smoothed it and removed the taint of the Dead God. And any other stone that remained in contact with the sphere for a day would likewise be severed from the Dead God’s influence. Indeed, that was the only known way known to free one.

I slid the new stone into the bag with the others surrounding my sphere and felt them all pulsing in ways that only I could feel. There was always a bit of a rush when I did that – having access to power from all of those stones was an intoxicating experience, until you learned how to handle it. But it was necessary, if we’re going to win this war. Only by arming warmagi with witchstones could we hope to match the shamans in the field.

How we were to match Sharuel face to face . . . I was still working on that.

“What shall we do with the bodies, milord?” the messenger asked. I’d forgotten he was there in my reverie over the stones.

“Strip them, behead them, and burn them. Distribute any loot among the men, and destroy any weapons you can. Then put half of the heads on spikes in a circle around the ashes of the pyre. The rest will be sent back east, to the Duke, as proof of our mission.” The prisoners, too, would be sent back under guard as token of our success. I would have to write a dispatch along with the heads – if Bold Asgus, captain of the Orphan’s Band, hadn’t already written one for me. He was an experienced old commander who took such things as dispatches and mercenary contracts and prisoners of war in stride.

We couldn’t stay in Grimly Wood long, though. This was just our warm-up before the real fight. The countryside was filled with bands like this from here on out, according to my scrying. We were pushing forward to the next large castle in the district. That was the Barony of Green Hill, where we were supposed to be picking up another thousand cavalry and whatever additional infantry we could.

But in the meantime, Archers were one area where we would be superior to the gurvani for some time, if not forever. Those stubby little arms just can’t draw the massive bows our people used in war, and if they couldn’t manage to fire in volley, they were almost useless.

While the men were policing the battlefield and dispatching the wounded, I rode back to my tent, handed Traveler’s reigns to a stableboy, and let my manservant, Hamlan, strip off my armor for me. I felt foolish for donning all of that armor and then not using it. I hadn’t charged. I hadn’t thrown a single blow. I hadn’t been in danger from javelins or spears. I hadn’t even cast any meaningful spells – I’d just suckered an ignorant foe enough to kill him.. Now the late summer heat on the hot metal and leather, not to mention the sheer weight of it all, had me soaked in sweat.

“How went the battle, Captain?” Ham asked me, cheerfully.

“I’m here. I’m alive,” I pointed out.

“Which would suggest a positive outcome. Congratulations. Lift your arm, please . . .”

“Thank you,” I acknowledged. “An utter rout. Although it’s hardly one for the annals.”

“There seemed to be enough of them, Master. Hundreds. And you say there are thousands?” he asked. His jovial expression was there, but his voice was nervous.

“Hundreds of thousands, from here to the Mindens. We’ll see far more action after Green Hill, mark my words,” I promised.

“And it sounded like such a pleasant place,” he sighed as he pulled off my breastplate. It was “light”, meaning it was only about fifteen pounds instead of the thirty-pound plate monstrosities most jousting knights used. In an instant I felt like I shed a dozen pounds in sweat, on top of the weight of the armor, and felt instantly cooler. Almost without thinking, I summoned a bit of breeze to encourage that. I was doing more and more of that, lately, I noticed. Using magic for little things, almost unconsciously.

“Dispatches came while you were at battle, Master,” he reported when he’d stowed the armor away. “Rider came in while you were directing the battle. They’re in your tent on your desk.”

I had resented having a desk in the field – but I was a commander now, not just a flunky in the magical corps. His Grace had insisted and I had complied. I wish I had resisted more strongly. For the last three weeks as we crossed Alshar, I swear I spent more time with my traveling desk and a mountain of paperwork than scrying the route ahead or planning our strategy.

“Who is it now?” I asked. “Another plea from Duke Lenguin to stop my foolishness and come protect him and his crappy little town from the big bad goblins?” The Duke of Alshar had responded to the invasion by insisting he’d defend the northern capital of Vorone to the last man. Only he was short on men, and he wanted mine. I’d politely refused his request twice already but Dukes are not used to being told “no.” And I was, technically, under his command, for all the Castali were paying for the mercenaries. I was using that bit of legal ambiguity to keep him at bay, but he was getting impatient.

“No, Captain, the seal says it is from His Grace Duke Rard,” he said. “And it was delivered by someone from Court, not a mere messenger from the Lord Marshal.”

“Oh, Ishi’s big bouncy boobs, Ham, how can I run this war if I keep getting all this ‘advice’ from more experienced generals?” I complained, as I stepped out of the steel leggings that protected my thighs and annoyed my horse.

“The court is just nervous with an untried commander in the field. And one that caused that much of a stir at Wilderhall bears some oversight, I’d imagine,” he added, philosophically.

“Probably just more helpful advice. Or worrying me about our progress. I wish they would be patient. We’ve only been in the field for three weeks, and I just encountered the enemy in force for the first time today! just won a battle – hopefully that should convince someone I know my arse from my elbow! Do they think I’m enjoying the brutal conditions in the field?” I asked, rhetorically.

“Shall I fetch the Captain’s lunch, then? Another bottle of the Gilmoran red?” he asked, obsequiously. And sarcastically. Hamlan was like that.

“Yes, please,” I sighed, stripping off my sweat-soaked tunic. “And a tub of water. I need to at least rinse the sweat off of me.”

“As you wish, Captain,” the young man said, walking toward the commissary tents, resigned to his fate . . . with an insolent smirk on his face. “And I shall tell them how vexed you will be if it isn’t properly aerated and chilled this time. Brutal battlefield conditions are no excuse for sloppy table service.”

I suppose I could have gotten a servant who wasn’t a smart ass. But Ham’s temerity irritated nearly all the noble-born commanders under my command, and that alone was worth his monthly wage. He was adept at campfire gossip and the procurement of petty luxuries. He woke me in the morning with breakfast, and put me to bed at night with spiced winter brandy and a pipe. And he had other talents. The fact that he was a demon with dice and a decent valet was just a bonus.

I sighed at his back and reluctantly went into my battered tent. It was a relic from the Farisian Campaign from a few years ago. Of course, it could be argued that I was, too.

Inside, I saw the messenger. Tall, brown hair, green eyes, pleasurably slender curves, and a bust that would make a monk whimper. Best yet, her lips were ripe, full, and ready. And achingly familiar.

“You weren’t exactly the messenger I was anticipating,” I said, faintly, as I inhaled her aroma. There was sweat and exertion and excitement, herbs and flowers and leather and excitement, all wrapped up in a soft warm blanket of femininity.

And she’s a first-class mage. And an adept Shadowmage. Let’s not forget that.

“I hope that I’m no less welcome, for that,” she said, softly. I noted that it would only take removing three buttons – no, two – to make that dress slip completely off of her shoulders. I extended a magical tendril of force to each one, flicked it, and just as I predicted she was naked in an instant.

“Nope,” I sighed, moving into her arms as I lowered the flap of the tent, “You’re quite welcome, all the more for being unexpected. You finished your errand at Vorone, then?”

She nodded, and smiled at me slyly. Those eyes . . . I could wander aimlessly for years in those pretty eyes. I covered her lips with mine and let our tongues duel it out. I’d like to think mine won, but I’ve fooled myself before. My hand went to her breast and found a nipple. “Is the message you carry of vital import, Lady Isily?”

“It can keep,” she sighed, thrusting her chin up as my lips found that sweet spot where her neck decides to become a shoulder and vice versa. “At least ten or fifteen minutes.”

“I applaud your sense of priority,” I sighed, as she unfastened my pants. “You know how much I hate waiting around.”

Chapter Two:

The Council Of Castal

Wilderhall, Midsummer

I hate waiting around.

That’s what I was doing, four weeks before the Battle of Grimly Wood. I was waiting. I was waiting around, haunting the draughty outer chamber of the council hall in a moldy old castle resplendent with fine silks, rich tapestries, gilded furniture, and petty functionaries befitting the stature of the office of the Duke in residence at his summer palace. With foes on the frontier and chaos in the Duchy next-door you’d think the Duchy’s council would want to know what was going on, but they’d kept me waiting. And waiting.

I’d been waiting for three days for my audience, stumbling around the Tower of Honor where they’d put me up, dicing with the nobility, drinking expensive wine and brooding about each passing moment. I hate waiting, and I was on an urgent errand, and when they finally told me the Duke was ready to see me, they put me on a bench outside his door and I got to wait some more.

At least the place was entertaining, if not terribly comfortable.

Wilderhall is the northernmost and westernmost Ducal fortress of Castal. When Castal and Alshar were first settled, the Duchies were coastal provinces of the late Empire, two far-flung fiefs the youngest sons of the King got as their reward for their part in the Conquest. But they weren’t content with their picturesque little seaports, so they pushed inland, north and west. First the wide, rolling hills and fertile plains of the Riverlands, the heartland of the Duchies that ran in a band, east-to-west, more or less parallel to the coastlines. My home village, Talry, is in the Castali side of the Riverlands.

But then north of the Riverlands are the Wilderlands. Once wild, unpeopled, and heavily forested, the Wilderlands stretched from the western reaches of Wenshar, in northern Remere, all the way to Boval Vale in the Mindens, and north to hug the Kuline Range that served as Castal’s northern frontier. The people of the Wilderlands are similar, on both sides of the Castali-Alshari frontier, down to customs, language, and choice of divinities.

The Wilderlands are as poor as the coastal cities are rich. Instead of the stately manors and well-kept plantations of the Riverlands, the fiefs up here were mostly primitive motte-and-bailey castles devoted to harvesting natural resources, mainly timber, wool, and some fairly rich mines. They also spent a lot of time keeping their neighbors from stealing their resources, which kept me eating as a warmage for two years.

The people are tough, dirt farmers, trappers, woodsmen and hunters, ranchers , miners and fishermen. The climate is too cool for more than oats, millet, rye, and some wheat, and the ground is too rocky for large-scale cultivation, and culture, as such, is limited to the most basic of entertainments. The nobles make war on each other freely, and without a strong leader to keep the peace they would have long ago fought to the death over their hardscrabble fiefs.

Wilderhall was built almost two hundred years ago to assist Castal’s up-river expeditions. As the demand for timber to build ships on the coast grew, the Duchy went north into the lush forests to get it, settling along the way. As the local petty-lords began feuding over turf, it became clear that a strong Ducal presence was required to keep the logs floating down river, and a fortress to house his garrisons was constructed for that purpose: Wilderhall.

The Castali Wilderlands, long pacified, don’t have a large standing garrison anymore. Now it’s used as the summer palace, because the coastal cities and even the Riverlands fiefs can get unbearably hot in the summer months. Wilderhall was a sprawling, towering, magnificent fortress, built with the express purpose of inspiring awe and majesty to the rustic population. An exercise in architectural propaganda, Wilderhall was designed to impress upon the contentious local lordlings the absolute power of the Duke. And, since it was built right after the Conquest, it also symbolized the absolute end of the glory that had been the Empire. The Magocracy.

As such, it was filled with two-hundred year old anti-Imperial art and political imagery that no one cared about any longer. The tapestry I had been waiting in front of for hours now showed heroic warriors valiantly defeating sinister-looking Eastern magi through brute force, shining swords and sheer good looks, so I wasn’t feeling particularly welcome.

It was a textile commentary about the place of magi in our society, thanks to the archaic Bans on Magic, and one I resented. So I sat on an uncomfortably ornate couch and stared at that one particular tapestry across the hall from me while I got frustrated about being kept waiting. And as I studied the spectacle of the Defeat of the Archmage it portrayed, I even started to feel a little defensive.

I’m a spellmonger like the magi being defeated, even if I did more physically resemble the handsome, sword-slinging brutes on the tapestry. In fact, I am a professional mage, certified and accepted under law to practice anywhere in the Five Duchies, not just some Talented rural lout who apprenticed to some baronial court wizard. I was a journeyman thaumaturge, adept at the sciences of magic. And I was a licensed warmagi, which should have made a difference.

All right, technically I was the village spellmonger of Minden Hall, a tiny village in the distant land of Boval Vale at the skirts of the Minden mountain range, now occupied by a half-million gurvani, so I now found myself between assignments. But still. I have my credentials. That should have counted for something.

My recent unemployment didn’t bother me much, though – a good mage can always find a job. And I was more than a “good” mage – thanks to the events leading to the fall of Boval Vale, I was perhaps the most powerful human mage in existence. Just to remind myself of that, I pulled out my new spherical witchstone and summoned a tiny morsel of magical power from it – just a drop from its seemingly-inexhaustible supply – and began defacing the tapestry by subtly altering the colors of the dyes in the fabric. Not much, of course, I just making the victors look a little goofier by making their ears and noses bigger. It was tedious, difficult work, but it was also excellent practice using the stone.

Petty of me, I know. But I hate waiting around.

The way I saw it, there were three big problems that had to be addressed. First, the gurvani invasion. The people who were keeping me waiting were the Castali Ducal Council, specifically the War Council. I had been commanded to testify as to the events of the invasion and siege of Boval Castle by gurvani and the undead severed head of one of their most revered shamans known affectionately by his people as the Old God, Shereul. He was the second problem, the one that no one really knew about yet.

The Old God – or, as we were calling him now, the Dead God – and his magically-augmented minions were beginning a genocidal invasion of the sleepy western half of the Duchy of Alshar, and without some impressive military intervention, would reach Castal very soon. Only to the untrained eye (who was likely running for their life in terror, as well) did it looked like a simple goblin uprising – a big one, and a dangerous one, but Alshar had dealt with them before. Only it wasn’t, and they couldn’t. They needed help. Because of Irionite. That was the third problem. But more on that later. I was focused on the big picture.

Whether they knew it or not, yet, they needed me. I just had to convince them of that. Alshar was in peril, and I had to do something about it.

Alshar had always been the least of the Five Duchies; the Magocracy had never expanded so far West, and the bulk of the present Duchy had been sparsely settled after the Conquest. It used to be a lot bigger, but fifty years ago or so three barons and a count of Gilmora, the land on the Alshari side of the Riverlands, revolted and swore allegiance to Castal, and the Alshari were still pretty pissed off about that.

There were a few big towns along the remnant of Riverlands country around the capital, Falas, dating from the Magocracy, but after that it was one rural fief after another. It was by far the least populated of the Five Duchies. But it was a huge Duchy, area-wise, once you added in the Alshari Wilderlands. Wide swaths of forest and broken country and rolling hills and (in the far north) dry, desert areas kept news moving slowly. It was often weeks or months old by the time it got here.

But the news of the invasion did, eventually, make its way across the border to Castal down the Great Western Road. It had beaten me here by five days, and the reports were not good. No one but the lord of the tiny fief I’d been living in had any hint that the gurvani were stirring, so when they launched a lightning attack on the rest of the realm from that distant vale, they had all-but-conquered the nearby baronies in just a few weeks. (it would have taken a lot less time, but a couple of my friends and I slowed them down, narrowly escaping before they completed their conquest of Boval Castle). Now huge columns of gurvani were marching eastward, mowing down every little lordling’s hold along the way. People were in a tizzy. But no one seemed to be doing anything about it.

I’d learned some of the news on the hurried river barge trip north to Wilderhall from the Riverlands. Ganz had been overrun while Boval Castle still held, and the other fiefs in proximity had fallen almost as quickly. that the western barons of Stut, Horane, and Glanden had banded together almost 10,000 infantry and cavalry – mostly terrified armed peasantry – and met the main thrust of the Dead God’s legions at the ford of Bonser. Alshari nobles are suited toward killing bandits and each other, but they aren’t much use in real organized warfare. Now there were ten thousand headless bodies floating down the river. Rumors were spreading of long streams of captured peasants who were being taken behind the goblin lines, their fate unknown.

I hoped that they were just being enslaved, but I knew – personally – that the bloodthirsty Dead God had an appetite for human sacrifice.

The Duke of Alshar was calling his bannermen and assembling an army at Vorone (his own summer palace in the picturesque Wilderlands), but it was only fifteen-thousand strong and unlikely to get much bigger. Everyone west of the Piedee River was already fighting for their lives or fleeing for their lives. Huge mobs of their people were fleeing east in front of the gurvani onslaught. Goblins seemed to be attacking everywhere, with no warning, and the scattered local Alshari military was being overwhelmed. Bad news, no matter how you heard it. Everyone on the river had been sure Northern Alshar would fall without aid.

That’s why I had made the five-hundred mile journey upriver to Wilderhall, where the Duke of Castal had finally convened an emergency War Council. I felt compelled to convince them to do something about it, and let them know the real enemy we faced. I’d breathlessly told my story to the Ducal Court Mage’s secretary after the Lord Marshal’s staff wouldn’t listen to me, and the man (a mage himself), agreed that he would pass this on to Master Dunselen and through him to the Duke, himself. I expected to be hauled before the throne to tell my tale within the hour.

Only they added me to a list and kept me waiting for two days in a crowded part of the castle called the Tower of Honor. I supposed bedbugs are an honor. I was stuck in a common room with some landless knights, some poor barons visiting court, and some high-born sergeants who were looking to pick up some mercenary work. I’d have much rather quartered in one of the comfortable inns in Wilderhall Town. But I endured castle life because I couldn’t leave without completing my mission.

Despite the reports of carnage, this Council – nearly a month after the first reports of trouble came in – was the first tangible sign that the lords of Castal were taking notice of the invasion of Alshar. When half of the neighboring Duchy gets swallowed up virtually overnight, you’d think it would attract more attention.

I wasn’t the only one who thought that, either. In the brief time I’d been loitering around Wilderhall I’d heard rumors of a few adamant voices demanding that the crisis be dealt with. Count Angrial, the Ducal Envoy from Alshar had spent most of that time literally screaming for assistance from Castal, from what I was able to pick up from the castellans at the Tower of Honor.

Apparently his Grace, Duke Lenguin of Alshar had not been pleased when he woke up one day and found the northern half of his realm in the hands of genocidal nonhumans, and he wanted help from his fellow duke and brother-in-law – only not too much help, lest the northern fiefs follow Gilmora under Castal’s banner. So I knew that the Duke of Castal knew about the goblin invasion. But until I showed up to bring word of the magical, maniacal mind behind the hordes, he didn’t know about the Dead God who was behind the invasion.

I fumed as I made King Kamalaven’s sword grow bright and fluffy and pink, like a rabbit’s ear, warping the color of the fibers in the tapestry with my spell. My ancestors weren’t particularly adept at anything but swordplay and horses. You’d think that Kamalaven’s direct descendent would be ecstatic about the chance to slay a bunch of goblins. Plenty of other dukes had been. That was where our present dilemma began.

Goblins had been a problem in the past. Most of Alshar had been sparsely occupied by the nocturnal hunters politely known as “mountain folk” before the Duchies expanded. Over a century ago the last major gurvani tribes had been pushed back into the Minden range, and the ancient gurvani power centers had been destroyed by the same short-sighted barbarians who toppled the Magocracy. For a hundred years it had looked like the goblins had simply retreated, accepting defeat. Most people in the Duchies thought of them as a harmless mountain race that preferred to hunt the stony highlands, leaving the more fertile lowlands for us to settle and rule. Of course there was more to it than that, but that’s what everyone had believed.

Everyone except the goblins. They had found a secret refuge in deep mines and ancient caverns deep in the Mindens, where they husbanded their resentment and plotted their revenge in exile. They secretly built up their numbers, armed them well, prepared for their revenge over the course of a century, and, of course, they had raised the Dead God from the dead.

He was hateful. He was powerful. And he was smart. Sharuel had re-structured the gurvani society so that large groups of warriors could work together without intra-society rivalries getting in the way, and that paved the way for empire-building. I had interrogated one of the goblin prisoners, and he had told me the tale. Sharuel’s will was enforced among his people by a fanatically-devoted elite warrior’s society and the scary-looking special shamans who led the new warbands. And Shereul knew what each of them was thinking all the time . . . because each shaman had a witchstone. Irionite.

Irionite was the third big problem we faced. Not only had the Dead God returned from where we had left him (dead, decapitated, head on a spike) he had brought presents. A by-product of his rebirth was hundreds of thumbnail-sized shards of irionite. I have no idea how they did it, but the gurvani shamans “pickled” his head in heavily-enchanted kirsieth sap, or however it was you “made” irionite, until it was fully encased in the amber. When the severed head “awakened” under their spells, it became a kind of super-shaman, a powerful entity whose very thoughts became spells. A near-divine being with a genocidal thirst for vengeance against humanity. A ready-made evil dark lord. And the shards from his sphere were pebbles of amazing power.

Each shard was, by itself, incredibly powerful. The shamans’ magical system was crude, unsophisticated, and not geared toward cooperative spells, but there were a lot of them and they were terribly enthusiastic. That counts for a lot in magic. With even the smallest amount of irionite, enthusiasm counts for orders of magnitude more than technique. Our best warmagi couldn’t stand against the crudest country bumpkin of a shaman, if the goblin had a witchstone in his claw and the warmagi didn’t.

Okay, I did. But I got lucky.

I had taken my witchstone from the severed hand of the first shaman into Boval Vale, and I had collected plenty more in action during the long weeks of the siege. I had cleansed them of Shereul’s taint, given them into the hands of a small group of mercenary warmagi who had come to our rescue, and now those magical hellions were strutting around Alshar like newly-minted demigods.

Illegal demigods. Technically, no one was supposed to have irionite. It had been so rare for so long that it was strictly controlled by the Royal Censorate of Magic, and by “controlled” I mean “banned.” The Censorate was the pan-Ducal agency responsible for the regulation of magic and magi, to keep us from rising up against the warrior class, as in the tapestry. As of now the Censorate was obsolete, but didn’t realize it yet. Sharuel was far too much for them to deal with. This wasn’t an isolated case of a sliver of witchstone in the hands of a power-crazed wizard. This problem was far beyond the scope the institution was designed to accommodate.

But somehow I didn’t think they’d see it that way. The Censorate is made up of the wizards who watch other wizards. They oversee the training and certification of magi, the regulation of the use of magic, and the enforcement of the Bans. The Censor General has a habit of recruiting young, idealistic and not terribly bright magi fresh out of school or apprenticeship. And these recruits are terribly incorruptible. They were empowered to order the death penalty, at their discretion, to protect the realm. Their black-and-white checkered cloaks struck fear into the hearts of all magi, certified and uncertified alike. They are, by definition, institutionally conservative. And they were not likely to give me a free pass for my stone (and, by extension, me), which was completely indispensable to the war effort, whether anyone realized that or not.

I continued to brood impatiently on that while I magically defaced the tapestry. I was satisfied with Kamalaven’s bunny-ear sword. So I decided to give Duke Bimin a really comical set of breasts. The “old me” wouldn’t have dared take such liberties, but facing death, destruction, and fatherhood will change a man. I’d started to develop a cocky attitude, as I took stock of my value and gave Bimin hairy nipples.

Yes, Irionite was the third problem. Irionite and the Censorate. And that would have to change.

Completely indispensable. I had the sphere, the only one who could sever the attachment between the stone and Sharuel. You wanted a powerful magical artifact without a sinister dark lord looking over your shoulder? You come to me. And you would want that artifact, regardless of silly custom, because without it you’re another sacrifice waiting to happen, and an archaic custom that damaging would have to be overcome, if we were to survive.

Censorate be damned, this was war, genocidal war, and the Bans were a hindrance. It might have been rebellious, but my faith in the established order was pretty much shaken after Boval Vale, and I saw myself on a mission of a higher cause than merely evading the Ducal Censorate. Of course, that was an easy attitude to take when you were a multiple offender.

I’d already severed the link in nearly thirty stones before I’d handed them over to responsible warmagi. That was, conservatively, thirty death-sentences the Censorate could levy on my head for the charge of empowering the magi – without the Censorate, it was thought, magi would run drunk with power and enslave everyone they could. But every mage I gave a stone to had sworn a personal oath to follow my lead in such things. And most of them had been my friends to begin with. The Censorate would not see it that way.

So I had powerful enemies, both inside the Duchies and out, but I also had some powerful allies. I had done a credible job defending Boval Vale and leading the warmagi on guerrilla raids against the goblins, and they had developed some measure of loyalty to me, personally. A lot of them had been comrades in the Farisan Campaign with me, which helped, I guess. They did what I told them to, more or less. Each one was as powerful as an army of ten-thousand, theoretically, and they all looked to me. Such power had not been put in one place since the ancient days.

Not bad for a common-born baker’s son. I had friends. Powerful friends. If that made me cocky, well, today I needed to be a little cocky. I had to march into that chamber – eventually – and convince the most powerful man in the realm to do what I told him to do, and that was our only hope.

So fuck the tapestry. They could get another one. They were making me wait, after already waiting weeks, and that was making me cranky.

I stopped short of giving Bimin a vagina. That might be going too far, and I realized that the power of the stone was making me less mindful of such things. When you have incredible power, it’s hard to be intimidated by a man on a throne, much less one in a tapestry. But if I came off as belligerent, that wouldn’t help my case, either. I’m no diplomat, but I consciously made myself stop vandalizing and try to see things from the Duke’s perspective. Maybe it would give me some insight, I reasoned.

Duke Rard was in a difficult position. He could raise a mighty army (Castal is twice and a half again as big as Alshar, population-wise, and far more martial) and invade Castal to meet the gurvani head-on, but that would leave his lands largely undefended and honestly the outcome of such a counter-invasion, without the benefit of advanced magics, was severely in doubt.

Plus there was the time, effort and money needed to recruit, feed, and house that army. The last time such a mustering had been done was five years ago, against the Mad Mage of Farise. That had taken two years to organize, had been costly enough to raise taxes, and had left a long trail of empty estates and dynastic disputes behind that Rard was still trying to sort through. I could see how planning a war on such short notice might be a headache.

The call to his vassals had gone out before I’d arrived, but it takes time to raise even a small army in a feudal society. I’d seen the yellow war flag flying over every castle I crossed up the river, and they should be over every castle in Castal by now. The banner flew from Wilderhall, too, just under the Antlers-and-Roses device of the Duchy. Theoretically that should call the Duke’s bannermen to arms and suspend individual wars between estates until after the crisis. Not everyone was paying attention, yet (the harvest seemed to preoccupy most of the lords and their petty vassals) but it was starting to dawn on at least a few nobles that the trouble “somewhere in the West” was heading this way.

Even if Rard could raise a small army relatively quickly and rush it to his frontier that was about the only thing he could do. There wasn’t much in the way of natural defenses between the two duchies to slow them down, either. If Duke Rard didn’t raise an army to oppose them, the gurvani hordes could cross devastated Alshar at will and attack Castal’s heartland.

So I guessed I could see why he wasn’t being more decisive. Perhaps Duke Rard had the manpower to stop the gurvani cold at the frontier, but that would be only half the battle and he didn’t know it yet. With the shamans throwing around hot magical death and other distractions, it would take an elite magical corps just to contain their fury and counter their advantages in the field.

The Duchy had a magical corps, of course – I’d been a part of it for two long years in Farise – but none of them had witchstones, and that put them at a serious disadvantage. And the thirty or so warmagi who did have witchstones were no longer officially under his control. They had all been released after the Farisian Campaign and were now working as free agents, magical mercenaries.

That is, they worked for me. Sir Indispensable.

I was just starting to add a few subtle gin-blossoms to the face of Kamalaven’s High Priest of Huin the War God (I forget the historical figure’s name) when I was finally – finally! – summoned before the Council of Castal.

* * *

“The Council is ready for you now, Master Minalan,” the small, effeminate-looking secretarial page said, approaching almost silently on his silken slippers.

I didn’t mention the long wait, although I’m certain he would have been sympathetic – I believe that was the entirety of his job, to be sympathetic. He’d sympathetically told me for two days that the Council was anxiously awaiting my report, and that it would be “just a few more hours, milord.” I wanted to shout and scream in frustration and grunt and blow a hole in the side of the castle when he brought the summons. Instead, I just got up and followed him, clutching my pretty pebble in one hand and casting one last glance over my shoulder at the defaced tapestry, wondering when someone would notice.

I was escorted past armored guards with crossed halberds through an elaborately carved doorway, into the inner hall – a large room filled with people, with a huge, ornate wooden table in the middle of it. There were at least a score of seats around the table, and at least three seats behind each of those seats, and it was more than half-covered with parchments and maps.

Young pages skittered around bringing papers and parchments from the far sides of the table. The fading afternoon sunlight that peered through the western windows joined a chandelier of beeswax candles to illuminate the scene, and I was able to pick out some of the attendees by sight.

The foremost, of course, was Duke Rard, a man well into his fifties, stately, graceful, with a short golden beard streaked with silver. A large deerskin map of Castal and Alshar was before him, and his eyes looked tired and worn as he studied it. I could take one look at his face and knew the severity of the crisis was not lost on him. He wore a little green cap-of-maintenance under a golden coronet, and a dark green and yellow velvet jacket cut in a military style. There were two burly guardsmen with swords and halberds standing behind him, and behind them was his personal bodyguard of gentlemen, four or five noble men-at-arms just hanging around waiting for orders. He cast his eyes around this way and that toward his advisors as they spoke.

I recognized Count Sago, the new Lord Marshal, who sat to the left of the Duke from seeing him in command back in Farise. Sago was a short, dark man with a severe expression, but he was a coldblooded and valiant warrior by all accounts. It was widely speculated that he got the position after his predecessor became the Regent of Farise by threatening a duel to the death for any other man who vied for it. He was a bit ruthless for my tastes, but an intelligent and capable soldier. He had led the first beach assault on Farise, in which his brutality played a role that won him the post. A bodyguard in full plate stood behind him holding the ornate Sword Of Office.

I knew Count Kindine, the Prime Minister who was seated to the Duke’s right, because he never went anywhere without a half-dozen pages and clerks buzzing around him and he made quite an impression at Wilderhall. Kindine was an older man, in his seventies, a long gray beard resting on his rich red satin jacket. He had a huge stack of parchments and three busy scribes arrayed at a desk behind his chair, all scribbling away furiously.

Kindine might be old, but he was able. I could tell he was worried, too. He had served the Duke’s father for a decade before his death, and had been the Prime Minister since I was born. As Castal was counted among the most prosperous of Duchies, it’s hard to argue with that kind of success. He had even balanced out the taxes necessary for the Farisian campaign so they wouldn’t be too much for the common folk to bear, and he had made sure that plenty of the loot from Farise had ended up in Ducal coffers.

I had heard of Master Dunselen, the Ducal Court Wizard, who sat on the far side of Kindine, but this was the first time I’d seen him despite my best efforts. I’d tried to see him for days. He had a solid reputation for a mage, an experienced Court Wizard who had worked his way up through various nobles’ courts until he had reached his present position. Nothing against that – Court Wizard is generally a pretty cushy post. He was an adept administrator, too, from what I’d heard, and a tireless promoter of our discredited profession. But he was no warmage.

A slightly haughty man, he had the overly-deferential manner that, unfortunately, has been associated with my profession for centuries. He was also a wealthy man, and it was rumored that he was just a little corrupt. He wore a stark black robe embroidered with thread-of-gold magical symbols and the arms of the Duchy. He also wore a small skullcap, instead of the traditional pointy hat, which no doubt kept him from contracting illness in this cold and draughty pile of stones. His highly-polished and heavily-bejeweled Staff of Office was held commandingly behind him by one of his richly-dressed, thoroughly bored apprentices.

I knew the small man in the bright blue doublet was Lord Angrial of Alshar, the official Ducal envoy from that former Duchy. He shifted in his seat constantly, his head darting here and there as various people spoke, as if he was loathe to miss a single word. He reminded me of a big blue bird more than a small Alshari count.

Duchess Grendine was seated next to him on a soft Noble’s Couch, attended by three of her ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps you think of the Duchess as a stately old biddy who spends her time sewing, weaving, or arranging flowers and organizing balls, but not this woman. Not the way she devoured new dispatches before even the Prime Minister got them. Grendine was in her late thirties, blonde like her husband, not beautiful but definitely striking. She was the daughter of the former Duke of Alshar and the older sister of the present Duke Lenguin. Rumor was she hated her brother.

She was wearing a dark green and gold velvet surcoat embroidered with gold, over her bleached linen gown. She wore a simple head scarf surmounted by a small silver coronet that matched the Duke’s. She had large, almost mannish hands, but moved with a simple grace that made me think as much of swordmasters as dancers. Duke Rard had made her the unofficial Counselor of State, putting her in charge of several important projects dedicated to the welfare of the peasantry. As such, she was much-loved by the commoners. After five minutes of observing the council, I decided that she was probably the smartest person in the room.

Lady Arnet was seated next to her, the Duke’s cousin and the Minister of Lands and Estates. She was ancient, a crone whose tenacity was legendary, I’d learned. She looked like a forgetful maiden aunt. While her office was limited, her political power was not. She was a great friend to the Duchess, and she had out-lived most of her serious enemies. I’d seen her around the castle a few times and even asked her for directions once. Nice lady.

I did not know the rest of them by sight, except maybe for a few counselors I may have met in my travels, but I could tell by their clothes just how high-ranking they were. They didn’t get to me at once, of course – a new dispatch had come up the Western Road, and the messenger was relaying the tale of yet-another defeat. Finally, after they’d discussed this latest news and marked the position dutifully on the map, it was my turn.

“ANNOUNCING MASTER MAGE MINALAN OF . . .” the herald boomed and then trailed off, suddenly taken aback that he had no location to add. Usually a mage is attached to a particular court, but the closest I had come to that was running much of the anti-siege operations during the Siege of Boval Castle. But Boval Vale wasn’t a ducal land any more. It wasn’t even a land. It was a seething pit of goblin rage and eldritch magic.

“. . .the Spellmonger’,” I whispered quietly. Technically, a commoner uses his profession as a surname instead of their house or estate, like a noble. Most commoners don’t become Imperially trained magi, but until I had a colorful nickname, I’d use my profession.

“MINALAN THE SPELLMONGER!” the herald finished, sparing me a grateful glance. “APPROACH THE DUCAL SEAT WITH GRACE AND PEACE IN YOUR HEART!”

I wasn’t sure I could muster much grace, but I didn’t have to. Duke Rard rose and beckoned me forward impatiently.

“Let’s dispense with protocol for the moment,” he said, tiredly. “We’ve got a lot to get through. If you please, Master Minalan, just give us your story.”

So I did. For three straight hours.

I started with the first attack, my recruitment of a mercenary army, the siege, the witchstones, the Tree Folk king, the shamans, the warmagi who had followed a trusted friend across enemy lines to save us, the brutal counterattacks, the betrayal of Sir Koucey’s house, my short revolution, our brilliant and technically challenging escape, and, finally, my direct confrontation with the Dead God. I tried not to waste time, but several times I had to back track and explain some point to one of the Court, or listen to some commentary from one of them. By the time I recounted the warmagi’s quick escape as the Tree Folk sacrificed themselves against the Dead God, the skies outside were dark and the room was all but silent.

“. . . and then I made my way here, to inform Your Grace of Sharuel’s plans,” I finished with a sigh.

“So . . .” Rard said, at last, “we have the name of the one behind the invasion.”

”The Dead God plans nothing less than the extinction of the human race,” I assured His Grace.

He didn’t look happy at the news. “And by allowing him this . . . artifact—”

“It is called a molopar, Sire,” the Court Wizard supplied, helpfully.

“Yes, now that he has it, what can he really do with it? Your professional opinion?”

“That all depends on what he knows about it, Your Grace,” I explained. “We were able to force it open and direct it for a significant period of time, but that was done with highly trained magi, witchstones, and an . . . unusual method of energy generation,” I said, glancing at the Duchess. I’d skipped over the exact nature of our escape spell, out of a sense of propriety. “But theoretically, he could open doors to worlds unknown. And bring forth all manner of evil things. And its innate power amplifies his energy from the irionite, so I dare not speculate on the exact nature of its use. It could be anything. But it won’t be good for the Duchies.”

“According to my most recent reports,” Rard said, squinting at a piece of parchment in the dim light, “our scouts have said that a column of no less than thirty thousand, and perhaps as many as sixty thousand goblins has descended upon the far northern reaches of Alshar, beyond the Northwatches. Is that really possible?” he asked, in disbelief.

“It is not even a tithe of his forces, Your Grace,” I assured him. “The Dead God and his folk have been preparing for this for a century. Breeding programs, secret strongholds, hidden storehouses, they have plotted and planned for this day. Thirty thousand would be sufficient to overwhelm any local resistance handily. Sixty thousand . . . well, they would give any Duchy a fight. What they are doing so far north I could not tell Your Grace, but it won’t be good.”

“And they really do have . . . ten thousand goblins attacking . . . what was the name of it . . . the town of Tudry?” he asked, squinting at the dispatch before him in the gloom. The place was filled with candles and lamps, lit at dusk to keep the Council going. Despite that, the dark stone of the castle walls seemed to drink in the light.

I decided to help, and waved my hand casually toward the smoky chandelier that hung over the table. Suddenly every candle was thrice as bright, and the room was as light as in full sun. Just fed a little more oxygen to them, but it got noticed.

“Impressive!” Master Dunselen said, admiringly. “You did that with the irionite?”

I nodded. “Just increased the rate of combustion for a short time, Master. Every spell is easier with this much power. Things I used to prepare for days to cast now take a glance or a gesture.”

“Intriguing!” he said in a tone of voice that was tinged with jealousy. I couldn’t blame him, of course. He’d spent a lifetime perfecting his craft without the boundless rush of power that witchstones provided. I would have been jealous, too.

“The army column the Dead God has unleashed appears to be entirely made up of infantry – light infantry, too, no better than your standard armed tribe,” the Lord Marshal said, looking up from another dispatch. “Ten thousand infantry attack Tudry, and no cavalry?”

“The gurvani have never employed cavalry,” the Prime Minister pointed out in an old and scratchy voice. “Not in the oldest of records.”

“Nor did they ever use siege equipment,” the Duchess added. “Yet they had it aplenty at Boval Castle, if the Spellmonger is to be believed.” I couldn’t tell from her tone whether or not she did believe me or not, but it looked like she was giving me the benefit of the doubt. “They seem to have learned a great deal from us in the last century. Surely cavalry will be right around the corner.”

“That’s the least of our problems, Your Grace,” I admitted. “The column attacking Tudry, and the similar one moving south, and the large one in the north, all are likely no more than a way to test our defenses, an elaborate and deadly probe. A screen to keep us from attacking Boval Vale directly. Right now, the Dead God is still becoming accustomed to his new realm, and he probably fears being challenged there before he is ready to defend it.”

“It’s more than that,” Prime Minister Kindine said in a croaking old voice. “Reports from Alshar say that the goblins are investing castles throughout the land, razing villages and sending a large number of prisoners back behind their lines.”

“Prisoners?” the Duchess asked. “Slaves?”

“Fodder,” spat Count Sago. “They feed on human flesh, it is said.”

“Actually, they are probably sacrificial victims,” I offered. “While Lady Pentandra and I utilized one method of opening the molopar to our influence, the Dead God favors sacrifice. Human sacrifice. Of course, what’s done with their corpses after they are dead . . .”

“Gods above!” Lady Arnet said in horror.

“And what about this, this shadow the dispatches speak of?” The Court Wizard insisted, worriedly tapping a parchment in front of him. “One of my agents reports that an ‘evil shadow’ lies across much of the West, now, keeping the region bathed in perpetual gloom.”

“It’s the Dead God’s doing, most likely. The gurvani are nocturnal,” I suggested. “That would allow them to keep working and fighting without being overly discomfited by the sun. And it probably delineates just where the Dead God’s power extends to, as well. Try scrying beyond that line, Master, and I’d wager you’d find nothing. I know in Boval he placed the entire valley within such a bubble. Not even in the Overworld could we easily get out.”

“That would make sense, if he is indeed that powerful” Dunselen nodded. He didn’t seem placated by the response, of course, and looked far more worried now. Good. At least he was starting to appreciate the magnitude of the problem.

“So can we not raise an army and attack him?” Lord Angrial squeaked. “My lord Duke is already assembling a mighty host . . .”

“Your lord Duke has his household guards and the few fiefs closest to his castle, and all the scared peasants he can bully into standing and fighting,” Sago sneered. “If he can pull together ten thousand real fighting men, I’ll be amazed.”

“All the more reason for Castal to ride to his aid!” insisted Angrial.

“Enough, please,” Rard said, holding up his hand. “We are still discovering the nature and scope of the threat. Quick action is like to be foolhardy.”

“I beg Your Grace not to study overmuch,” I said, seriously. “Every day you allow the hordes to go unchallenged is a day the Dead God has to strengthen his forces. The goblins in that vanguard are mostly tribal warriors, brutes with clubs and knives. They will sap much of our strength if we meet them head-on – even a disciplined charge of all the heavy cavalry in Castal would result in our forces being decimated. I believe that is the Dead God’s plan: drain our resources on the rustic goblins while he keeps his hardier troops in reserve.”

“That mob of club-wielding furballs might not be his first line, but they are plenty enough to blunt any attack we might mount,” Sago admitted with a sigh. “I interviewed a rider from Ganz myself. They destroyed two keeps in two days, and captured or killed every human in sight. And they’re doing it with their numbers. More than enough to wrest the better part of Alshar from the Duke’s grasp.”

“And they won’t be the last band to attack. They’re just the first,” I added.

“So we should merely wait for them to be at our frontiers before we act?” Lady Arnet said, scornfully.

“No,” Rard decided. “But neither will we waste our forces on their rabble. How long until the Grand Army can be convened?” he asked Sago.

“At least two months,” the general said, after a moment’s thought. “And I fear that they would be too late. If the filthy animals keep advancing at their present rate, they could be in the Alshari Riverlands within a moon. And once they go from broken country to the plains, they’ll be in our western reaches a month after that.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Lady Arnet chided. “The refugees alone would be a nightmare. We’ll have to hold them beyond the Riverlands.”

“With what, my lady?” Sago asked, snidely, “If you know where I can get an army of a size to knock them back, I would dearly like to know.”

“What of their supply lines?” asked the Prime Minister. “Surely they are advancing to their limits even now. That should slow them.” The old man thought in terms of resources, not forces, I realized.

“You’re thinking in terms of a conventional human army,” I reminded them. “The gurvani aren’t human, they don’t have horses to care for, and they move at night. They’ll be able to live off the land for some time,” I answered, before anyone else did. “Alshar is fat with cattle and swine. They’ll be able to go far on the herds, well into the River Lands. And then there are always the people to snack on.”

“What of the northern Alshari nobles?” asked Dunselen. “The Northwatch? Surely they have taken to arms.” The Northwatch was a string of small but stout castles that a previous Duke of Alshar had built in an effort to protect the rest of his realm against incursions from the Crinroc and other nomadic human tribes beyond the northern steppes. Specially appointed by the Alshari Duke, they were supposed to defend the northern line with their lives.

“Those who have not fallen already are retreating into their castles with what they can, hoping to ride out the storm,” Rard said, tiredly. “The goblins are investing a few of them, but mostly they are being watched. And most of the host merely passes by. I doubt many will want to tempt the goblins into besieging them.”

“They won’t need to,” I pointed out. “Unless they are relieved, all the gurvani need to do is watch them. When the time comes, they can starve them out or lay siege at their leisure – for sacrifice and slavery.”

“So what kind of forces can we send immediately?” a man I didn’t know asked. “Mercenaries abound, it seems. Couldn’t a few thousand be sent to blunt their strength while we prepare a more adequate response? Impress some peasants, Your Grace, clean out your dungeons and jails.”

“Lord Maron, while mercenaries are all too willing to pocket your coin, they prefer to do so when they have a decent chance to live to spend it. No mercenary captain is going to hire out his troops for an ill-conceived suicide mission, without proper supply train or chance for victory. And peasant troops need to be trained. Even militiamen need equipage. Sending them forth with any less would be an invitation to failure,” the Duke said, quietly.

I could tell he didn’t like Lord Maron. I found out later that Maron led a small but vocal “loyal opposition” to His Grace, and that he had strong ties to the Eastern Duchies. “No,” the Duke continued, stroking his beard, “We cannot stop this blow with spearfodder. Their numbers are too large. If we cannot match their number, then we must use a sharper instrument than they.” He glanced up at me. “And then there is the issue of their witchstones . . .”

“Yes,” Dunselen murmured, “Master Minalan has one. He acquired several, and they are now in the hands of competent warmagi. That would put a very sharp point on our spear, I should think.”

“How many? Less than thirty?” Sago scoffed. “Against thirty thousand goblins and Teedra alone knows how many shamans? I thought you said mercenaries don’t accept suicide missions?”

“They wouldn’t be alone,” The Duke said, darkly. “I think we could put together a force . . . maybe twenty, thirty thousand . . . quickly enough to use them to strike with the warmagi. Not to defeat the goblin horde, but to slow them down, make them cautious. Ideally, break them up into smaller groups where their numerical superiority is less telling.”

“Thirty thousand?” Sago asked, with a wry laugh. “I can find three thousand mercenaries, ready to ride at once. We’ve a thousand in the garrison. We can raise three, maybe four thousand by market day. Another five thousand peasant levies in a week. We could augment with more mercenaries from the south, but . . .” he said doubtfully. “I just don’t know where you expect to get them. And not before a month’s time, easily. If we gathered that many before the equinox, it would be a gift from the gods.”

“That’s what I have a Lord Marshal for,” the Duke said, a hint of menace in his voice. “Find them. These three thousand? Hire them to scout the way for our forces and probe the enemy. I want at least ten thousand troops assembled before new moon. Another ten to follow, and more as fast as you can get them.” His tone was impressive, positively kingly. There was no room for argument.

“My liege, I will do my best,” Sago said, bowing from the waist. He sounded grimly determined, but uncertain he could accomplish the task. I couldn’t blame him. My own experience with hiring mercenaries had been . . . interesting.

“Only three thousand?” squeaked Lord Angrial, the Alshari ambassador. “And who shall lead them?” asked, with interest. “Lord Marshal Sago? Surely someone who is more familiar with the Alshari Wilderlands lords . . .”

“Why, I can think of a dozen lords with the lineage and rank to take such a commission off the top of my head,” Count Kindine assured the Council. “Surely we can appoint a Special Marshal . . .”

“With all due respect, my good Kindine,” Master Dunselen wheezed, “the commander should be someone familiar with the magical aspects of warfare. A mere high noble, of whatever lineage or rank, is not going to be able to defeat a foe with that much pure eldritch power with steel alone. I think the Spellmonger should be the commander,” he said, much to my surprise.

Maybe he thought he was throwing me a bone. Or just pushing to advance our profession. Or wanted to see me dead in battle. That’s the problem with magi: sometimes we’re just too damn subtle.

“The Spellmonger?” Sago asked, his voice dripping with derision. “He’s a commoner – not even from the petty nobility! His father is a baker – a baker!” he said, as if the idea of a baker’s son leading men in battle was scandalous. “If I want magical biscuits, he’ll be the first I call for. But if I want a valiant leader of men in war? If nothing else, the nobility will not follow the orders of a commoner!”

“They will follow the orders of their lawful commanders, or I’ll have their heads!” Duke Rard said, decisively.

“Under the circumstances,” Lady Arnet said in her ancient, creaky voice, “I think that expediency demands we dispense with the issue of nobility in favor of competence. Surely the gods will forgive the necessity – and the nobility couldn’t possibly be more prideful than the gods in the crisis we face. Master Spellmonger. You were in the Farisan Campaign, were you not, young man?” I felt like I was being addressed by an elderly aunt, and I felt seven years old.

“Yes, my lady,” I said, nodding. She nodded once in return.

“I thought I remembered hearing that. So you’ve seen battle . . .”

“Far too much of it, my lady,” I agreed. “I was part of the assault on the palace of the Mad Mage. I was a sell-wand for almost two years. And, of course, I survived the siege of Boval Castle. I’ve seen battle. I’ve led men,” I conceded.

“So you have a blooded warmage right here,” she continued, rolling her eyes at Sago. “On who has met the foe and understands what we face. Pile him with titles, if it makes you feel better Sago, but he seems to be our best option. When there are hundreds of thousands of goblins afoot, honor be damned!”

“If he was paired with a proven, competent commander,” Sago said, slowly and grudgingly, “perhaps the Spellmonger might be useful as one of the officers in charge. Of his Magical Corps. But in command of the whole force? Unlikely.” I just love being talked about like I’m not there. Not even by my name.

It was interesting – and frustrating. The moment they knew I didn’t have a title, and arose from common birth, I got branded with my profession and ignored, personally. After nearly four hours of testimony, in my best court etiquette, I felt I deserved a little more respect than that. Apparently I was not the only one.

“That’s assuming that the warmagi will take the commission,” the Duchess pointed out. “We have not even asked them, yet. They look to you, do they not, Master Spellmonger?”

Master, that was at least an improvement. “Yes, Your Grace,” I answered, with a bow. “They elected me their leader. We have an Order, of sorts, even. An incipient Order, anyway. But they’ve given me leadership, and understand what needs to be done. I am empowered to negotiate on behalf of the Order.”

“ ‘Negotiate?’” asked a lord standing on the periphery of the room. “If the Duke has need, you’ll take the commission and they’ll fight as ordered. Baker’s sons do not ‘negotiate’ with their betters!”

That pissed me off. I didn’t know the ‘gentleman’ by name, but the scorn he voiced had been underlying every word from every lip but mine – and the Duchess’, I recalled – and that made me angry.

Suddenly I was really tired of standing. My knees hurt and the new boots hurt my feet, and I had been kept waiting for days and hours and I was done being the respectful peasant, cap-in-hand. I had earned more respect than that, even if these idiots didn’t realize it.

I abruptly grabbed a chair from the wall and pushed it to the table, moving aside a clerk with a gentle but firm magical ‘push’ which caused him to squeak and his parchments to be scattered. I sat down, throwing my cloak back for dramatic effect. I had left Slasher, my mageblade, back in the cell they’d put me in, but I had my dagger and my most ornate warwand. The guards stirred, but when it was clear I wasn’t threatening anyone they relaxed. I leaned back in my chair and casually looked at every face at the table, one at a time, before I began.

“You’re right,” I said directly to the haughty noble who’d challenged me. “Baker’s sons don’t negotiate with their betters. Warmagi with witchstones, however, do, and you’d damn well better listen if you want to still have your precious titles and lands this time next year. All right, folks,” I said in a deceptively friendly voice. “You want my warmagi? I can get them for you. But not as mere mercenaries. Maybe most warmagi would do it that way, but I’m not just a warmage, either. I’m a spellmonger, as you all have taken great pains to point out to me, and I’m used to haggling with farmers over the cost of a wart removal in terms of chickens. You folks seem at least as smart as a warty peasant, so I think we can manage to work out a deal here. So let’s begin the bargaining . . .”

Chapter Three:

The Battle Of The Lantern

Barony of Green Hill, Late Summer

You’d think we’d be triumphant, after our victory at Grimly Wood. Though it was hardly the sort of thing troubadours sing about, we won. There were three hundred or so goblin heads on sharpened spikes lining the Great Western Road, near a great smoldering pyre. That was as much to improve the morale of the endless stream of refugees fleeing east as it was to scare off other gurvani.

But as the long column of men, horses, and wagons crept westward two days after the Battle of Grimly Wood, there was an air of resignation among the men. We’d slain almost a thousand of the invaders, and allowed the few peasants left in Grimly Wood to gather stores from those abandoned by their fleeing fellows, but from the face of every passing refugee we all knew we had barely scratched the surface.

In fact, I couldn’t really see how it would affect the rest of the Dead God’s nearly infinite army much at all. Maybe that’s why we weren’t feeling triumphant: because we knew just how little we had really accomplished. Or maybe we felt bad about the undisguised slaughter. I know that more men than usual had appeared at Warbrother Caudel’s dawn services asking the War God’s pardon.

Acting under advice from Bold Asgus, captain of the Orphan’s Band, we had left the dinky castle at Grimly Wood well-provisioned behind us once the baggage train caught up to the rest of the army. That was wisely done, in case we encountered more goblins than we could handle and needed to retreat. Asgus had an obsession about not having a route to retreat along, and the man had been in more campaigns than I had seen summers, so I was more than willing to listen to him. You have to trust an old soldier’s experience in these things. There’s a reason they’re old soldiers.

Lord Geston of Grimly wasn’t thrilled about that prospect, but then again Lord Grimly wasn’t particularly thrilled about anything, I’d noted during our discussions. He barely acknowledged Duke Lenguin’s commission even when I waved it under his nose (I don’t think he could read, anyway), and while he was clearly grateful that a couple of thousand troops had wandered by and eliminated the band of goblins infesting his lands, he still complained about the amount of his fodder and food my men were eating.

I assured him that His Grace would no doubt reimburse him, come the Yule Court, and I wrote him out a receipt for what we had taken. Bold Asgus and his men were helpful for that, too, by helping to throw a make-shift roof on the single granary that had been spared to protect it from the weather. I had no idea if Lenguin would entertain such a reimbursement or not. Lord Geston believed it – that’s all that really mattered.

But when the last of the furry, headless bodies had been piled into pyres and burned, Sir Geston of Grimly and about a dozen of his men-at-arms rode out to see us off. He even formally thanked us, pouring my captains and me a stirrup-cup libation to Huin in gratitude. I’d like to say he was sincerely gracious, but that would be exaggerating.

I didn’t mind . . . much. He was just a simple country knight who had gotten in the way, and he was still reeling from the crisis. His village was half-burned, the few of his people who had escaped and not run for their lives were cowering behind his walls, their crops trampled in the fields. It was easy to lash out at the nearest thing to a responsible party he had seen. I didn’t blame him. I felt like lashing out at a few Dukes, myself. But we had a job to do, and after our dawn libation we set forth to the next barony.

My pre-dawn scrying had shown the way clear down the path to the rough dirt track (I couldn’t bring myself to call it a road) toward the Barony of Green Hill – clear of gurvani, at least. There were plenty of pack-loaded peasants running to the east from that direction, but there didn’t seem to be any more goblins lurking around. There was always the possibility that the shamans were hiding their numbers from scrying – that’s what I was doing. But I didn’t give them that much credit.

At the time.

Green Hill was twenty miles away, a march of two days’ time in this hilly country – three if we didn’t hurry. Green Hill was where we were supposed to meet up with more mercenary cavalry and all of the men-at-arms that Baron Magonas of Greenhill could muster by then. What was more important, two more warmagi would be joining us in Green Hill, scouts I’d sent in advance of our arrival. I was eager to hear their reports.

I was fortunate enough to have Kaddel of Wenshar, captain of the Hellriders, as my march officer. Kaddel was wily old veteran of a dozen feudal wars, though he had been under contract in Remere during the Farisian campaign.

You wouldn’t know it to look at him – tow-headed, his wide, clean-shaven face seemed to be pink most of the time. Under his helmet he looked more like a baker than my father did. But he knew his business about organizing and maintaining a march through compromised territory. He was the son of a landless knight who had squired for a time with Baron Salcare during his dispute with a neighboring Viscount, but was discharged from service after being accused of stealing from a hostage.

It was later proven untrue, but he’d grown tired of life as a vassal by then, and he’d formed the Hellriders to make his living as a sell-sword. And he was a professional. He enforced constant cavalry patrols of our van and our flanks, had his outriders keep our wagons and pack animals from straggling, and ensured we had a credible rear-guard, all without stepping on the toes of the other commanders.

And he was a good riding companion, too. He spent most of that morning at my knee, trading war stories and discussing strategy in between hearing reports from returning patrols. Once he’d gotten over my common birth and my profession, he had grudgingly accepted me as commander. After Grimly Wood, he was almost friendly.

“It’s too pretty a day to ride in armor,” he muttered, brushing sweat from his brow under his helmet with a cloth. “And too hot,” he added. I couldn’t disagree – the sun was beating down on our heavy hides from a cloudless sky. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of rain – it would keep the dust down a bit, don’t you think?” he asked, expectantly.

I chuckled. “I’ll conjure a breeze if I must, Kaddel, but toying with the weather enough to produce rain would also produce goblins. That kind of elemental work would be as good as a sign over my head saying ‘Minalan is right over here’. As it is, I’m seeking to conceal our movements as much as I can.”

“Then that great bloody dust-plume probably isn’t helping our cause,” he pointed out, gesturing behind his shoulder with a thumb. I couldn’t argue with that, either. You don’t move three thousand men and horses across a dirt path without kicking up a lot of dust. It hung in the sky like a big arrow.

I sighed. “All right, no rain – but I can manage a stiff wind, enough to dissipate the dust. Will that make you happy?”

“Seems a pity to have a spellmonger along with us and not use him,” he grumbled. “From all the talk, you’re supposed to be a one-man magical corps.”

“You’re a cavalry officer,” I observed. “You know how to charge, don’t you, Captain Kaddel?”

“Yes, I believe I do,” he said, proudly.

“Is a cavalry charge the only thing you can do? Or even the best thing to do, in any given situation? Say, if the enemy had pikes and caltrops and pits . . . you know how to charge, but do you charge them?”

“Of course not,” he agreed, patiently. “I see what you’re saying, I believe, Marshal Minalan: there are more ways to conduct magical warfare than by shooting mystical fire out your arse!”

“Essentially,” I said, having to pause to make sure I properly understood his analogy. “The fact is, a cooling breeze might be an excellent way to keep you and I, the horses and the whole column cool under this hot sun. But the same breeze that cools you carries your scent, and I’ve taken enough pains to keep our movements quiet that it would be a shame to waste them because some goblin scout got wind of your dinner from last night.”

“All right then,” he said, a little discouraged. “Since I ate beans and pork, I’ll agree that I might give away our position. And you say the way is clear ahead, all the way to Green Hill?”

“As far as I can tell,” I said, grudgingly. “But there are plenty of things I don’t know about the shamans’ capabilities. Don’t ever take warmagic as an excuse not to send out a patrol or scout ahead. The ancient Imperial Army depended on warmagic for that sort of thing, and look where it got them.”

“I take your point,” he said. “Then what are you good for?”

My turn to chuckle. “I’m good at keeping the goblins from scrying us out. Our water and food are vermin-free. None of the men or horses has taken ill, there are no fleas, mites, or bedbugs in camp, the different units are all getting along without fighting or arguing, we haven’t had a single deserter or act of cowardice, save for that nasty rape issue, and from what I understand the man had a history. Other than that, not even a row over a camp whore. No snipers raid our camp at night as we sleep. No broken axels on the wagons, the quartermaster seems almost honest, the cook is competent and sober, and our provisions are sound and plentiful. We’ve triumphed at our first engagement with the enemy, lost only four men out of three thousand, and we’re nearly at our rendezvous with our reinforcements.”

“And?” Kaddel asked, shrugging in his armor.

I wanted to explode. “Huin’s hairy sack, Kaddel, look me in the eye and tell me you’ve ever been in a moving column three weeks in the field that had this few problems?” I demanded.

He considered. “Well, it weren’t all magic, Spellmonger. Hellriders, Orphan’s Band, and them Redfeathers are all good solid men, and the Warbirds are as stout a free company as gold can hire.”

I looked at him cagily. “And do you believe you were all chosen by accident? Count Sago and I went over the compliment of the force very carefully before we set out.”

“So?”

“So, wisdom is the realm of the wizard, Kaddel, and wisdom dictated that I’d have a lot fewer problems with good mercenaries who knew their business than a bunch of part-time knights and petty nobles eager to prove their valor for this mission.”

“You couldn’t have managed them, Spellmonger?” he asked, skeptically. “You have our lines well in hand.”

“I could have managed them,” I agreed. “But I’ll get a hell of a lot more done with you, and instead of wasting my time and spells with soothing charms and delicate negotiations between my own men, I can use it for our business here. Half of being a good warmage is knowing how to not have to use magic.”

He seemed to accept that, and then rode to the head of the column to inspect a rough patch in the road that might impair our wagons. Maybe he believed me, maybe he just thought I was being stingy with the spells, but I decided I didn’t care what he thought. It would be enough if he did as he was commanded.

While we marched cautiously but briskly north east over the connected cowpaths that made up a “road” in the Wilderlands, we found ourselves pushing our way through even thicker scattered bands of frightened peasants coming the other way. Most had the sense to get out of our way before the vanguard had to say anything to them. A few even cheered – apparently we were the first real organized response to the goblins that they’d seen in weeks.

But mostly they just kept slogging along, head down, eyes on the road, one unshod foot in front of the other with no real idea of where they were going or where their next meal might come from. Whole families, sometimes. There were dozens of small children moving with the lines, and not all of them had parents nearby. I tried to look past them as victims in need of comfort and consolidation – that’s not why we were here – and tried to be objective about what I was seeing, so that I might report it back to Wilderhall.

About one in five refugees had packs on their back. About one in ten had a mule or donkey or horse or grusha beast loaded with their meager wealth. About one in a hundred had managed to load a full wagon before fleeing. A few had arms – butchering knives, hammers, pitchforks, spears – peasant’s weapons. And axes, the choice of most of the Alshari smallholders. Most of the Alshari Wilderlands were still heavily forested, and most peasants spent their autumns timbering. The Alshari peasants knew how to swing an axe, and by the bloodied state of some I saw, they weren’t afraid to do so.

But they all had that stunned, tired, shocked expression on their face that you get when your entire life is torn away from you and your future is uncertain. Eventually it turns either into a grim determination or a complete abandonment of rational thought, the animal urge to survive the only thing propelling you forward.

I pitied them, those poor refugees. But they had gotten away. They were in front of the worst of the invasion, not behind it. I was asked a dozen times along the road to Green Hill where the Duke’s army was, and how far it was to the next village, or begged for food. The most I could do was offer encouragement, that the Duchy would have food and shelter for them when they crossed the big river. I wasn’t sure that was true, but I said it often enough and confidently enough until the word started spreading down the line. Hope will keep you going some times when grim determination runs out.

We marched in column from dawn to dusk, and lightly encamped on a low hill in the middle of a pasture. No tents – the men slept on the ground in their cloaks, their saddles and weapons ready to go at a moment’s notice. Our night patrols skirmished with a few gurvani – I had had the foresight to use a darkvision spell to allow them to see as well as the goblins, another validation of warmagic for Kaddel – but there wasn’t a serious attack on us. By dawn we were already in the saddle, eating cold rations and moving at more brisk pace as the road took us to up the long slope to Green Hill.

As our column broke through the treeline into the village, proper, I could see why they named it Green Hill. The old gray stone castle stood at the summit of a gently rising green hill towering a hundred feet over the wooded vales around it. It was pretty, in the distance, and even a bit majestic as we rode to the edge of the village. I was grateful to see the pennant of the Baron of Green Hill flying from its watchspire I was even more grateful to be greeted by a heavily-armed ten-man picket on the road. Green Hill, at least, was still defended.

The castle itself was a double tower affair, with two baileys in concentric circles around two large square keeps, and small towers dotting the inner wall every seventy feet. It was ideal for keeping your warlike neighbors from conducting a cavalry raid on you in the middle of the night or discouraging a peasant uprising. Less effective for stopping the gurvani legions, perhaps. But it was a big castle, and the Baron of Greenhill, Iron Magonas, had many men under his command and was a fighter of some repute.

I got the history from one of the Hellriders who’d grown up in the area as we were riding through the village . One of Baron Magonas’ grandsires, Astrus, a poor country knight who distinguished himself at one of the frontier skirmishes with Castal, had been an aide of the fifth Duke of Alshar,. At the time, most of northern Alshar was mere wilderness. Astrus got the fief as a reward, but precious little else. He was instructed to improve his lands or give them back within a year’s time.

As poor as the fief was at the time, Baron Astrus was an industrious noble. He settled his comrades as knights and yeomen, built a rickety wooden fortress, and then even used his destrier to help clear and plant the land for the few peasants he could lure to the site. At the end of the year, his overlord was impressed at the prosperous little village and extended his rule over the surrounding parcels.

Eventually his son built the first real castle on the hill, and was invested the Baron of Green Hill soon after. And instead of naming the barony Astrus, which would have been a much better name, Astrus called it after the green hill he planned to build his castle on. His arms were – you guessed it – a green hill under a blue sky with a stylized tower on top.

Not very imaginative, these Alshari nobles.

The present Baron of Green Hill was a veteran of the Farisian Campaign, one of the lucky ones who got to go by boat, like gentlemen. Alas, he arrived too late for any real choice loot, and even missed most of the battles, so he returned to his home with his warlike spirit unfulfilled. None of his neighbors would even give him battle, persisting in being reasonable vassals. So he’d been spending the last few years flirting with war with his southern neighbor and looking for an opportunity to distinguish himself. But apart from the occasional tournament or border skirmish, all had been quiet. Not even a dynastic feud had broken out.

Until now.

Now the frontiers of Green Hill had been invaded. Goblin scouts had been sighted on the outskirts of the barony, and chased away by the Green Hill knights. But there were larger bands skulking around the shadows and making raids on isolated farmsteads. Peasants and tradespeople on the road had been attacked by small troops of ten or twenty. Most were killed on the spot, their bodies looted and thrown to the side of the road, but some were tortured or mutilated and some just . . . disappeared.

Baron Magonas hadn’t been idle in the face of all of this. Word of the failures of the nobles in the far west had spread quickly, and he had acted. He had been stowing away supplies, calling his peasantry inside the safety of the outer bailey, and was frantically raising his banners and summoning his vassals to defend Green Hill. Just what any responsible lord would do in defense of his lands. And the three-score goblin heads strung together like grisly beads and hung over the gatehouse at the edge of the village demonstrated that the swords of his knights and men-at-arms had not been idle, either.

I took a force of twenty Hellriders and rode ahead of our main force, so that I could arrange for their quarters when they arrived. I also took Redshaft, because I’d come to respect the man’s eye and I was growing tired of Kaddel’s company in the saddle. I also took Lady Isily, summoning her by stone from the rear of the column to ride to the front with me.

She galloped up on her bay mare just moments later, eager to escape the gossip and mindless chatter she’d been forced to endure from the other women in the column: whores, cooks, warwives and seamstresses, some all of them together. Isily was a lady of a noble house, used to refinement and culture from the ancient land of Wenshar – and she was also a highly-trained mage, in addition to her other talents. The least I could do was rescue her from banality.

“Ride with me,” I commanded her, and she nodded and fell in behind Redshaft, just like that. Pentandra would have argued with me the whole time and ended up doing whatever the hell she wanted. I was starting to appreciate the benefits of Isily. Not the least because she was eager to learn and prove her value to me in the field. “You are a Shadowmage. I might need you to do reconnaissance in the future. Look at the castle and tell me what you see. How would you report it to me, if I asked?”

I didn’t feel bad testing her. Isily had only had her stone for a few weeks, and was still learning its power. But what I was testing had nothing to do with how much magic she could sling, it had to do with her abilities to observe and interpret.

“I see two thousand peasants living in huts and tents in the outer yard, their cows and sheep and goats crowded into the far end while they huddle near the gate. Beyond them over a thousand men of war are encamped inside the outer bailey, mostly horse, probably mercenaries, waiting for us to arrive. The castle towers and gates are well-staffed and there is ample provision within, if not ample feed for this many horses. There is yet little sickness within the outer bailey.”

“The castellan knows his craft,” I nodded. “Continue.”

“Within the inner bailey are another thousand men, two thirds infantry, one third horse. The Baron’s household and attendant knights, from their banners. And it looks like . . . perhaps as many as five hundred archers, mercenaries? And another five hundred mercenary infantry? And their families,” she added.

“How long could this many – not including our own force, just this many people – how long could this castle survive a siege?”

She chewed her lip as she surveyed the grounds, no doubt using magesight and other spells to investigate. “In my opinion, Master, Not more than three months. Perhaps four, if enough fell in battle or to fever to feed the rest. No more than that.”

“And what would be the easiest way for an enemy to win a siege? What strategy would you use to win the keep, besides starving them out?”

She looked around again. “Take the outer gate by stealth and guile,” she said, hesitantly. “Corrupt the guards or kill them silently, and then open the gate. The inner bailey would be quickly closed to you, it is true, but if the troops in the outer bailey were slaughtered, those within would not last three weeks before a breech could be forced. If that.”

“I’d say four to five, but that’s close,” I admitted. “Pretty good for someone who isn’t a warmage, or been to battle.”

“I’ve been to the Wenshari Spring Ball, it is not dissimilar. You are gracious, Master,” she said, nodding deferentially.

“I am not. But you were wrong about something else, too. Goblins are unlikely to try to bribe guards, and the guards are even more unlikely to look the other way while their fellows are slaughtered.”

“You asked what I would do, Master, not the goblins,” she pointed out, a little defensively.

“So I did,” I sighed as I showed my pass to the guard at the gatehouse into the inner bailey. I didn’t even have to show him my Warrant. He told us where the Baron could be found, and offered to take our mounts. I had my Hellriders stay there, mounted, and preceded on foot with Redshaft and Isily.

“I like their taste in decoration,” Redshaft murmured, nodding toward the portcullis gateway into the inner bailey as we crossed under it. There were a few dozen more gurvani heads on spikes there, which cheered me. And the fighting men looked well-trained and well-fed, which was a welcome change to the usual peasant levies who volunteered for army service merely for the chance at food.

I was passing over the drawbridge between the outer and inner baileys when someone in a cowled cloak snickered.

“Say, ain’t that the big scary spellmonger the Duke sent to save us?” quipped one, in a thick country accent.

“He don’ look like much,” another voice spat, derisively. “Needs muscles, y’ask me.”

I turned to see who was judging me so harshly – and saw Curmor and Mavone, two of my comrade warmagi who had escaped from Boval castle with me. They were part of a trio (I had Astyral probing the southern roads) from wealthy Gilmora, in southwestern Castal, and after three weeks of dust and marching with a bunch of grunts they were a welcome sight. Especially considering just where I had sent them to scout. I howled and swept them both into a big bear hug. I was so thrilled at seeing them alive – and there to help me – that I forgot all about their teasing.

“So what have you two been doing, while I was off arguing with the Duke?” I asked, as I walked toward the donjon with them, leading my horse.

“Harassing the foe, mostly,” admitted Curmor, the tallest of the three Gilmorans. Contrary to popular belief, though they looked similar, the Gilmorans weren’t brothers. Only he and Astyral were related – distant cousins. They just liked to work together and shared similar tastes. I’d given each of them a stone at Boval, and they were three of my best warmagi. “We hunt them by day, using magic. When we find a big lot, we notify the local lordlings. They love beating up goblins, it makes them feel manly and superior.”

“Of course, we miss a band, every now and then,” admitted Mavone, shaking his shaggy head. “We left a band of thirty alone, because we were on the trail of a much larger one. But those thirty sacked the village of Nandine, about seventy miles north of here, and killed every human inside. Over fifty people. Or at least I hope they’re dead. There weren’t any bodies.”

“So where is the ‘front line’?” I asked. “Last time I heard, there were some heavy forces moving east and south from Farenrose.”

“You’re about two weeks behind,” nodded Curmor, sadly. “Farenrose fell. The survivors retreated south to Tudry, and some went directly to Vorone. The main goblin host – it’s not organized enough to call an army – is moving on Tudry to join the thousands already near that town.”

That was grave news – Farenrose was a well-built, stoutly-defended baronial castle northwest of Green Hill. One of the Northwatch fortresses – the line of castles subsidized by the Duchy to keep the tribesmen of the north at bay. I’d done some work for Baron Raskean of Farenrose a few years ago, and I liked the look of his fief. It would have been much more defensible than Green Hill’s older castle.

“Damn it!” I sighed, angrily. “That’s where I was going to make our stand!”

“Our stand?” Mavone asked, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t we make a last stand together, already?”

“Boval doesn’t count,” I complained. “That was just practice. So if Farenrose fell . . . what’s the next strongest castle in the Alshari Wilderlands?”

“That’s still reachable?” Mavone asked. “That would be Autumnly. Castle of Count Jendan of Autumnly. Another Warden of the North.”

“You know him?”

“Actually, I do,” Mavone admitted. “I worked for him, three years ago. Just got back from the war, and he needed his walls shored up. Then he didn’t want to pay, and I had to threaten to give his daughter some nasty pox before he settled. After I got his respect, we got along fine.”

Nonpayment was a big issue with most warmagi, of course – after asking you to bend reality to suit their purpose, plenty of country knights or wily barons would try to claim that the work was unnecessary and tried not to pay you. But if you aren’t going to pay your bills, keeping your warmagi in arrearage is generally a bad idea. We aren’t very forgiving.

“How is the keep disposed?” I asked, unfamiliar with Autumnly.

“Big donjon, three walls, smaller gatehouse, a few towers on the wall. Bigger than this place by half. Nicer, too,” Curmor said, sniffing. He was always a bit of a snob. Hells, all the Gilmorans were. Gilmora was a rich and fertile land full of regal estates and stately manors, balls and parties. And everyone dressed really well, too, by the way my Gilmorans went about. “About three thousand men-at-arms. Of course, Count Jenden sent almost half of them to Vorone when the Duke called the banners, so it’s not as well-defended as it could be.”

“Any large bands of furries molesting it?” I asked.

“There wasn’t as of five days ago,” replied Mavone, shaking his head. “They’re keeping just enough of a presence around it to keep the knights inside.”

“Hmmm,” I said, thinking about that. “That could be just because they don’t know how to run a proper siege,” I suggested.

“They seemed to overcome that problem at Boval,” Curmor reminded me. “Maybe they’re just waiting for a proper artillery train from The Big Head In The Sky.”

“That could be,” I nodded. “Tell me, how many are menacing Tudry?”

“About five, six thousand,” supplied Mavone. “Another four on the way. Why?”

“Because they couldn’t take the town with that many. Not really. Even twice that many would have a problem. But they are making it hard for the people to forage, which is what makes me think that they have another motive.”

“True,” admitted Mavone, who had always been a bit of a specialist when it came to strategy. “They could gather their forces and take Tudry in earnest. The fact that they haven’t does suggest a larger plan.”

“Let’s get inside and go over a map,” I nodded. “I want to get a better picture of what’s going on. Oh, yes – have either of you contacted Pentandra in the Otherworld?”

They exchanged glances. “Uh, no, Captain,” Mavone said, guiltily. “We assumed that she was your woman—”

“Oh, Ishi’s perfect tits!” I moaned. “Pentandra is NOT ‘my woman’ – nor should you ever be afraid to approach her! She does happen to be my . . . call it a steward -- my steward for our organization, which will be a magical order, if we all survive to form it. I want both of you to contact her as soon as practical. She has a spell for you. A spell that could help out in the field.”

“If you say so, Captain,” Mavone agreed, uneasily. “Between you and me . . . she kind of scares me.”

“Oh, stop it!” I dismissed. “Penny’s about the least threatening woman I know, outside the bedroom!”

“That’s just it, Min,” agreed Curmor, in a low voice. “She doesn’t scare me as a warrior. She scares me as a man. We all saw just what she’s capable of, at Boval.”

I guess I could see their perspective. Any woman who can have sex continuously for six hours – and appear to enjoy it that much – while a thousand strangers parade past her naked body could be a little intimidating. Enough to frighten most mortal men. Myself included.

“Fine, she scares you. Tell it to your priest. She scares me too. But get that spell – she’s found a way for mind-to-mind telepathy to work through our stones. I don’t think I need to tell you how important that could be for us, in the field.”

Both of their eyes were open wide at the news, and they wanted details. I told them Pentandra would answer their questions – right now I needed to meet Baron Magonas and see my men quartered.

“And just who is this young lady?” Mavone asked, when I walked them both back to the horses. Mavone made a proper formal bow, and took her hand. “Besides the loveliest thing in twenty miles?”

“She’s a mage, you twit,” Curmor said, casually. “Aren’t you, my lady?”

“Isily,” she said, introducing herself. “Lady Isily of Brawin.” The ‘lady’ was a courtesy due her noble birth. As a licensed mage she had abandoned her title.

“And she’s working with me at the moment,” I growled. “So put it back in your britches, won’t you?”

“Captain, I’d never be so crude,” Mavone assured me in the smoothest of tones. “Might I ask just how you are ‘working’ for our valiant captain?”

“Not working for, working with,” I corrected. “She’s taken the Oath. I presented her a stone.”

“She’s a warmagi?” Curmor asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Pretty little thing like that? I think I would have heard of her.”

“Shadowmage,” I corrected, after glancing at her for permission. “She specializes in finding things out. Overhearing, seeing things she isn’t supposed to see, and learning secrets. Spy magic.”

“How fascinating!” Mavone said, earnestly. “We must get together to exchange perspectives some time, perhaps this evening in my tent. I have a bottle of—”

“Enough, Mavone, you won’t have time for courting – or exchanging recipes – for a good long while, and Lady Isily isn’t interested, anyway.”

“So why you did you give her a stone?” Curmor asked, still confused. “Not that I wouldn’t be willing to part with one, if it would convince her to part—

“What my cousin means, milady,” Mavone said with his accustomed smoothness, “is that due to the current war effort, such things are precious. They should be reserved for competent warmagi.”

“It’s going to take more than warmagi to win this war,” I countered. “There will be a role for all sorts of magical folk. Including enchanted spies.”

“Enchanting spies, is more apt,” Mavone muttered, as he glanced at Isily meaningfully.

“Please, sir, don’t make me do something rash,” Isily said, with mock enthusiasm. “I am newly come into my witchstone and would hate to have my ‘incompetence’ accidentally grow you a few extra pairs of teats, for example.”

“I don’t know,” Mavone said, without hesitation. “Make ‘em big enough, and that might be a fun way to pass the time.”

As Isily rolled her eyes and contemplated homicide, an older man with a yellow cord around his neck bearing a brass key came up to me and gave me a perfunctory bow. “Are you the Spellmonger, my lord?” he asked.

“Just arrived,” I acknowledged. “I do hope these two haven’t been causing any problems—”

“No, my lord,” the harried-looking man said, without humor. “They were most helpful in instructing my lord Baron on the disposition of the enemy. No, my lord, I come because the Baron summoned you the moment you set foot in Green Hill. Come with me, please.”

My friends and I followed the castellan inside the inner bailey and across the dry clay yard toward the big double keep. Mavone and Curmor filled me in on the details of their scouting missions while we walked, and Mavone actually shut up about how beautiful Isily was enough to tell me not just about the goblin army threatening Tudry, but the other bands in the area and what people were doing about them. By the time I came to the huge wooden door of the eastern keep, I had a much better idea of what our local situation was like. Which was depressing, because it didn’t look positive.

Baron Magonas turned out to be a strong, vital-looking man wearing plain but well-made armor under a surcoat embroidered with his arms, his curly brown hair and beard spilling out from his chainmail coif like an over-full barrel. I found him in his central hall, standing with a group of his men around an expansive table holding a full deerskin hide that turned out to be a detailed map of the region.

The castellan introduced me to his lord and hurried away on a dozen other errands. I presented my credentials to Magonas and informed him I had three thousand troops with me. I was about to break it to him that I would be taking over the thousand mercenary cavalry he’d hired, but before I could, he slapped me on the back and acted like I was the answer to his prayers.

“I haven’t wanted to risk our defenses by going after the raiders,” he informed me. He put his mailed finger down decisively on the map, where a wooden block with the face of a goblin hastily painted on it loomed. “This band keeps skirmishing with my yeoman to the north,” he complained, showing me on the map where there had been fighting, indicated by little white smooth pebbles. “I’ve lost over twenty peasants to them, so far, and they stand between me and my northern fiefs. They evade any party scouting in force, and only go after the peasants. And they’ve already burned my northern-most village.”

“They’re trying to draw you out,” I decided, after studying the situation. “Look, if they can get you up here – what’s the name of this fief?”

“That’s Sir Escut’s land, the Honeyhall,” supplied the Baron’s castellan. “He’s an old knight, but a valiant warrior. His keep is but a small stone tower, surrounded by a single wall. He is the most vulnerable of the four castles in the barony.”

“Which is why they’re menacing it,” I nodded. “See, if you bring your men up here to Honeyhall, in support of Sir Escut, you’ll come to face that band of skirmishers who are harassing the villages . . . but you’ll also leave this entire western frontier unguarded. If I was a goblin general, I’d want to get as many of your men out in the open as possible, so I could push through behind them and cross through your lands toward Vorone before you could turn your army around and challenge them.”

“That would work,” Baron Magonas agreed, reluctantly. “But I can’t let the man languish when help is so close at hand . . .”

“Then don’t,” I agreed. “Send a message to him to lead his people to Green Hill.”

“And abandon a castle to the beasts?” the Baron asked, as if I’d suggested throwing his nubile daughter at them. “The Green Hill does not retreat!”

“The Green Hill will be covered with little furry guys in a fortnight, if you don’t,” I countered. “Do not spend your strength idly, my lord. Behind these walls you’re well-defended. If your people are out in the open, however, I think you’ll find that these few skirmishers up here in Honeyhall are just screening a much larger force . . . probably hidden in this vicinity, to the west,” I added, placing my dagger down on the spot I felt was most likely. “Tell me, is this region heavily wooded?”

“Aye, that’s the Honeywood,” agreed the knight wearing a surcoat with two trees in green and white on it. “A richly timbered region. Next to honey, it is all Sir Escut’s land produces. It is not easily reached, so the timbering goes slowly, but he sells ten or twelve wagon loads to my mill a year.”

“Then that’s where they’ll be hiding,” I suggested. “If you like, we can scry the area, see if we can find them.”

“You could use sorcery to see the enemy?” asked the Baron, suspiciously.

I acted surprised. “Has your own court mage not done so already?”

“Green Hill hasn’t had a court mage in my lifetime,” the Baron admitted. “At need we will hire a spellmonger of Vorone, but we are not a wealthy barony. If your magics can tell us where they are, then do so!” urged the nobleman. “Then we can strike!” he added, dramatically pounding a fist into his palm.

I could appreciate that. Any court wizard worth a damn was going to cost real money. Any magi who didn’t cost that much wasn’t going to be much of a court wizard. And while Green Hill was a proud Wilderlands barony, timber and honey was about all anyone really grew up here. If I were shopping for a patron, it wouldn’t have appealed to me.

“I can. Curmor,” I called out, and was quickly joined by the two Gilmorans and Isily. “You came through this area, didn’t you?”

“More northernly than that,” he admitted. “I rode down the stream, here, next to that decrepit old tower with the honey bee sigil.”

“That’s the one,” I nodded. “Any chance you could scry out the woods there? You’re most familiar with them.”

He shrugged. “No problem. Do you have a quiet room I could use?” The Baron ordered a squire to quickly find him a spot where he wouldn’t be disturbed. I continued to lecture as I studied the map. I moved a few units around, and added my own three thousand man expeditionary force with two caltrops for the cavalry, a wooden toy sword for our infantry, and a hastily-whittled arrow for our archers. I also removed the small block of goblins that had been sitting in Grimly Wood.

“Consider, my lord, the strategic situation: the gurvani know that if they have a hope of investing Tudry and eventually conquering Vorone, they’re going to have to move troops through this region. They can’t get down the Great Western Road, because it’s thick with heavy cavalry in territory that favors them. They can’t penetrate further south because of how wide the rivers get south of Vorone.

“So they’re going to have to come at the city from the north, and that means this whole region,” I said, waving my hands over the wide swath of territory between Tudry and the border with Castal, “this region is going to have to be penetrated. Right now the Duke is calling in as many troops as possible to Vorone. Green Hill guards his northern flank. If the gurvani can convince you to leave the safety of the castle, and you lose your men in an attack out in the open or even merely fail to meet their advance in time, then they will have a free corridor from the northwest down to Vorone. With Green Hill gone or neutralized, they could play havoc with Duke Lenguin’s defenses.”

“Aye, you speak wisely, Warmage,” the Baron nodded, wearily, as he followed my reasoning. “I was going to order five hundred men to go relieve Sire Escut on the morrow. The harrying has been scant enough that we estimated a war band of two hundred, perhaps. Five hundred cavalry should have been sufficient for such a foe, I thought.”

“For a normal raid by the mountain folk, perhaps,” I agreed. “But this is no ordinary raid. Send two hundred men, all horse, and as many empty wagons as you can spare. But not to attack – escort Sire Escut and his folk back to Green Hill, and encamp them in the outer bailey with the rest. And have them bring every morsel they can scrounge.”

He was spared from any other bad news by the abrupt return of Curmor, who looked troubled. “You were right, Captain,” he told me, shaking his head. “They have two shamans with them, from what I can tell, and they were trying to hide from scrying.”

“How did you get through?” I asked, curious. He just shrugged.

“I’m just that good,” he dismissed. “Anyway, there are about three thousand of the hairy little buggers holed up in that Honeywood area, near as I can tell.”

“Three . . . thousand?” asked the Baron, looking shocked. “They infest the wood like fleas on a dog!”

“Which would make your five hundred troops outnumbered six-to-one in open battle,” I pointed out. “Even behind the wall of the Honeyhall, if it is as simple a fortification as you say, your men’s skill on horses would be for naught. And if they attacked at night, your men would be almost helpless.”

“But to just abandon the Honeyhall?” he asked, scandalized. “I will not yield to such filth! It stings my honor!” he said, resolutely, pounding his fist defiantly. It was very inspirational – but we didn’t need inspiration right now, we needed a plan with half a chance of success.

“Better a stung honor and a hall temporarily ceded than a dead lord and slaughtered peasants,” pointed out Isily, diplomatically. There are thousands of goblins in the Wilderlands, now. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps. And hundreds of shamans armed with irionite – witchstones,” she explained. The Baron looked pale.

“What have we done that the gods would curse us so?” he demanded.

“It isn’t the gods, Baron,” I corrected. “It’s one god in particular. The Dead God.” I told him the tale of who was behind the invasion, and his face turned ashen within his coif. By the time I’d told the abbreviated version of the Fall of Boval Vale, he looked deathly.

“So I can appreciate your fervor, Baron,” I said, quietly, “but it’s going to be a long war. We won’t have the luxury of honor on the battlefield, I’m afraid, and the sooner we can all appreciate that, the sooner we stop wasting our resources on vainglory, instead of victory.” I studied the map a little more. “Mavone, what do you think the chances are that the goblins have scried our position?”

The other warmage snorted. “Near certain, Captain. Unless we were blessed with an idiot as a foeman. Oh, your men were covered, I’m sure, but not Green Hill.”

“That’s what I figured. So he knows about your men – how many, total?”

“A hundred knights,” he counted off, “Five hundred squires and sergeants, four hundred mounted yeomen, five hundred peasant levies, and five hundred archers. In addition to the thousand mercenary cavalry in the bailey.”

“So three thousand men, give-or-take,” I nodded. No sense in mentioning how I would be taking the mercenaries with me just yet. “And if you sent five hundred off to Honeyhall as you wished, then you would have had to send at least a thousand to get them back. Any less, and the goblins would just continue to lure you out, picking your small groups off until you figured it out. By then, your defenses would be considerably weakened. However, perhaps we can use that against them . . .”

I pointed out something I thought was obvious, and when everyone else was convinced it was obvious, I proposed a plan. And then I asked for everyone there to poke holes in it. When they couldn’t – after some adjustment – they agreed that it just might work.

Even the Baron pronounced it a fit strategy, though it did mean risking some of his people and abandoning the Honeyhall. It took maybe ten minutes of sorting and deciding to flesh out the plan after that, and then as the afternoon sun began to set, I sent out the appropriate messages to the appropriate people to get things started.

Baron Magonas insisted that my Gilmoran warmagi – and Lady Isily – take supper with him and his wife and closest advisors, to fill them in on everything that had happened at Wilderhall and since. The rumors were flying fast and furious after what I’d done there, so I did feel a certain responsibility to correct some of the most erroneous notions – such as the rumor I destroyed the Censorate’s headquarters with magical lightning.

Needless to say, the Alshari noblemen were shocked by the events. But since it meant I was here to save their asses, they were reluctantly supportive.

Chapter Four:

Wilderhall, Midsummer

The Bargain

“How dare you!” sneered Sago, who was a master of the sneer. “You come here to talk about how all of our lives are in danger, and you want to bandy about concerning your fee?” he asked, scolding. “For shame, Spellmonger! You should be happy to do your duty to your Duke and the Duchy! It is a privilege for someone of your station to do so! You should be honored by even the suggestion, much less an actual appointment! Yet you sit here and press for coin like any common fishwife!”

“And yet when I set out for Farise, wasn’t it the barons who wouldn’t march without gold in their purses first?” I countered.

That wasn’t entirely fair – only five barons actually refused to march until they got paid, in advance, for the service. By tradition, every Ducal vassal owes thirty days of armed service to the Duchy, upon demand. But everyone knew the trip down the rugged Farisian peninsula was going to take two months, minimum, and the barons wouldn’t budge until they got paid for at least that second month, in advance. It had been a bit of a scandal, and they had delayed our march for a few days, but in the end the Duchies had paid. It made me feel a little better that those stubborn barons and their men-at-arms, being stuck at the rear of the column, got to tip-toe through our mud and offal for their intransigence – and the Farisian campaign was famous for its mud and offal.

“It is no crime for a gentleman to secure his rights,” Sago said, indignantly.

“Is it any less a crime for a tradesman to secure his fee?” I riposted.

“Enough!” Kindine bellowed, as Sago prepared to rise and continue arguing. “Matters of financing the expedition are certainly up for discussion. Men and horses need to eat, armorers need to be paid. How much coin will you need?”

“A lot,” I conceded. “At least ten thousand ounces of gold, if we’re to move quickly. But that’s not the issue. I’m not discussing outfitting a mere company of cavalry, here, I’m talking about employing the deadliest warmagi in six generations. Proven warriors, now armed with witchstones and at their mightiest. Warmagi familiar with the foe and who possess the—”

“It’s like the old saying about the young noblewoman who would not consent to keep a knight company until he promised her a diamond necklace,” cackled Lady Arnet. “And then the next morning he gives her a silver trinket. We’ve settled on what you are, Master Spellmonger, there’s no need to sell yourself all over again. Now we’re haggling about the price of your virtue. How much will it take to buy protection of these vaunted warmagi?”

“Respect,” I answered, simply. “First, the Duchy will relax the Bans on magic. Not all of them – but those which prohibit a mage from inheriting lands or owning property.”

“What?” Master Dunselen asked, confused. “But no magelord has stood in the Five Duchies since the fall of the Magocracy!”

“Exactly,” I said, coolly. “For centuries, now, our profession has been hampered by the Bans. Understandably – the wars between magelords nearly ruined the East, before the invasions. Controlling the mage folk made sense when the Easterners were rebelling and plotting revolt every six months.

“But not now,” I continued. “Now we’re faced with a threat that dwarfs the petty rebellions of the eastern wizards those rules were made to counter. Now we’re faced with an implacable foe that uses magic like you all use the air for breath. My warmagi aren’t going to be willing to plunge back into battle without an assurance that afterwards they can – and will – be properly rewarded for their efforts.”

“Isn’t gold reward enough?” Count Kindine asked, distastefully. “Every warmage I’ve met has been happy enough with it.”

“These aren’t ordinary warmagi,” I reminded him. “Each one of them now has more power than – well, pretty much anyone. How much gold do you think one could earn with one? How much would a lord pay to make his castle walls impregnable? Not in six months, but in six hours? How much to keep the wooden supports from rotting – ever? How much to ensure the wells are deep and pure?

“No, my lords and ladies, these men are not going to risk their lives and their newfound powers over mere gold. They can get gold. If they had a mind to, they could make more gold using their stones peacefully than this Duchy has in the treasury.”

“But to relax the Bans?” Dunselen repeated. “That is unthinkable! Who will hold the misuse of magic accountable? Who will license and regulate magi? Relaxing the Bans would be . . . it would be anarchy!”

“It would be different,” I agreed, “but far from anarchy. Who holds those warmagi accountable? I do,” I said, boldly. “Each one of them who took a stone from my hand swore an oath to me to surrender it when asked – and to pursue those who refused at my direction. So I will take the place of the Bans to ensure their accountability. But I somehow doubt the warmagi will use their newfound powers to dupe honest peasantry or petty lordlings, Master Dunselen. They’re going to be busy – very busy – for the next few lifetimes. Busy fighting your war.”

“But no one has held that kind of personal authority over a mage since the Magocracy! That smacks of the wiles of the Archmage, Spellmonger!” Lord Maron said, warningly. I found out later that he had a fair number of brushes with my eastern-style brethren, and therefore held a low opinion of the Archmagi who had ruled them for centuries. “The Censorate operates at the behest of the Kingdom – it’s one of the only institutions that survived the shattering of the realm. But not even the Censor General takes personal oaths of loyalty from his men! The oaths are to the Censorate, not the Censor General.”

“Correct,” I agreed. “But my men swore the Oath nonetheless, and I will hold them to it. Regardless of whether you can meet our price. I’ll not tolerate my men misusing such powerful spells. I’ve seen first-hand what that can do,” I added a little darkly.

“Well, that’s all very well and good, Master Minalan,” Master Dunselen said, his old eyes narrowing. “But who is to keep you accountable?”

“That would be me, as well,” I answered diplomatically. “Or my wife, depending on how you look at it.” Okay, Alya and I weren’t officially married yet, but that caused a few titters around the table. Not much, but I’d take it. I saw even more frowns. “The only way you’re going to be able to get these men to keep from taking their witchstones and moving east to enjoy a long and comfortable retirement – until the goblins make it that far – is to give them something they don’t already have. And with a witchstone, that doesn’t leave a lot of territory.

“So if you promise them lands of their own – held in fief, just as any other lord might win in service to the Duchy – then you might interest them. Mere gold? They gave me bags of emeralds that they policed from the gurvani corpses, because they had no real value to them. Gold won’t work, no matter how much of it you stack up.”

All of that wasn’t entirely true. The fact was that I had to restrain my men from running off and using their new stones to kill as many gurvani as possible, just to play with all the ways they could do it. The fact was, none of them were particularly interested in going east and retiring rich, not until they’d explored the possibilities of the stones. The fact was, not one of them was pressuring me to get the Bans relaxed. They had accepted the way things are a long time ago. This was my initiative on their behalf. I had to get them something, for what the Duchies were going to ask of them. Something they didn’t even know they wanted yet.

When my ancestors slashed apart the Magocracy and built the Five Duchies on its ashes, the Bans had been designed to forestall the power of the remaining practicing magi in the East by uncoupling their magical power from their temporal power. If you were going to be certified a mage and licensed to practice by the fictitious Crown, then you couldn’t inherit your ancestral estates, the law said, simple as that. And you couldn’t buy them, or marry into them, either. That merely meant that the non-Magically Talented amongst those eastern nobility were vested with the estates while the magical side of the family actually brought in an income.

The Bans didn’t make sense anymore – at least, not as they had been decreed. We would need every magi in the Five Duchies if we were going to counter this threat. As a class they weren’t going to be eager to help, either, considering how poorly our profession had been treated over the years. The Royal Censorate as an institution had the authority to do just about anything in its considerable power to enforce the Bans. And they were a zealous lot. Because of the fervor they employed in their duties, the Censorate had strongly limited the attractiveness of my trade.

It wasn’t so bad on me, of course – I didn’t have an estate, and while I would probably be able to inherit my father’s extensive bakery in my home village on his death, the fact is that he had four burly former apprentices who were now his sons-in-law who would be better equipped to keep the place running than I.

But most of the Imperially-trained magi were younger sons of minor nobility who gave up the right to their lands the moment they began their training. That discouraged anyone with a real inheritance, or even ambition, from pursuing the trade, and that had to stop.

Likewise, the high standards for certification by the Censorate made it almost impossible for a poor commoner to apprentice or train. Those poor souls who were born with the Talent but not the means to develop it properly ended up becoming hedgemagi, foot wizards, or clandestine spellmongers. You could make an honest living that way, as long as the Censorate didn’t find out. That had to stop, too. If someone had Talent, any Talent, it needed to be cultivated and groomed and trained. It didn’t matter where they came from, or who their fathers were, what mattered was the Talent.

So I had decided to throw this on the negotiating table: the complete relaxation of the Bans, so that the nobles among us could inherit their lands, and so that peasants could be trained as magi. We’d deal with the Irionite issue afterwards. Between the two, that would allow the ranks of the magi to swell. Maybe even enough to make a difference. And once magi became magelords, well, it was far less likely that they would disappear over the horizon when the Dead God inevitably came to their homes. Owning property would keep them honest – or at least greedy – enough to stand and fight when the time came.

Or at least, that was my plan.

But the Royal Censorate stood in the way. Dunselen was right: it was the only pan-Duchies remnant from the brief few years when the Five Duchies were one kingdom. The Censor General swore his oath to the Coronet Council as representatives of the King. Theoretically, only he and the Lord Admiral of Nodarra were considered beyond the reach of any particular Duke. As such, the Censorate enjoyed far greater freedom to follow their mission than any other institution in the Duchies. And as such, the Grand Censor and his regional representatives were jealous of their traditional prerogatives. They would not be happy about this at all.

And that was the rub: they could either meet my demands, or they could fight the gurvani and the Dead God without witchstones for a few years, and see how far they got.

“So releasing the one control we have over you magelings, that’s the price for your assistance?” Lord Maron asked. “Within a week, you’d have all five coronets and be ruling us all. Out of the question!”

“That’s the first part of my price,” I agreed, swallowing and trying not to look like I was nervous. “Magelords would be subject to the same oaths that other vassals to the Coronet are. But without that . . . well, there’s no use talking further. We can discuss the rest when you’ve decided that you can meet the first term.”

“You want more!?” Count Sago asked, horrified. “What you ask is impossible. You would have Castal be the only Duchy with . . . with . . .”

“With really powerful, magic-wielding vassals who owe service to the Duke?” I finished. “And how would that be a bad thing for the Duchy, come the next squabble with one of the others?”

“If Castal relaxes the Bans, then Alshar must, as well!” Lord Angrial declared.

“See?” offered Sago. “We give in to this Spellmonger, and the next thing you know all of the Duchies have. And then where we be?”

“Alive,” I pointed out. “It’s just a question of how much that is worth to you.”

“And the good behavior of these warmagi would be guaranteed by you?” the Duchess asked.

“Absolutely,” I assured her. “I’ve told you of the oaths they swore. I have authority over them.”

“But could you bring an end to one who rebels?” asked Master Dunselen. “Without power, authority matters not.”

“Agreed. But since my fellow warmagi have all agreed to follow me in enforcing my word, then it would take a great many of them to pose a serious threat.”

I was dramatically understating the problem – when Ulric, an unfortunate eleven-year-old apprentice of the other village spellmonger in Boval Vale went mad with the power of irionite it had taken all of my skill and that of my own apprentice to neutralize him. Even more unfortunately, the act had killed Ulric. But his rebellion was the reason I had insisted on anyone who took a stone from my hand to swear to me, personally. The witchstones were my responsibility. If I gave one to you, it was like an extended loan. And they all knew that.

“Suppose that we do agree to this – radical – departure from our custom,” Duke Rard said, diplomatically. “What else would you demand from us? And what could you deliver for that demand?”

“A fair point,” I agreed. “What I can deliver – in the short term – is to lead a force across northern Alshar and meet the main force of the foe before they get to the Riverlands. Further, we can promise to scout and scry that whole region, and identify the enemy’s number, strength, and location. We can organize a local defense, magically shore up strategic castles in the area, and – most importantly – counter the spells of the gurvani shamans.

“That may not seem like much, I know. But it is. When a warmage scouts territory, he doesn’t just spy on the enemy and note the terrain. He collects samples of rocks and trees and such, and uses them to continuously see it through magesight and other spells. And I mentioned some of the horrors the shamans threw at us at Boval Castle. Consider how long we would have survived if there had been no magical corps. Sire Koucey may have held out as long as a week, without magic. And it would have been a long, slow deadly week.”

“’Promises don’t plow the fields,’ my sire used to say,” pointed out Lady Arnet. “The Duchy doesn’t lack from vacant lands – I have hundreds available, in my office – and it would be interesting to see what use these magi would make of them. I see no use for the Bans – silly things, really – but I say none of this comes to pass until we see the Spellmonger work his magics on our behalf.”

“It would be hard to un-defeat the gurvani in the field, if you chose not to honor the bargain,” I pointed out. “My sire always said ‘the flour is loaded before coin is spent.’ How are we to ensure that you will indeed relax the Bans, if we’re successful?”

“Is the word of the Duke not enough?” the Prime Minister sniffed. “Would you have him swear on the crownshard?”

“Perhaps,” I shrugged. “I will speak to my men about it. But consider this: should we indeed be victorious, and you tried to renege on the agreement . . . well, as much hold as I have over these warmagi, I don’t think I could stop them from voicing their displeasure at such a betrayal.”

“Are you threatening us?” Sago asked, warningly.

“I’m letting you know the consequences of a particular action in advance,” I corrected. “I think that will help clear up any misunderstandings in the future. If you make this pledge to us, do not fail to honor it, or the consequences will be dire. For everyone.”

“Relax the Bans and destroy the status quo, or be eaten by goblins,” sighed old Kindine. “Shall we offer up our daughters to these warmagi, too?” he asked in despair.

I paused. “Could I look at the daughters, first?” I quipped.

That brought howls of laughter, and a welcome break in the tension. When things calmed down again, I spoke up before anyone else could. “That’s not all, Your Grace. I would also have the command of all warmagi and magi who take witchstones from my hands. They must take the same oaths as everyone else.”

“You have . . . more?” Dunselen asked, licking his lips unconsciously. He had a sudden hunger on his face that was almost frightening.

“Seven more, at the moment,” I nodded. I dug into a pouch and pulled one forth and laid it on the dark wooden table. Dunselen’s breath stopped for a moment, and everyone else looked uncomfortable.

“Such a tiny thing,” the old master mage said in a near whisper. “I can . . . feel it pulse with power, clear across the room!”

“I have seven such,” I reminded him. “I will give them only to those who prove themselves worthy and who will swear an oath to me, personally.”

“Why you, personally?” demanded Sago. I was getting sick of him. “Why not the Censor General? Hartarian of Gaaz, the Voran? Isn’t that his job? To bind the magi?”

“So tightly they cannot fight for you,” I nodded. “But that’s not ‘why.’ They must be bound to me because I alone possess a stone capable of breaking the corruption of the Dead God from another stone. It was so enchanted by the Tree Folk of Boval Vale. And using an un-cleansed stone would allow the eyes and the ears of the Dead God to see and hear all that the mage did.” I had no confirmation of this, actually, but that was the impression I got from the Tree Folk, when they had schooled me in the use of my irionite sphere.

“So you say,” Sago said, slyly. “Yet you are the only one making this claim.”

“Test it yourself,” I offered. “At your peril. See how long it takes before you have a mage as powerful as the Mad Mage of Farise behind your lines, doing the work of the enemy.”

“So you wish the Bans relaxed, and all future wielders of Irionite be sworn to your hand,” repeated Dunselen. “What else?”

“You must organize a long-term defense,” I stated, flatly. “This is not some summer-war you can spend two months fighting, and then take a ten-month break from before resuming. Our foe is relentless. His forces are enormous. If we do not take strong steps to see to our defense, long term, then the battle we win today will be merely the first of our defeats.”

“So what do you recommend?” Sago asked, almost mockingly. I was starting to think that was the only tone he knew.

“I recommend that after we identify the extent of the enemy’s incursion into the Duchies, we also identify the castles and fortresses best equipped to stand against them – and then fortify them heavily. We will not be able to defeat the Dead God on the field. We will not be able to defeat him magically. But we can contain this blight to western Alshar, if we are diligent, expedient, and willing to sacrifice a little treasure to gain some security. Maybe enough time to figure out how we can possibly defeat the Dead God.”

“At last, some sense from the baker’s son’s mouth!” gasped Lord Angrial. “Defense! That’s what’s needed, now! We must raise a mighty army, every man who can hold a spear—”

“Which will be slaughtered, if you were stupid enough to employ it. The Dead God could not resist so ripe a target. And somehow I don’t think you would be as enthusiastic about my plan, if you knew what it entailed for Alshar.”

“It can’t be worse than what’s already happening!” said Lord Angrial, heatedly. “We sit here and talk, and with every heartbeat that passes a thousand gurvani have taken another bold step into fair Alshar!”

“What do you propose, Master Spellmonger?” asked the Duchess, patiently, ignoring the Alshari ambassador.

“I propose that we curtain in the gurvani. Raise a mighty army, yes – but it must be a standing army, garrisoning those forts and patrolling those borders as we define them. Screen as much of the civilian population of Alshar and Castal from them as possible. Build ditches and walls. Fortify fords and bridges. Fence in these goblins like a bunch of errant cattle, and then once we’ve contained them, we can begin pushing back.” Maybe. I hoped. More probably, the Dead God would just redouble his considerable efforts and eventually break through his fence. But that could take years, if we were prepared, and that could buy the Duchies much-needed time.

“That may be a sound strategy,” Sago admitted, very grudgingly. “We would have to study the specifics, of course, but if you are correct about the permanent nature of the threat . . . Your Grace, we may have no other reasonable choice.”

“Cannot some small, powerful group of warriors and warmagi break through the lines, fight their way to the Dead God, and slay him?” asked another noble, who had been quiet so far. “We hear of such tales of heroes all the time—”

“Your pardon, my lord,” I said, smoothly and patiently, “but that would be inadvisable. And foolish. And impossible. Suicide—”

“Yes, you made your point young man!” Lady Arnet said, sourly. “What about the temples? Surely they have some magic of the gods which could be employed . . . ?”

“You are at liberty to petition them, my lady,” I said. “But if there is a priest in this world as powerful as a warmagi armed with irionite that would be a sight to see. Besides, I’m a thaumaturge, not a theurge,” I explained.

“So once again we are back to you and your warmagi, and how you’re the only ones who can possibly save us from this crisis!” said Sago, testily.

“It’s your crisis,” I said, volleying in return. “I’m not a duke. I’m not a count. I’m not even a lord, as has been pointed out thoroughly at this meeting. I’m a Spellmonger and a warmage, and my responsibilities at the moment extend to making sure my woman is safe and secure and that my parents and apprentices are provided for. You are the ones responsible for the security of the Duchy, not me. I’m merely offering you a means to help achieve that security.”

There was a moment of silence as the council strove to absorb that. The Duke drummed his fingers in thought, his big gold signet ring banging annoyingly on the highly-polished wood of the table. But one doesn’t interrupt a Duke in thought. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“I need to think on this,” he admitted. “To me, under the circumstances, the Spellmonger’s advice is sound. With an army on the move against us, and a flood of refugees between, we have little choice but to raise the banners and take the field.

“However, the rest of what you propose – easing the Bans, and destroying the protections we’ve had against magic for centuries seems . . . rash. I will not make this decision lightly, and I understand we don’t have a lot of time. But I need rest, and time to reflect, and I need more counsel. I will send for the Censor General at Tarrematon, and bid him ride here at all speed.”

Sago looked like he was swallowing a sharp rock. “Your Grace, that will take days – days we do not have! The enemy marches as we speak –“

“I do not mean to sit idly by, Lord Marshal,” nodded Rard, tiredly. “While we await His Excellency’s arrival, I want to summon our bannermen.”

“In the Wilderlands?” Sago asked, troubled.

“No,” Rard said, “Duchy-wide. Every peasant at the butts, every squire in armor, every knight ready to ride. We need to mobilize our forces, regardless of whatever action we decide to take. We’ll send word to all Ducal castles to begin laying in provision, and we will begin fortifying the Riverlands and the Wilderlands immediately. The southern baronies can concentrate their efforts on bringing in a big harvest – for now. Tell me; are these goblins familiar with boats?”

The question took me by surprise. I hadn’t even thought about it. “No, Your Grace, they are a people of the mountains. The gurvani tribes of the Farisian peninsula stay deep in the forests or in the high ground – they don’t like water, as a rule.”

“Then the river will be our final defense,” he said, nodding. “If they make it as far as the Riverlands, that may be where we can stop them.”

Lord Angrial looked like he was having a fit. “Your Grace! That would abandon almost all of northern Alshar to the foe!”

“Aye, and a third of my lands west of the great river!” Rard snarled. “Hundreds of thousands of people! Dozens of fiefs! But two thirds of a Duchy is better than none – and you can tell my esteemed cousin, Duke Lenguin, that a third of a Duchy is better than none, too! He should see to the defense of Vorone and leave me to guard the way to Castal!”

Angrial was about to retort, then he saw Duke Rard’s face and thought better of it. “As you command, Your Grace,” he said, meekly.

“I’m weary,” he sighed. “My lady and I will retire for the evening, and I will think about this. I mayhap take counsel with each of you individually. But I will not make a final decision until the Grand Censor can advise me.”

I tensed at the sound of the name – any sane mage does. But it was his right as Duke to consult with whom he wished, and he would have been remiss in his duties had he not done so. Rard stood, and we all stood in respect as he took the Duchess by the hand and led her away. As he was leaving, he nodded to one of Wilderhall’s many castellans. “And see that Master Spellmonger has appropriate quarters – where is he now?”

“The Tower of Honor, Your Grace,” the castellan said, smoothly.

The Duke grunted. “Move him to the River Tower. I want him close at hand.”

“As you command, Your Grace,” the gold-liveried castellan said, bowing. He waited respectfully as the rest of the Council filed from the room, muttering amongst themselves at the lateness of the hour, and then the little man bowed to me. “My lord, if you will accompany me, I shall show you to more appropriate lodgings. My name is Harren. If you have any needs during your stay, I shall be happy to take care of them.”

I couldn’t help it – I yawned. “My apologies, Harren, I’ve been talking for hours, now. Yes, lead the way – and when I’m settled, I need a plate, a cup, and a pillow, and all will be right with the world.”

“As you command, Master Spellmonger,” he said, bowing again. “If my lord will follow me . . . “

I got the feeling that if I’d asked for three dancing girls, a pair of silver scissors, a lute, and a pure white goat, he’d be thrilled at the challenge.

And if I wasn’t so damn tired, I might have considered asking for those things, just to see if he could do it.

Chapter Five:

The Battle Of The Lantern

Barony of Green Hill, Late Summer

That evening, just before dusk, two hundred well-mounted sergeants and men-at-arms rode for Honeyhall by the normal route, a glorified cattle trail that connected the two small fiefs. It ran along the ridge of the Hill for about two miles before ending up on the east bank of the Anfal River, where it turned north in earnest.

They were bait: the gurvani expected to get some horses to ride out, so that’s exactly what we gave them. Based on where their scouts were, and some truly inspired scrying from Curmor, I was able to guess where the troop would be ambushed.

I was only off by about five hundred yards.

I’d sent Mavone with them, to act as warmage and keep them from blundering into any magical ambushes along the way. By that time he’d also managed to receive the communication spell from Penny, so I was able to keep in very close contact with him mind-to-mind as they wound their way north along the river.

If everything goes according to plan, he thought to me that night, then when we reach this next bend in the creek, we should see the first signs of – yep, there it is, a couple of sling-stones from the western side of the river. One of the horses is hurt. Not badly, he added.

They’re just trying to goad you, I responded. They won’t hit you so hard that you’ll turn back.

I know, Captain, it’s just annoying.

Patience, Mavone, I cautioned. If you don’t take their bait, they’ll just offer you tastier bait.

Ten minutes later I was borne out when Mavone’s company spotted a trio of scouts on a western hill-top. Soon after, they saw a few eyes in the twilight from the north. Mavone didn’t rise to charge either one, and kept his course, as planned.

They hit the cavalry just after the bend, right around where I figured they would. It was one of only three places in miles where they could be expected to cross the river without trouble. And our horses were very exposed at that ford. Just as the first of the column made it across, a flight of arrows raggedly tore through the trees and fell on our men.

Mavone was busy for the next few minutes – even though the men had a battle-seasoned knight as commander, and knew to expect an attack, the horses didn’t. They got very excited from the screams of pain by both animal and man, and the unfamiliar odor of gurvani, and for a few minutes they were very difficult to control.

There were some hectic moments, and for a while I lost contact with him and began to expect the worst. But he reported again twenty minutes later, after the first skirmishers had been driven off. He’d had to use a soothing charm on the mounts to keep them from bolting with their riders during the attack, and cautioned me to do the same. After that, he was too busy to talk, because their main force began pursuit in earnest.

Three thousand goblins is a lot for anyone to deal with, especially in broken country. The gurvani troops were the primitive tribal sort, mere skirmishers – light infantry with loin cloths and war hammers or maces. Although I noted that evening that there were more and more captured swords in furry little hands and metal armor on their bodies. They were learning the ways we fought and were adapting. Quickly.

That didn’t bode well.

Mavone and the other commanders got their men in a good defensive formation once they retreated back across the ford in darkness. They drew back slowly, sending a few shafts into the gloom in response as a third of the troop screened the other two-thirds in orderly retreat. The goblins eagerly pressed the advantage, virtually pouring across the ford in a hail of arrows, stones and javelins, screaming wildly as they pursued the horses. Mavone held discipline, keeping the men in good order; they had gone maybe a quarter of a mile past the stream, just out of bowshot from the gurvani, when Mavone gave the signal. It was time to counterattack.

First, Captain Rogo had his five-hundred strong archery unit unleash four quick volleys into the mob’s southern flanks. The mobile archers from Nirod were impressive, riding in at a charge, braking and dismounting, and assembling to launch organized volleys in mere minutes. They were also undetectable, because I am far, far better at wardsheilding than any of those bone-rattling idiots on the other side.

The goblins were taken by surprise in a hail of three-foot long iron-tipped feathered death. Dozens of angry gurvani came squealing and screaming through the forests and thickets, their limbs punctured by arrows, while others lay impaled unmoving on the forest floor. The uninjured gurvani began moving through underbrush no man could have managed, and they did it as easily as I could wade through a stream.

But they weren’t that fast. Redshaft’s men continued their fire until he ordered them to withdraw. After four flights the archers stopped, re-mounted, and moved east in support of Mavone’s cavalry, who were preparing to charge their pursuers. Along the way a few of them stopped to fire from the saddle at the gurvani pickets and skirmishers who were pursuing them. I don’t know how they shot in the dark and managed to hit anything without magic, but they knew their trade. They lost only four men in the encounter, and were able to form up just south of Mavone.

And moving out of the way let my mercenary cavalry charge from the south. Kaddel got a chance to show what his Hellriders could do, after I dropped the screen I held over them and let them advance.

I got to lead that charge. It was very exciting.

I say “charge,” but in actuality we very carefully made our way through the brush and fields and groves in the dim light of the moon, moving as quickly as they could while staying in contact with their comrades. We were able to move a little easier than the archers, because I’d been able to augment the vision of both the men and the horses.

It’s a very weak form of magesight, one that causes the slightest light to shine as if it were a flame, making everything seem as illuminated as it was at twilight. Not enough to read by, perhaps, but enough to see to ride by. And with the power of the stone, I was able to cast it over the entire troop at once. It didn’t last long, but it kept us from stumbling into traps or deadfalls or knots of hidden goblins.

When our vanguard encountered the edges of the gurvani mob, I had Captain Kaddel form up his Hellriders again, out of bowshot, and then we charged in earnest: a sprint to build up speed and then a crash through a wall of screaming, bloody wet hair. The Captain knew his business, as well – instead of a wide-ranging assault on their front – which was ragged and constantly changing – he ordered the cavalry to charge in waves of twenty or so, fanning out to menace the entire horde.

I led him into the seething mass of fur and hate, a warwand in one hand and Slasher in the other. Fighting them from horseback was a lot different than fighting them on foot – I found out very quickly that I had to ride pretty low in the saddle to reach their skinny little necks. I soon returned the sword to my back and picked up a spear – that was a lot more effective.

For ten hellish minutes, I hacked and slashed and thrust and blasted, leaving a wide trail of hairy black corpses in my wake. When I finally slowed, and faced an inevitable lull in battle, I consulted my mapping spells and learned that we had accomplished our goal.

As I did my part with wand and mageblade and spear, the Hellriders would have done fine without me. With lance and sword they expertly stomped their warhorses through the gurvani infantry, leaving behind mangled black corpses and hoof prints filled with blood and hair. The war cries of the men in armor and the rearing horses that towered above them were too much for these skirmishers. Especially when I added a couple of loud but harmless cantrips to the mix during the last charge. That pushed the goblins back toward the ford, and got them good and bunched up.

The gurvani were now massed on this side of the river, their backs to it. While they technically held the ford, they couldn’t move across it in retreat before we would be on them. Yet they didn’t want to move forward against our horsemen, that was slaughter. They were pressed on two sides by cavalry. I figured it was time for their shamans to step up and show us who was boss.

I wasn’t disappointed. The rocks started falling on us about then.

It was one of the most basic of spells, throwing rocks. A Talented mage can wrap his mind around the elemental nature of a rock, imbue it with energy, and even direct it to a certain extent. Our first year working with such spells we learned the careful preparation, the symbols our minds needed to access to turn our well-honed wills and our innate ability to channel power into a spell that would move a two-inch stone twenty feet across a room as if it had been thrown.

Some people were better at this than others. Some got good enough to use it as a weapon, and dirt-clod fights in the gardens at my school were viscous. But you could rarely get the things to move fast enough to do serious damage.

Before irionite, that is. With irionite, if you were a good enough warmage, you could get a rock up to the speed to do lethal damage. Terleman, my lieutenant in the Order, had developed specialized spells around that feat.

The shamans were doing essentially the same spell, they were just doing it on a much larger scale. Green Hill country abounds with rocks, and soon stones the sizes of dogs were raining down on us from above. They weren’t aimed, so much as flung randomly into the night. But they were flung with incredible power, and they did plenty of damage before I was able to arrange a counter-spell. That decreased the number of rocks that hit their targets, but it kept me very busy for a while.

Damn it, Min, are those archers in position yet? Mavone thought at me, furiously. My men are itching for another glorious charge, but if we go too soon we’ll get butchered . . .

Haven’t you ‘talked’ to Curmor? I shot back as I tried to counter the flying rocks. He was supposed to be with them! A nearby squire went down with a bloody forehead, so I wasn’t doing as well as I’d like. There was a long pause.

Yes, he says Redshaft has arrived at the high ground and is getting set up now, he said, finally, as I gave up on stopping the rocks and started riding toward the hazy “lines” between us and the goblins. I halted when I saw hundreds of them – two thousand, at least – holding a high bank of the river and a good portion of the valley it ran through, down to the ford. Two-thousand goblins wasn’t the most I’d seen in one place, but it’s still a whole lot of goblins.

They were all wound up, too, banging maces against shields and banging war drums and chanting in their guttural tongue. They moved in waves, as hundreds of them shifted their feet in rhythm to the drums, just like at Grimly Wood. Their archers fired off blindly into the darkness, or at targets far beyond their range, but the single shots weren’t doing much damage, not nearly as much as the rocks.

The two shamans took turns screaming and using their witchstones to fling more and more rocks against us as their infantry searched the ground for more. They had smaller knots of skirmishers in advance of the rest of the horde, hewing trees and logs into makeshift barriers against cavalry. Like I said, they were learning.

But while their shamans were powerful, they were unsophisticated. It takes a lot of energy to move a rock – inertia is as powerful as a spell. It takes a whole lot less energy to envision and manifest a globe off magical force in the air, and then excite the atomi within by pouring in the right kind of energy.

The technique is known as siconedica, in Old Imperial. It’s one of the first things you learn, after how to control your own mind. Imagine a point. Imagine a second point. Now imagine a line between them. Next, imagine a third point, connect it, etc. What you end up with is a plane of magical force, one with no mass to speak of and one that exists entirely by your will and Talent. You usually start off making triangles and squares, changing their colors, floating them impressively around the room.

They have no mass. They have no real substance. They are there purely as an expression of a mage’s will. But that’s not to say they aren’t really there: you can make them do things. Apply one type of action to it, and it becomes as solid as a tea cup. Apply a different one, and it becomes a filter, one that will, say, let clean water through but keep out sediment. Or let in oxygen but keep out hydrogen. Imbue it with enough energy and the gasses inside begin to glow: magelight.

It’s as simple a spell as moving a rock, and I’d done it plenty on a small scale.

I was doing it on a much larger scale, now. I took my stone out to improve the flow of power and clutched it in my hand as the universe was broken to my will. A sphere began glowing faintly above the center of the horde. Then it glowed much brighter, igniting with the force of a sudden explosion, as I poured energy into it. It wasn’t an offensive spell – it wasn’t designed to do anything but float forty feet over their heads and get brighter. And brighter. And brighter.

The two shamans involved in the ambush quickly turned their attention to my spellcraft. They were two more country-bumpkins, I was relieved to see, smeared with paint, antlers, and feathers. The rocks had stopped as they turned their attention to more pressing matters. One was handling the defensive magic – mostly trying to shield their troops’ eyes from the glaring light – and the other was throwing blasting spells at our lines as quickly as he could to try to stop me.

And they were deadly. Four knights and two squires were killed as they rushed against the gurvani, thanks to a well-tossed bag of magic that turned into a column of green fire fifteen feet wide – I had no idea what it was, but when they walked through it they aged and withered and died with their horses, all in the span of seconds. Several archers had arrows reverse in mid-air and come back to them, sometimes to deadly effect. Twice I saw squads of cavalry regroup for a charge, and then start to head off in the other direction at a furious pace – misdirection magic. I’d have to remember that one.

But the result of the battle was a foregone conclusion from the moment we sprung our trap. The goblins took the bait, attacked an apparently weaker force, only to find themselves attacked in the flanks by a far stronger and more mobile force. The only way we weren’t going to win is if everyone under my command was suddenly stricken with cramps on the field and fell to their knees. I didn’t think that was likely. Gurvani magic tends to be a lot more direct. Besides, that wasn’t part of the plan.

The plan was the magelight, the brightest one I’d ever conjured. Soon I had to drop the magesight spell for my men because the sphere was occluding it. I kept the energy channel from my stone flowing, and it got even brighter. Soon the gurvani were flinging their rocks and javelins directly at the sphere, to no avail. A stone would pass through the globe like it was a cloud. Arrows didn’t harm it at all. And some learned an impressive lesson in gravity, as those rocks, arrows and javelins they threw into the air inevitably came back down again, sometimes to hilarious effect. But soon it was too bright for their archers or even the shamans to bear – almost too bright for a human to bare, nearly twice as bright as the sun. For us, it was bright, but not uncomfortable.

The ford was lit up with an unearthly glow, as our jagged shadows seemed to go to war with us in the chaos. The goblins screamed and clutched at their eyes and tried to shield them from the glare as the Hellriders reformed their line for a charge. The shamans tried to counter the light spell, but its simplicity was its best defense. They waited for it to explode, or descend upon them, or otherwise attack them, but all it did was illuminate their shaggy little bodies as I kept it floating directly over the densest knot of them. The magelight wasn’t the attack. It was there to diminish their fighting capacity.

It also provided a handy beacon for our archers.

For this battle, I’d played to our strengths. Redshaft had moved his Nirodi archers north, behind Mavone’s Green Hill knights, and onto a rise a few hundred feet from the ford. The trees obscured a direct line of sight . . . but a massive glowing ball of magic floating in the sky is hard to miss. It would appear as a great round lantern, I’d told them. And I had instructed the archers to aim for a spot directly under the ball, arching their shots to slice through the magelight, and just keep shooting until they ran out of shafts. The Green Hill knights and Mavone would screen them.

Meanwhile, the other five hundred infantry archers from the Orphan’s Band moved up from the south – without horses they didn’t have near the mobility as Redshaft’s men, but once they got within bowshot of the foe, they didn’t hesitate to make up for it with sheer volume. Arrows rained down on the goblins from north and south at the same time, guided by my glowing beacon. Once again the gurvani were on the wrong side of volleyed fire. Once again three-foot shafts with wrought-iron heads fell on their unarmored bodies and pinned them ruthlessly to the riverbed. The terror-filled screams of the dying echoed in the expanse of the ford as their deaths were illuminated by my great lantern.

It was an odd feeling of power. I could adjust the position of the magelight over the densest part of their legion and watch as arrows withered them away. Then I could push it again over the next cluster of gurvani. I was dealing death at a distance, like I was taking a gigantic piss on a massive anthill. I tried to ignore the screams and the shouts of rage and pain as I pissed their horde into ruin.

I let that go on until Curmor contacted me telepathically and told me that their shafts were starting to dwindle. I ordered them to cease fire and husband the last of their arrows carefully. That’s when I gave Mavone the word, and the gallant Gilmoran led the two hundred cavalry of Green Hill into the hordes’ eastern flank. I rode back and consulted with Captain Kaddel, and a few moments later our horses were once again charging into the horde, our blades flashing in the sharp white glow from above, as bright as daylight.

Beset from two sides, and pinned against the banks of a river, the goblins didn’t have much room. Some of them escaped back across the ford, while others broke out of the envelopment as quickly as they could – most just stood there gaping and died.

I played my part, of course. I had gotten all dressed up last battle and hadn’t done more than pee. This time, I had comrades and a mission. As soon as the first wave of cavalry had plowed into the gurvani mass, I allowed my magelight to hover like a friendly cloud, picked up another spear and waded in after the knights. I headed for the shamans, of course, but long before I got there one of the mercenaries had impaled one on the end of his lance, and the other one died from a Green Hill sword. I had to make due with leaping from Traveler’s back with my mageblade and slashing my way through anything that hadn’t been too punctured to fight.

That charge effectively ended the horde’s existence. After that we could let the infantry in to mop up. We didn’t get every one of them, of course – plenty had re-crossed the river, and a band of a hundred or so broke off in the aftermath of the cavalry charge and fled north, fighting their way past the Nirodi. But by dawn were had slain over twenty-four hundred gurvani, and captured two witchstones for the growing collection around my neck.

It was a great victory, but we had lost nearly three hundred men that night, too. I won’t complain about the butcher’s bill – it would have been a lot worse if we hadn’t fooled them about our exact numbers, then outmaneuvered them and bedazzled them with classy magic – but that was three hundred fighting men who wouldn’t be coming back to the castle to their wives and children.

The next morning those of us who weren’t too fatigued by the battle policed up the area, tended the wounded, stripped and buried the dead, beheaded and burned the bodies of our foes, and finally, around noon, retired back to Green Hill Castle’s great hall. Mavone had finished leading the Green Hill knights to Honeyhall, where they spent the night before returning in escort of the survivors and their supplies the next morning. He had befriended many of them, the rustic knights being impressed by both his Gilmoran sophistication and willingness to fight.

Back at the castle we were feasted by the Baron, who had ridden with three hundred heavy cavalry reserves that I hadn’t needed to call upon, but who had held the field until dawn when we could see to police it. It was a delicious feast, under the circumstances, and we needed to celebrate our victory. There were a few musicians that kept the folksy Wilderland dance music going until late in the evening, and the rest of us gorged ourselves and thanked our favorite divinities that we survived and won. Then we ate, drank way too much, and finally collapsed into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.

The men referred to it afterwards as the Battle of The Lantern, or the Battle of Lantern Ford, and to this day that’s what it’s called. Baron “Iron” Magonas had a marker erected there, a stone plinth topped by a great iron lantern. My name was even engraved on it, for a while.

* * *

Before I went drunkenly to bed the night of the battle, I contacted Penny to report our success, recount our progress and compare notes. After being suitably impressed at our victory she reported one of her own.

Father’s finally attuned to the stone, she said, excitedly. He’s so full of himself and how powerful he is . . . well, you know how it feels, she sighed. We all did. Irionite didn’t merely provide amazing amounts of power; it gave you an almost divine feeling of pleasure in using it.

As long as he keeps to his oath, he can do with it what he wants, I said to her mind. But if he hits on any novel ideas, I’d like to hear about it. The lantern trick was effective in this case, but I don’t really think it’s harnessing the full power of the stone.

You think? I’ll have him start doing research the moment he comes back to his senses, she promised. You know, the Order of the Secret Tower has books, Min, books they aren’t supposed to have. Books that go back to the Magocracy. To the First Magocracy, from Perwin. Books hidden from the Censorate for centuries. There are all sorts of magics that we’ve kept hidden.

War spells? I asked, interested.

Some, she admitted. Plenty that could be used that way. These are the powerful ones, some that go back to Perwin and are nearly impossible to understand. I’ve barely been allowed to know they exist, much less study them, but Daddy has a whole library of them stashed somewhere. I’ll make him let me have access, now.

‘Make him’? I asked, amused.

He could barely refuse me before, she bragged, and now I’ve brought him his fondest wish outside of a grandson. I think I made him understand the magnitude of the threat from the Dead God, too. He’s going to convene a meeting of the Order of the Secret Tower soon to discuss the matter. I’m going to press for his Order throwing its support behind . . . well, our Order.

Did you tell him about my bargain? I asked.

Not yet, she said into my mind. I’m going to wait until they have their meeting, and then announce it. Believe me, nothing would stir these old farts into action like your little bargain. They want that as badly as they want to ‘drive the barbarian dogs back to the icy steppes which spawned them’.

Hey! I said, feigning offense. Those barbarian dogs were my noble ancestors – and that includes me!

Oh, they aren’t serious about that part, not any more, she assured me. I mean, originally the Order was created to conserve the most powerful blood lines and the most potent lore from the mage-hating eyes of your ‘noble ancestors’, and that certainly had a political component . . . back then. But we’ve intermarried so frequently now that it makes actually driving the barbarian dogs back to the steppes would include some of their kin, so . . . well, the Order has other things on their mind. Some old rituals.

Should I be worried?

I have no idea, honestly, she claimed. I’m not a full initiate, I’m not old enough according to their silly rules, and I’m a girl, anyway. But I don’t think it has anything to do with you or even politics – just some mystical crap about Perwin.

Is it useful mystical crap about Perwin?

How could it possibly be useful? The place sank over five hundred years ago! she scoffed. Look, despite their pretensions of greatness and wisdom, the reverend masters of the inner order have forgotten why most of the mystical crap they learn was ever important. They keep it up for semi-religious tradition. It gives them something to talk about when they’re done bitching about their wives and mistresses. But I’ll let you know if anything comes up.

Do that, I agreed. Because if I’m successful, then those guys are going to owe me a lot. I’m going to expect some favors in return, I hope they know. Especially if they want any more irionite. I just picked up two more stones, today.

You manage to pull this off, and they’ll be offering up their virgin daughters to you.

Didn’t they do that already? I teased.

I hadn’t been a virgin for a long time before I met you, Spellmonger, she teased back.

Just let them know I’ll expect results when I make a request, is all. And information, of course.

Of course. Hard to plot the overthrow of the established social and political order without good intelligence.

As I drifted off to sleep that evening, the victory doing little to ease my mind, I wondered if I wasn’t fooling myself with all of the dashing battles I was fighting. After all, we couldn’t win. Not really. And I wasn’t expecting to. The point of our campaign – the real point – was never victory on the field. No, we were playing a bigger game, and victories, while sweet, wouldn’t win us the prize.

Because when I offered the Duke the services of my Order or warmagi, I hadn’t just settled on mere gold for my fee. With irionite, we could get all the gold we needed from wealthy nobles who wanted to hire our services.

So I had to find another coin Duke Rard could pay us in, one that wouldn’t bankrupt his treasury. And one which the warmagi would be willing – nay, eager – to accept. As I fell asleep in my tent that evening, I reflected on what I was really fighting for out here, besides survival and humanity and all that. There was a more immediate battle. I was fighting for my professional future. The future of all magi, actually.

Because when it came time to discuss our fee, gods help me, I got creative.

Chapter Six:

A Date With Pentandra

Wilderhall, Midsummer

A big ducal castle like Wilderhall is designed to run the entire Duchy, when the Duke is in residence, which takes an awful lot of people. Therefore it has a lot of residential quarters. Harren, the castellan assigned to me, explained as we walked that there were well over a thousand castellans, alone, to take care of the needs of so many courtiers, administrators, and clerks. That was a tall order, too. Wilderhall was massive.

In fact, within the inner bailey there were no less than five palatial donjons, all with room for hundreds of people. In a siege, several thousand could be housed -- well, I won’t say comfortably, but they could be housed and provisioned for nearly a year. The five ornate structures were actually quite defensible where they hugged the bailey in a rough circle around the far less-imposing Temple of Filayn, the patron river goddess of this part of Castal.

These large, circular fortresses-within-a-fortress were misleadingly called towers, as in the Duke’s Tower, The Tower of Swords (the Lord Marshal’s residence and office, winter and summer), the Tower of Piety (usually visiting priests, priestesses, monks, nuns, and their retainers), the Tower of the River (the residence of Baron Penegal, the lord of the barony -- usually used for visiting dignitaries, as the Baron had far more comfortable estates elsewhere) and finally the Tower of Honor, which was a general, catch-all dormitory for the large number of knights and lords who were too stinkin’ noble or poor to spring for an inn in town.

That included a fair number of mercenaries, and that included, apparently, me.

The Duke had decreed that I was to be given lodgings, to keep me close at hand for consultation while his council deliberated. When I’d first arrived, unannounced three days before, a squat little man of a castellan, Lord Seajack, had directed me to my quarters in the Tower of Honor -- a single room with a sturdy but serviceable bed, a threadbare tapestry and a table with the traditional basin, ewer, and chamber pot.

At the time I’d tried to protest that I wasn’t a noble, but it was Seajack’s duty to evaluate the social status and appropriate lodgings for all visitors to Wilderhall. He gave me a once-over with a squinty eye, then grunted and told me I could sleep in the stables if I wanted, but this was where he felt I should be.

There were worse quarters in the Tower of Honor. Some were little more than cells, and the cold and draughty Hall of Heroes had at least a dozen country knights, mercenaries or men-at-arms who didn’t rate even a bed of their own.

When Castellan Harren showed up to change my rooms, however, Lord Seajack was the soul of deference. He assigned a husky porter to bring my baggage while I collected a few more personal objects – my staff, my wands, and my mageblade, Slasher. I didn’t bother to strap them all on, but I didn’t want anyone else handling my magical tools. Some folks might read something more mystical into that, but the truth is I’m just that picky about my things.

The trip across the bailey in darkness was uneventful, even peaceful. Harren was happy to respond to any questions I had, but other than that he didn’t say much to me in the way of conversation – until we arrived at the River Tower, far more opulent than the Tower of Honor. He installed me in a tastefully appointed suite used for guests of the Baron or visiting knights of repute. The bed was twice as large as my previous one, and even softer, being goose down instead of a clean, dry straw tick.

“Master Spellmonger,” Harren murmured, after I directed the lad to place my baggage in the press at the foot of the bed and tipped him a penny for his time. “I rarely pay attention to what is said in Council – discretion is essential to a castellan – but . . . the dire warnings you were giving . . . are they true?” he asked with the barest trace of anxiety. “I have kin in the West,” he explained, softly. “One hears all sorts of horrors, but as one commoner to another . . .”

“If anything, I understated the seriousness of the crisis,” I sighed, after wondering just how much to reveal to the man. “There is an ocean of little furry black faces in the west, and they are marching farther east every night. If I were you, I would begin looking for gainful employment in the east – as far to the east as you can go. Mayhap your children’s children will have to worry about the goblins then. At least, that’s my contingency plan should things go ill at court.”

“That is not comforting,” Harren said, frowning. “But I appreciate the candor.”

I was about to tip the man for his assistance, but realized that I was nearly out of money, now – the few coppers in my purse would be an insult to a servant of Harren’s position. He was about to turn away, without a tip, when I stopped him.

“You seem like a strong enough man,” I pointed out. “And intelligent – why did you end up here, as a castellan?” When the servant realized I sincerely wanted to know, he sighed and looked guilty.

“I was trained for service by Baron Gallenad,” he explained, “from the time I was a boy. I wanted to enlist in his guards, of course, but . . . well, my eyesight isn’t good. In fact, I could barely see beyond the tip of my sword. After I got knocked on my arse enough times in the yard because I couldn’t see the blow coming, I decided that service was a better use of my talents.”

I pursed my lips while I considered. Any time you use magic, you run a risk of messing things up. You just can’t know all of the possible outcomes of your meddling, and sometimes the most innocuous of spells can lead to great personal trials or tragedies.

But this was a problem I could fix, and I couldn’t see any potential negatives. I cautioned the man to hold still, and then I fetched out my witchstone.

Harren looked nervous, of course – he’d be a fool if he didn’t – but he stood still. I held up the stone, where it pulsed with a greenish glow in the center of my palm, and I summoned magesight. Pushing my awareness into a smaller and smaller space, I allowed my attention to focus on the man’s eyes.

This was delicate work – removing a cataract could take hours – days, without irionite. But the problem wasn’t that he had something obstructing his vision, the problem was that his eyeballs weren’t quite the right shape.

It took me all of three hundred heartbeats to establish just how they were different from, for example, my own eyes. I saw what needed to be done – a push here, a push there, a binding to make the tissues grow back together again properly. Harren seemed mystified at what was going on.

“Close your eyes a moment,” I ordered him. He complied. With his eyes closed, I could see how they fit into his head better, and I realized that a little more shaping was in order. Employing powerful forces on such a small place is tricky, but I was growing more adept by the day. The secret, I figured out, was not putting the eyes to rights completely, but close enough so that in their healing the vision was strengthened a little more every day.

“There,” I said, a few minutes later. “Open your eyes.”

He did, and blinked a few times, then rubbed them. “Master Minalan?” he asked, questioningly. I smiled and led him over to the narrow window that looked out on the darkened bailey. “Look back across the yard to the Tower of Honor, now,” I instructed. “Can you see how many lamps are burning on the battlement?”

“Master Spellmonger jests,” Harren said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t see those lamps from this distance on a—oh, dear goddess preserve and protect! I can see them! I can see them all! There are seven, and one is a green flame! Oh, my goodness! I can see . . . I can see everything!”

“I didn’t have a silver coin for a tip,” I shrugged. “I figured I could grant you a boon, instead. But don’t spread it around, or I’ll be fixing warts and clearing up acne on every chambermaid’s arse in the castle!”

“As Master Spellmonger commands,” Harren said, automatically, as he drank in the sites of the castle at night, sights he’d never seen before. “It’s amazing . . . of course I shall be discreet about this. My thanks, Master Minalan – my everlasting thanks!” Nearly weeping, Harren retired after making certain the ewer was filled, the basin was spotless, and the chamber pot was clean.

I sighed as I unpacked, realizing that this was the nicest bed I’d slept in for a long time. I only wished I had Alya, my girlfriend, to share it with me for a week or so. I was tempted to go find a bottle of wine, consume it, and fall senseless into the bed, but I had a little work to do, first.

I made myself comfortable on the center of the bed and took out my witchstone. It glowed a pleasant green in my palm, and I felt the rush of power that is always attendant with direct contact with your skin. I now had immense power to call upon, to shape to my will. I had the power to lay waste to armies; destroy – or defend – great empires; the power to challenge the forces of nature, herself. But it was also ideal for creating a link through the ether of the Otherworld to the mind of another mage – especially if that mage also had irionite.

The spell used to take me a while to perform, meditation and focus, perhaps hours of chanting, and it didn’t always work successfully. This time, with the aid of the witchstone, I was catapulted into the Otherworld and speeding away toward my distant destination in seconds, as soon as I turned my mind to the task. Working with irionite is very gratifying – it’s as if the stone is eager-to-please.

I knew where I wanted to go – east. After we’d crossed the river into Castal, Pentandra had hired a barge and had left with a few of her favorite warmagi to go alert her family and other contacts of the grave danger we faced.

She had made remarkable time, setting out on a galley that caught a tailwind that filled her sails all the way to the harbor at Richenside. Pentandra enjoyed seeing what her new power could do, and shaving four days off of the expected trip was a gratifying way to explore her range.

Finding her particular spark amongst a sea of stars – that’s how humans and other thinking things look in the Otherworld (to me, at least) wasn’t nearly as hard as before. She was using her stone, and as my consciousness came nearer and nearer to her, her soul-light was blazing like a beacon.

Her form in the Otherworld hadn’t changed much from the last time I’d seen it. It was a pale outline of her idealized self-image, with imagined touches (such as hair made out of glittering sparks) adding to the effect of her natural presence. I think her boobs are a little bigger, too. Mine hadn’t changed much either, actually – I look much better there than here, and I didn’t see why that had to change.

Penny, I said, softly – OK, ‘thought softly and manifested in quasi-reality’ would be more accurate, but less useful. Do you have a moment? Last time I’d visited Pentandra this way, she’d been having a lusty romp with a handsome guardsman in her room. This time she was building . . . something in the ether of the Otherworld. It was an elaborate, intricate magical construction, full of multi-colored parts and surging waves of light.

All magic is echoed in the Otherworld – when we hang a spell, that’s essentially where it lingers. And when I speak of a construct in the Otherworld, I’m talking about an abstract representation of a series of magical tasks. The shapes and colors and constructions that defy gravity or various normal physical rules are actually complex metaphors for magic. The symbols the mage chooses to use for a particular magical metaphor may differ dramatically from a similar spell from another mage. Hedgewizards, like my friend Zagor, back in Boval, make up their own most of the time, which has its advantages and disadvantages.

Since Penny and I were both classically trained in Imperial magic, I recognized much of the seething mass of light and color. There were qabas, apis, ludicili, colrantures, and plenty of constructs I had seen in books or glimpsed in passing, but had no direct experience with.

And then there were the few constructs that I had never before seen. I’ll admit it: Penny’s a better thaumaturge than I am.

Min! she said – thought – back to me, her face beaming – and in the Otherworld, you can take that literally. Where are you?

I’ve been at Wilderhall in northern Castal for the last three days, I explained. Today I finally got to address the Duke and the Council and let them know we’re all doomed. You?

Actually, I’m at a temple in Vali, she said, casually. Tomorrow I take a coach for home.

So you still haven’t told you father and uncles about . . . everything?

No more than to assure them I’m still alive and well, she agreed. I haven’t told them I have irionite, but they guessed. My payment to Penny for organizing a brigade of warmagi to try to break the siege at Boval Castle had been a chunk of irionite for . . . well, let’s just say ‘her father’s friends’, because secret orders of magi that have been skulking about out of the view of the Censorate since the fall of the Magocracy are illegal.

I’m sure they’re just a supper club.

So how goes the war? Anyone taking you seriously?

Surprisingly, yes. Things are looking bleak. The goblins have invaded northern and central Alshar, now, thousands of them. One main thrust is moving toward Tudry, which is the closest city to Boval, another struck south toward the Riverlands, but another large band, probably thirty thousand or so, is moving out north of Tudry and moving rapidly through northern Alshar. I told her about the three barons who had tried to make a stand at the fords of Boser, which is northeast of Boval and north of Tudry, and how that had ended in slaughter. That was the closest force to them, and they were wiped out to the last man.

Is that all anyone is doing? she asked, surprised.

The Duke of Alshar has raised his war banner. He’s gathering troops at Vorone, but . . . well, they won’t be enough. Not to stop everything that’s coming out of Boval.

And the Duke of Castal? What is he doing?

His Grace has also raised his banners. There’s a general consensus among the Council to raise a force to counter the invasion. The question remains who will lead it, what it will be comprised of, and what will its mission be.

Her visage looked troubled. Well, isn’t that obvious? You’re the best choice to lead it!

That was my argument, I agreed. But not only did someone notice I was born a baker’s son, they didn’t want to meet my price. At least not yet.

Stingy barbarians! she thought in Old Imperial. The idiom is actually a lot more vile than its translation. Are they so worried about their taxes that they would endanger the entire Five Duchies?

Four-and-a-half Duchies, I corrected. It’s not that . . . they would have paid in gold, if that’s what I asked for. I didn’t.

So just what did you ask for? she mocked. A lordship? A barony? A hundred nubile virgins? A thousand warhorses?

I asked them to relax the Bans on Magic.

YOU WHAT? She ‘screamed’ in shock. I waited for the volcano of emotion to subside until I could see her figure again. There was a long moment of silence as I watched Penny try to control herself. You didn’t really . . . did you?

I did, indeed, I answered. That’s the only way we’ll be able to win this war. We need more magi, and more warmagi. Otherwise those shamans will mow us down like wheat. I’ve got seven stones left to give, but they’re staying in my purse and I’m not setting one foot toward the west until I have an agreement.

Min, that’s . . . that’s . . . that’s very foresighted of you, admitted Penny. I hadn’t thought to consider that.

You’re the one who gave me the idea. And you’re the one who convinced me I’m a leader, I accused. You think I want to go to war? I’ve been there. I’m not eager to go back. If I do, I want it to be worth something more than a few thousand ounces of gold. Something that will benefit everyone in the . . . whatever it is.

Well? Did they agree?

His Grace has postponed a final decision until he’s had a chance to consult with the Censor General—

Master Hartarian? She ‘gasped,’ belching a cloud of silver into the ether. That’s . . . he’s a formidable mage, Min. Be careful. One word from him and—

And what? I asked. I’ve got glass, he doesn’t. He could send a whole company of Censorate troops at me, I’d still beat him.

That’s not what I meant, she said, seriously. He’s old and sharp-witted, subtle and quick to anger. Everything you don’t want in a mage who’s sitting in judgment of you.

I met him once, too, I reminded her. It had been at my graduation-and-draft party, just before I found my magical butt at War College. Don’t worry, I’m ready for him, I lied.

Don’t be so arrogant, she chided. This isn’t Gorkesgu the Great, Min, this is the Grand Censor General! He holds the power of life and death over every mage in the Duchies. Even my father and uncles fear him and his men!

I’m not being arrogant, I replied. I’m being honest.

She ‘sighed’ again. I know. But you’re in court. That’s the last place you want to be honest. Just be careful, Min, I’m warning you. But do you realize what it would mean for us if . . . if we could own land, again? If we could hold positions in the government, inherit our . . . and we could . . . oh, Min, this is wonderful!

Of course I realized it – that’s why I demanded it.

And how did they receive your demand? she asked, amusedly excited.

With a lot less grace than they were capable of, I said, diplomatically. But Rard is considering the matter. He didn’t dismiss it out of hand. I’m hopeful.

He really doesn’t have a choice, she pointed out. They can send every knight in his realm to fight them, and they still wouldn’t be enough without warmagi. But he can’t just . . . relax the Bans on his own. He’s just a Duke, not a King. The Censorate is out of his purview. Of course, there isn’t a king anymore, so the point is kind of moot, but . . . well, I can’t help but be hopeful. But you know what else this means?

Toys and candy for the kiddies?

It means that you just became a very tasty morsel at court. For the next few days . . . well, everyone who has power there is going to want to know you. Find out what your angle is. Discover your politics, and determine if they match their own. See just how they can use you to advance their own nefarious plans.

I thought the whole court was the center of power? I asked, confused.

It is, but it isn’t monolithic. The Duke holds power, right?

That’s what the priests taught me, I agreed.

But he can’t do it alone. Power is the ability and the authority to make policy and select the enforcement of that policy, correct?

If you say so, I said, hesitantly. Baker’s son, remember?

Trust me, it is. And while the Duke theoretically has all the power, the fact is he can’t run an entire Duchy himself. He delegates. Those delegates are the Court, and each courtier is a power center unto themselves. Each one thinks they know best how to direct the affairs of the whole Duchy, and just what the Duke should do. Most are intelligent enough to know the limits of that power, else they find themselves removed.

Assassinated? I asked, swallowing hard. I’m a great and powerful mage, but even I have to sleep sometimes. And I’ve been known to eat.

Usually nothing so droll. Often a simple loss of position, loss of influence or exile from the court will be sufficient. But each one will want to get to know you to see whether you are a help or hindrance to their position. It will probably seem very casual, but don’t be fooled

Usually, I repeated. I was still hung up on the idea of having a dagger stuck in my back while I was taking a piss by some courtier’s dandy in purple hose.

Yes, usually. Believe me, no one is going to want to assassinate you. Trust me on that. Not even the Censorate.

They won’t? I asked, surprised.

What good would you be to them dead by unknown means? They will want a very public trial and execution.

Penny, I’m really not in the mood—

I’m not joking, Min. Think about it: yes, the Censor General is going to come after you, he has to. It’s his job. He can’t not come after you. But he won’t be able to do it half-way, not under the circumstances. If he appears to condone even a part of what you represent, the Censorate loses – and that’s something that he can’t fail to appreciate. His best bet is to convince the Duke to capture you and bind you for trial and judgment.

Really? Penny? I can appreciate grand strategy as much as the next guy, but did throwing me alone into the Castali Ducal court to await the inevitable arrival of the one human being in all the Duchies who wants me dead really strike you as the best course of action? I demanded, angrily.

Calm down, don’t rouse your barbarian ire. The short answer is yes, yes it did. The conflict with the Censorate was inevitable. I’d rather pick the battleground, and this one is far more advantageous than, say, dealing with the Censorate in Wenshar, where they’re strongest.

That almost makes sense, I said tiredly. But you sent me alone. Now I get to face the Censor General, himself. That was good planning?

Like a lightning rod, you’ll divert their attention and their ire. If they go after any one of us, I want it to be you, and then we can react to what they do. And that’s not just because you’re our leader and captain and such. It’s because you, in particular, have the best chance of getting what we need. But don’t worry about the Censorate, now. Worry about the courtiers. You have enough warmagi in Alshar and Castal to rescue you, should you need it, and it won’t even matter if you can’t secure your position. You will have to make nice with as many people as possible.

‘Make nice?’

Technical term, she explained. Kiss their butts. Flatter them. Make them feel like you know what you’re doing. Act confident and proud. Arrogant but humble. Intelligent yet wise. Powerful, yet gentle-hearted. Bold, yet understandingly cautious—

You’re making my head hurt, I complained.

The spell? A side effect? She asked, concerned.

No, you, personally. Look, Pen, I see what you’re saying – kind of – but the fact is I’m trying to get the Duke to raise an army and fight the powers of darkness. Simple. Straightforward. It’s war, not politics, I said, stubbornly.

What do you think war is, but another facet of politics? I don’t have time to try to teach you the intricacies of court life, but trust your political advisor on this: the Imperial families have been playing court politics since the days of Perwin, Min. We were stabbing each other in the back way back when your people were just doing unspeakable things to sheep out on the steppes. We know politics, and right now you’re in it up to your neck. One wrong step and you could go under.

All right, all right. Then you should be here, not me.

For our purposes, your ignorance and low station in life actually serve us better. That gives you the advantage of novelty – and in any court, where the affairs of state make everything dull and lifeless, novelty is a highly prized commodity. You also represent unknown power, and that attracts attention in court like a dead cat. Everyone who thinks they’re powerful is going to want a chance to poke and prod you and see whether you can hurt them or help them. You have to let them.

I’ll do no such thing!

Min, it’s important! You may not win over everyone, but there are a few you’ll probably have to, or our cause is lost.

I sighed. All right, if you say so. I’m trusting you here, Pen. If I end up hung, or beheaded, or whatever, I’m going to be very upset with you.

From what I remember, you were pretty well— she began dreamily. I cut her off.

Enough jokes. All right, I’ll hobnob with the elite. I’ve done worse. I’ll be novel. I’ll be powerful. I’ll be charming, in my own homespun, folksy sort of way. They’re calling me ‘Master Spellmonger’, by the way. I suppose that’s novel.

Good. But be careful while you do it, okay? One wrong word and you could alienate someone you didn’t know was important. But there are a few you’ll have to win over. The Duke, of course, but if the rest of the court is against it he’ll have a hard time being for it. And the Court Mage. You’ll probably have to bribe him.

Bribe the senior mage in the entire Duchy? I asked, in disbelief.

Relax: bribery is an old and distinguished custom at court, and it doesn’t have all of the unseemly overtones it does, say, in the village market. The Court Mage is as political as any other courtier, she assured me. But you have something he covets, that you can give him, and that gives you leverage.

I do?

A witchstone, remember? Promise him a hunk of irionite and he’ll offer to have your babies.

That’s a tremendously disturbing picture you’ve just forced me to think about, I said, sourly.

Next after those two will be the Lord Marshal, the head of the military. Since this is a military matter, the Duke won’t approve it without his support.

Great: kiss the Duke’s arse, then bribe the court mage. How do I win the Lord Marshal? A carefully-composed sonnet? Or slip him twenty ounces of silver and a shiny new sword?

Funny, she said humorlessly. No, you appeal to his position as Protector of the Realm. The Duchy – all the Duchies – are in danger, and whoever is in charge now came in after Farise. Which means that they were looking at a long stretch of peace, which most generals don’t appreciate. Now you can give him a war, and not a commercially-advantageous war like Farise was, but a real, honest, fight-for-your-life war with an implacable foe on the very borders of the Duchy. No matter how pragmatic a Lord Marshal is, I’m sure he can be moved by the glory in that.

He already doesn’t like me very much.

So make him like you. Impress him. You were in the army, she reminded me, unnecessarily.

Where I cursed generals like him, not enjoy a friendly glass of wine with them after a game of darts. He was a lord commander of thousands in Farise, I was just a spark in the magical corps. Different circles.

‘Spark?’

Slang term for warmagi, I explained. Because we don’t grunt, we sparkle, or something like that. I never did get the complete story. Anyway, I’ll appeal to him as a comrade-at-arms, for all the good it will do. Next?

The Ducal spymaster. The head of the intelligence-gathering apparatus always has a unique and disproportional voice in the affairs of state, from what Daddy has told me. But he won’t be in public – none of the Duchies has an office called ‘Ducal Spymaster.’ It’s always a euphemistic title, or one that’s completely at odds with the actual purpose of the position. In Remere it’s Viscount Armandulo, the Secretary of Shipping. He knows everything that goes on in Remere.

Including your father’s ‘cultural association?’

Probably, she admitted. But that doesn’t mean he finds it in the Duchy’s interest to act upon that knowledge, I think. In any case, there will be someone like that in Castal, someone close to the Duke. Maybe his bodyguard, or a powerful noble, or even a sheriff or knight courtier-without-portfolio. Look around, trust your instincts, and find him. Then make friends with him, too. If you get him, the Court Mage, the Duke, and the Lord Marshal, no one else will matter.

What about the consort? I asked. The Duchess? Shouldn’t I be kissing her butt? Honestly, it’s the nicest one there, I added, thinking about the rest of the War Council.

She’s there as a courtesy, and because she has a reputation for being bossy and wouldn’t allow something as important as a war to occur without being advised about it. She may have some influence over the Duke . . . or she may not.

She’s his wife! I pointed out. Doesn’t that count for something?

They don’t have a regular common-folk marriage, Min, she explained, patiently. Things work differently in matters of sex and family among the nobility. And this isn’t just a noble marriage, Min, this is a Royal marriage. The Dukes are kings in all but name, and they marry their houses together for reasons too obscure for most people to understand. And their marriages aren’t like . . . well, what your parents did, or what you and Alya may have someday.

May? As soon as I’m done with this, I’m headed back home to find a priest!

I know, Min, she said, an odd tone to her ‘voice.’ And I wish you the best – I really do. She’s a lovely girl, and smart and brave, and she doesn’t put up with your crap. And she truly loves you, and that’s pretty important too. But . . .

Why does there have to be a ‘but?’ I demanded.

There’s always a ‘but,’ she answered, sadly. Min, you aren’t just the village spellmonger anymore. Or even a warmagi. You’ve got a unique position and a unique set of responsibilities. We’re all counting on you – not just me and the Order, but all of us.

I slumped, and I apparently uttered some kind of disturbing ‘noise’ through my telepathic link that alerted Penny.

Hey! I didn’t say that to make you feel overwhelmed. No, I just wanted to put it in perspective. Last year you were fixing horse’s teeth and curing warts . . . and now you’re dining with the Duke.

He hasn’t actually offered to dine with me, I said sullenly.

My point remains. You aren’t who you were when you fell in love with her. And she needs to understand that . . . and so do you. You do love her. You even need her. She’s good for you. But you’re never going to have that hokey peasant dream life of a sprawling shack full of fat brats you want so desperately. Alya is going to have to adapt to your new role. And you’re going to have to adapt as well.

You wouldn’t be speaking out of jealousy, would you? I asked, stiffly.

She ‘sounded’ shocked. What? Me? Jealous of Alya? Oh, goddess protect you from falling into a well, you silly boy, no!

Well, you didn’t have to be mean about it, I sniffed. I’m not that bad . . . of course, your father wouldn’t approve, and your mother, and—

No! It’s not that – If I wanted you, you know I wouldn’t let something like—

‘If’ you wanted me? I said, knowing it was getting under her skin, and enjoying her discomfort far more than I’d like to admit. I have my petty moments. So now that you’re done with me—?

She sounded even more panicked. Min! I knew a long time ago that you and I weren’t . . . that there wasn’t . . . that I couldn’t—

Don’t hurt yourself, I said sourly. I know what you mean, Pentandra. But I also know that you’re devious enough and catty enough so that if you didn’t like Alya, you’d conceal it – especially from me – under a ruse of thoughtful consideration and act just like you’re doing now, until you were in a position for an opportune strike. Wouldn’t you? I accused.

She sounded more thoughtful. You have a point. Still, I mention her only in passing, because she’s important to you, and you’re important to us. And both of you are going to end up making compromises that you’ll be uncomfortable with. I’m just trying to warn you . . . prepare you. I don’t want to hurt you, and if keeping you happy with a lusty, busty peasant lass and a barn full of brats is what you need, then I’m all for it.

Just so we’re clear, I said evenly. I intend to wed her. And raise a bunch of brats. That’s not going to change.

That’s fine. Just don’t be surprised when you find your perspective changing. Things might not be as simple as you hope.

Time will tell, I said, nodding. It was over time to change the subject. I looked up at her pulsating, whirling essay in the arcane arts. So, just what is this . . . spell? I decided to call it. It had several elements that were clearly ‘active,’ so it was more than a mere exercise.

It’s my attempt at exploring the stone, she admitted. You know Salanit’s Rule?

‘Two objects in proximity retain an affinity after separation?’ I answered by rote, like it was second year Thaumaturgy again.

Right. I knew that your master stone severed the bond between the other stones and the Dead God’s sphere – thank Ishi! – but I wasn’t sure if it also severed the bonds they had with each other.

That’s an interesting approach, I admitted, impressed.

I thought so too, she agreed. So I began designing a spell that would . . . facilitate communication through that link.

What? Really? I asked, astonished. The implications . . .

Yes, really. I think I’ve got it almost perfected, too. Here, let me establish a connection between our stones . . . She seemed awfully proud of herself.

I could see the pebble in her hand in the Otherworld, a bright green pulsating star of light in her palm. A silver tendril erupted from the stone and drifted into the ether, almost like smoke. I observed as Penny directed the tendril to the stone in my hand, where it was attracted like a lodestone, once it came near. The moment the two touched, the tendril snapped taut, like a fishing line, and from then on no matter where or how I moved it, that line remained connected.

That’s amazing, Pen! I praised, chuckling. What is it?

A regular old forleth line, she said, augmented with a binding charm. Easy.

Forleth was a metaphor for an attachment between two objects. The runes involved are full of binding and communication and action and all sorts of other factors, and the construct was useful for, say, locating an object you didn’t want to lose but might. My staff had several forleth lines binding it to me with the brown knot coral inside. Well, binding it to the silver ring on my left hand, also with a shard of brown knot coral. I’d made powerful enough to pull the staff to my hand, an impressive pre-irionite piece of spellwork. Now I could whip out a forleth line just by thinking about it.

I’m just getting started, she said, turning her attention to her elaborate construct. Let me just . . . there, and . . . there! she said, triumphantly. She turned back to me, her illusionary breasts – definitely larger than in real life – bouncing perceptibly. That doesn’t usually happen in the Otherworld, but Penny was just that kind of girl.

Here, she said, reducing a large piece of the construct to something more portable – in this case, a yellow, apis-like glyph with a whirl of energy surging inside. Establish an affinity, please, she directed as she presented me with the result. I nodded and began the process.

Affinity is a binding of a very personal nature, the sort of thing you do to your best enchantments. My sword, Slasher, was enchanted with a powerful affinity that helped bind it to me. If you destroyed Slasher, I’d feel it, although not much. Some magi are really, really good with affinity, so good that they can do it with living creatures. That’s a whole different level than this, though.

I pulled the glyph within the green sphere in my palm, and as I watched and carefully fitted it around the witchstone, it attached itself to the swirling swarm of magic constantly surrounding the sphere. And, suddenly – I could hear Penny.

It’s difficult to explain – in the Otherworld, you aren’t exactly talking, you’re communicating, and the medium of the ether provided the means for that communication in something that our minds usually interpret as speech or communicative gestures. It took some study and practice to be able to form your representation in the Otherworld to the point where you could even ‘talk’ – much less have bouncy breasts and glittery hair.

But suddenly, I could hear Penny as clearly and without the use of the ether as a medium. I could hear her directly in my head.

How’s that? she thought at me. Her image didn’t move.

I can hear you! I thought back. That’s a lot easier!

It gets even better, she thought, happily. If I did it right – and I’m sure I did – the link remains even after you leave the Otherworld.

You mean . . . ?

Anyone who employs this spell on a shard of irionite from the Dead God will be able to communicate with anyone else. Telepathically. Without resorting to out-of-body travel.

Penny, that’s . . . that’s incredible! Telepathy has been done with magic before, of course, but the spells involved are complex, and they usually only work in line-of-sight and with great concentration. There are other spells that use the medium of the Otherworld to communicate simple images and symbols from one waking-mind to the other, but they were fiendishly sophisticated. How do I . . . get in touch with you?

Easy. Just think about me. And form a cartra of your desire in the shape of that glyph. Then think of the Rocanic glyph made up of my name, linked to the spell’s symbol, and it will activate through my stone. Even across the whole continent, she added, proudly. A cartra is an Imperial-style technical term for a type of very specific wish. It’s complicated, but yes, there are different types of wishes.

And if you want to get in touch with me?

You’ll recognize the cartra, when you feel it, she assured me. At least, you should.

And we’ll be able to speak mind-to-mind? Any time?

That’s the general idea, she agreed. Which you should have understood by now.

I’ve been distracted, I thought, sardonically. Can I share this with the others? The other warmagi, I meant.

I was just waiting for your approval.

“What? You were waiting for my approval?” I asked, confused. Why would you need my approval?

“You’re our leader, remember? she asked, patiently. I think it’s a lovely spell, but I’m not going to do anything like that unless you tell me to.

Come on, Pen, since when do you listen to anyone?

I said I’d listen to you, she said, a little defensively. I was under your command at Boval Castle, remember?

Penny, you know very well you’re not a warmage! You’re a scholar. You were there out of academic interest, remember?

I was there to pull your stones out of the fire, if you recall, and to grab a witchstone. Thanks to you, I have two. And I fought out there, as you very well know. I might not be a warmage, but that doesn’t mean I’m not part of your . . . Order? Squad? Unit? Army?

I don’t know what to call it, I admitted. Warmagi rarely form into units, because we’re too expensive that way, and who wants to spend that much on magic in the middle of a war? I’m essentially hiring us out to the Duke as mercenaries. But you’re right, not all of us are the throat-slitting, sword swinging, bolt-of-death-in-each-hand type of warmagi. And if we are going to win this war, it won’t be because we have more or better swords – we’re going to have to out-think and out-perform this monstrosity. We aren’t entirely a military unit, then. But we can all be of use to the effort. So yes, maybe ‘order’ is the right term.

I volunteer to be the . . . whatever you call the person who coordinates everything and actually gets things done.

In a military unit, it would be an executive officer. A steward or quartermaster or staff sergeant, depending on what kind of unit. But for a paramilitary order . . . let me think about it. What did the old Archmagi call their executives?

Prime ministers, in Perwin. The Voice Of The Archmage, in the Magocracy. Neither one really fits.

For now, just call yourself my . . . steward, the Steward of the Order. We’ll get around to naming it later. Do you think you can contact the others through the Otherworld and set up the new links?

I’ll do it, she promised. I can reach at least four or five, with no problem, and I can pass the word to others in other ways.

Make sure Terleman is one of them. He’s commanding the troops in my absence. Which means he’s riding herd on the dozen magi who didn’t have pressing business elsewhere. I had him encamp at an old castle a few hundred miles from here, an old client who owed Hesia some money. You can reach the some of the rest of them there, too. But I want to be able to get in touch with Terleman, if I need to.

For whatever reason, it’s easier to use my stone that way, than to try to forge a link from theirs. I’ve been experimenting, she confessed. Penny’s stone was special, like mine. Mine had been tampered with by the Alka Alon, the mysterious, magical Tree Folk. It used to be all lumpy. Now it was a smooth sphere, and it worked more smoothly, too.

Penny’s stone came from a type of special shaman, one of the Dead God’s elite priesthood, the urgulnosti. It was the same mass as mine, more or less, but it was shaped in a smooth torus, with a hole in the middle. We had discussed the differences during our journey from Boval, and recognized that our two stones didn’t just look different, they performed differently. We just didn’t know exactly how, except that mine could sever the bond with the Dead God, and hers couldn’t.

If this is the kind of work you do, keep it up, I thought enthusiastically. Do you realize what this will do for the war effort?

Do you realize what this will do for the art of gossip? she countered. One wrong fart at the wrong time, and suddenly everyone in the Five Duchies has heard about it!

Your priorities are seriously off, Pen, I rebuked.

I just wanted to point out there was more than one use for my little spell, she thought, smugly. I’m not blind to its strategic value. But we should keep it a secret, outside of the Order. It’s the sort of thing that could be invaluable someday.

Let’s test the theory, then. I’m going to go back, and let’s see if it works.

Yes! she thought, excitedly. Go back to your smelly old castle!

It took a few minutes to reel my ghostly image back to my body, but eventually I settled back into my mortal vessel and opened my eyes. My room was dark – the lamp had gone out. My arms and legs had mostly fallen asleep, and I realized that my body was chilled, even in the warm summer air.

I took a deep breath and thought about Penny. Naked, because back when we studied sex magic together, that was how I usually saw her. Then I formed a cartra around the image in my mind, and pushed . . .

Penny?

I hear you Min!

This is incredible! This will give us a huge advantage!

That’s true, she said. But then the question is, just who does it give us an advantage over? The gurvani, to be sure. But also the Dukes and the Ban. That was some inspired thinking, Min. If we can get the Bans lifted . . .

Wait until you get home to plot sedition with your father, okay? I’m trying to save the world here.

That sounded like whining.

I just survived a siege, argued with a Duke, and am volunteering to ride off to a war I can’t hope to win. Now you’re telling me I have to schmooze the entire court in anticipation of being banned by the Censor General. I reserve the right to whine a little. Especially to you. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be curled up next to Alya back at my parent’s house, instead of sleeping alone in a draughty castle, I accused.

Understood, she thought, smugly. You may whine at me at will. By telepathy. Don’t do it with your voice, you’ll just annoy the nobility.

I don’t mind annoying the nobility, I thought diffidently.

It won’t do our position any favors if you do, she reminded. You get the Bans lifted, and it won’t matter where you were born, you’ll be a hero to all magi!

Fine, fine, I’ll be a hero. I’m a very tired hero, though – they kept me waiting for hours, then kept me talking for hours.

Then get some sleep, hero. Tomorrow is another battle.

Thanks ever-so-much for the encouragement, I thought, sourly. Good night, Penny.

Good night, Min!

The castellan, Harren, came back soon after that and tapped on my door. Not only had he found an excellent bottle of red wine, he had also scrounged half a loaf of brown bread, an apple, and a hunk of cheese, along with a smear of honey butter. I thanked him profusely, but he was still so grateful for his improved vision he wouldn’t hear of it.

Then I drank the wine, ate the food, and passed out cold on my luxurious bed, still in my borrowed finery.

Chapter Seven:

The Gathering Of The Order

Green Hill Castle, Late Summer

The day after the Battle of the Lantern, the peasants in the bailey were celebrating our victory, too, cheering us as we came in formation from a hard-fought battle. Celebrating, that is, until they found out that six hundred more people from Honeyhall were arriving to share their rations. That dampened their enthusiasm a bit.

I spent most of the next day dealing with the aftermath of the battle. No, my work wasn’t done with the cry of victory, and the great heroic epics never talk about the minutia of command after a battle. Scrying for where the survivors were lurking, visiting the wounded, meeting with the Baron about shoring up his defenses . . . meanwhile, I sent out Curmor to scout the western roads and had Isily try her skills at scrying out the northern reaches of the barony, out beyond Honeyhall.

She turned out to be adept at the practice, once she found a mode of divination she was comfortable with. Baron Magonas graciously allowed her the use of his daughter’s chambers (she was “safe” in Vorone, with the Duke and his army, a hostage to his willingness to stand and fight) and after only an hour she brought back word to the chamber I was planning in.

“There is a band of five to six hundred, broken up into little clusters, all the way around here,” she said, pushing pebbles into position around the far northeastern corner of the map. “The village – former village – of Nandine. They aren’t moving, they’re just . . . waiting.”

“That is ominous,” I agreed. “I would figure that they would move east, into the hills.”

“Only if they want to get shot at,” snorted Baron “Iron” Magonas. He was a big, thick slab of rustic nobility, with long, stringy blonde hair he oiled and combed into his equally stringy beard down from his broad face in ringlets. The style did him no favors, but the baron’s chain around his neck almost made him stately. “That’s the Pearwoods. The hillmen there don’t acknowledge any lord as master. The don’t have nobles as much as headmen of their clans. There are four clans on this side of the border, and none of them love the Duke.”

“As long as their hatred of the goblins is greater,” I suggested, “they won’t be lax in their own defense.”

“You can count on that,” chuckled the Baron. “Last year they caught a tax collector from Vorone away from his escort and hung him. No one was ever caught, of course, but the Pearwoods clansmen are dangerous.”

“So perhaps the goblins fear the hillmen?” asked Isily, doubtfully.

“A band five-hundred strong? I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. “Nor have they moved south, against these villages, which are largely unprotected. Empty, but unprotected,” I said, tapping the map with my wand.

“They probably just don’t want to be caught in the open if there’s cavalry about,” observed Kaddel, who was still riding high after his charge at the Battle of the Lantern. He was just being boastful, but there might be some truth to what he said.

“They’d have to come down the Timberwatch Escarpment,” explained Baron Magonas, tapping the map with a fat finger. “There’s a drop in the land betwixt the Timberwatch and Nandine. Twenty feet in some places, up to fifty in others. It follows east to west from the Pearwoods to past the river. South is fairly level country, pastures and clearings and meadows with a few patches of unharvested timber. And the knights of Timberwatch are fierce – they have to be, being neighbors of the clansmen. A band of five hundred caught below that line, they’d make fair game for the Timberwatch knights. Three hundred horsemen in open country would dash them about like a maiden’s dainties on her wedding night.”

That was one clear advantage we held over them – we had cavalry, and damn good cavalry, and they didn’t. At all. Goblins only understand infantry, which was strange, considering every war we keep mopping them up with cavalry. I guess when you’re too small to reach the stirrups, cavalry is a luxury you couldn’t afford.

“Regardless, we have an unfought foe on our northern line,” I sighed. “And one too far away to reach easily. The good news is they don’t look like they’re going anywhere. The bad news is that they’ll probably soak up the survivors of the Lantern. Any shamans?” I asked Isily. She looked concerned, which was terribly attractive on her.

“One, perhaps,” she said, hesitantly. “he was obscuring the scrying.”

“They can do that?” the Baron asked in surprise.

“It’s not that hard,” Mavone dismissed. The dark-haired Gilmoran warmage was adept at the gesture. “A simple scry, in any case. Sometimes you just have to change what you’re looking for to see something they didn’t think to hide. For example, gurvani fight with a lot of iron weapons. If they’re hiding out someplace, even if their shamans hide their soul-lights, it’s unlikely that they’ll think to hide their ironmongery,” he explained, just this side of patronizing. “Go filter your sight and seek for iron where there should be none, and you’ll find any hidden scrugs.”

“I’ll go see to that,” she nodded, trying not to blush. Mavone is a handsome man, and his confident attitude and charming manner was devastating. Isily shot me a brief look and returned to her makeshift study.

“So we have over six thousand men, here – why aren’t we going after them?” grunted Magonas. Since Nandine is deserted and not on his own lands, he didn’t seem too concerned by the prospect of fighting them.

“Because I don’t think that would be wise,” I murmured. “If we go toward Nandine with enough men to defeat them – say half of what we have here – then it will take two, three days to reach the escarpment, and we’d be exposed to raids along our flanks the entire time. They’d see us coming from their vantage point. I’ve got people scouting up there now, but the Nandine legion isn’t the immediate threat.”

“So we sit here and wait?” Magonas asked, impatiently. “Eating my stores and fodder? Not that I mind helping out in this damned invasion . . .”

“No, Your Excellency,” I sighed. “We cannot afford to do that, either. Mavone, how fast do you think you could be in Vorone?”

“Captain? Maybe two days. Hell, maybe one day. It’s not that far.”

“I want you to go and bear a message to Duke Lenguin.”

Mavone looked at me curiously. “I thought we wanted to avoid any entanglements with the Duke?”

“To keep our little expeditionary force from getting impressed into that rabble he’s trying to make into an army, yes. To advise him on grand strategy, well, that’s why I have brave men like you. Charming. Insistent. Charismatic . . .”

“. . . fast on my feet, well-versed in court etiquette, and a good liar,” Mavone finished, lightly. “You expect to dictate strategy to His Grace? I’m thinking that’s not the best thing for a foreign military commander on his soil to do in the middle of a war,” he observed, amused. “He might just take it amiss.”

“Oh, yes,” I nodded. “As a matter of fact, I’m kind of counting on it. I’ll have a formal message for you in an hour. But mostly I just want to be able to communicate with Lenguin via magic, without a chance of miscommunication. And thanks to Penny’s thaumaturgy, that’s just what you can provide. I want you and Isily to go infiltrate the court, deliver a message, and report back to me whether or not Lenguin’s got any kind of real force there. We’ll speak mind-to-mind, but . . . don’t let Isily in on that little secret, all right?”

“You don’t trust the Wenshari wench?” he asked, surprised.

“She’s comely enough, and as polite as a duchess, but you should never trust a Shadowmage overmuch. Their craft is deception in all of its forms. Their loyalty is always suspect due to the nature of their work. And I think she’s working for someone already.”

He looked thoughtful. “You can count on me to keep watch on her. Very close watch,” he said, a hint of leer coming through his civilized tones.

We stayed three days at Green Hill Castle after the Battle of the Lantern. The men needed the time to recover, glean shafts, fletch arrows, repair armor, buy new horses, and prepare for the next battle. I was doing my own preparation – I was gathering my warmagi.

The third Gilmoran warmage, Astyral, arrived two days after the battle, leading an ad hoc company of mercenary horse he had picked up while scouting the area around Farenrose. After the fall of the castle (by treachery, it was whispered) there were plenty of stragglers who’d regrouped in a yeoman’s tower and were eager to fight. By the time he crossed the Piede River, he had over two hundred men with him. More importantly, we had Astyral, who was an excellent warmage – probably the best of the three Gilmorans at battle-magic. At least, he looked most like an infantry grunt of the three.

And he wasn’t the only one to arrive. On the third day, Terleman and Azar and Wenek all arrived together. At my direction they had been scouting the town of Tudry to the west, where ten thousand gurvani had massed, and even beyond into the former barony of Glandon.

Their report was dire. Castle Glandon and its picturesque villages was now home to fifty thousand goblins who seemed to be digging in and making themselves at home. They were problematic, but not the big problem. Glandon was hundreds of miles away to the northwest, above the escarpment, and the gurvani there weren’t threatening anyone anymore, because they had enslaved or sacrificed the few humans who hadn’t run. Glandon was unassailable, and would be for some time to come.

The eight to ten thousand goblins who lingered outside of Tudry were the big problem. As of yet they hadn’t begun an active siege – that was the good news – but they had all but cut off the city by blockading it and patrolling the countryside. The thirty thousand men of Tudry weren’t going anywhere any time soon.

My warmagi weren’t happy to report what they’d seen, but all three of them were happy to see me and looked like they had been in the field a little too long. After they reported I had them rest, eat and relax until we were ready to depart. Working magic with a witchstone is exhausting, and if you don’t maintain your body it will drain you to the point of uselessness.

Finally, on the third evening, Hesia and Horka arrived from Vorone. They had been ‘spying’ on Duke Lenguin’s growing army there, and I guess I could have used them to interact with Lenguin, but the fact was I wanted them both with me. They had been pretending to be beggars, Hesia disguised as an old crone (with her face, not a stretch) and gigantic Horka her idiot son – he acted addled to avoid impressment into the army. Hardly the folk to approach the Duke’s palace with a serious message. It would be hard enough to get in to see Lenguin without having to convince some guard that you really were an emissary from a friendly power, not an unwashed mendicant.

Nor were they the best warmagi for the job. I wasn’t completely joking about Mavone’s charisma – he knows how to behave among the aristocracy, and he’s incredibly persuasive. Hesia’s personality is bland on her good days, and she’s socially inept. Horka is far too willing to indulge in sudden displays of violent anger. If I had to strong-arm the Duke into doing what I wanted, Mavone had the best chance of doing it without offending him . . . or boring him . . . or killing him.

But Horka and Hesia’s report wasn’t much more encouraging than Azar and Wenek’s had been . While Vorone itself wasn’t being attacked yet, there were skirmishes all over the outlands of the town as small bands probed its defenses. The Duke refused to send a force to relieve Tudry, in fear of leaving Vorone defenseless. In essence, he had committed to abandoning Tudry so that he had more time to prepare to defend his northern capital.

That irritated me for a couple of reasons. I’d been in Tudry recently, to hire mercenaries for Boval Vale before I’d realized what a monumentally stupid idea it was to stay there. It wasn’t a great town -- it was worn and shabby and rough around the edges – but I kind of liked the place. Lenguin had recalled his bannermen from the town, leaving only the city militia and a handful of mercenaries to protect it. And there were almost ten thousand gurvani rummaging around outside. Once the gurvani sappers dropped a wall, it would be a chaotic bloodbath that we, unfortunately, would probably loose.

The other reason was that Tudry was far more defensible than Vorone. Tudry had originally been a walled fortress, built to withstand a siege back when the Barons of Green Hill and Fesdarlen had allied to unsuccessfully conquer the place a hundred years ago, when it was the seat of the Baron of Megelin.

Vorone, on the other hand, had been a simple river fishing village before some Alshari Duke took a fancy with it and transformed it into his northern capital, to compete in grandeur with Wilderhall in Castal, just over the border, and fair Wenshar beyond.

Vorone had defenses, but it wasn’t built with defense in mind. It was an administrative seat and pleasure palace, not a fortress. Tudry, on the other hand, could hold out for months in a siege, if it was properly manned and supported.

Well, no one ever claimed the Dukes of Alshar were wise. Brave, yes. Wise, no. That’s why they were the butt of every rough joke in the Five Duchies. If there was a need for a stupid noble or an ignorant hayseed of a peasant for a comedic play in the east, you can bet that the actors use Alshari accents. While it’s an unfortunate cultural stereotype, Duke Lenguin wasn’t doing anything to disprove it. Sacrificing Tudry in favor of Vorone just didn’t make strategic sense.

Luckily, I was representing Castal, as well as Alshar, and I had complete control over my little expeditionary force without Duke Lenguin’s oversight. And with more warmagi, and especially the seasoned Gilmorans, I had that much more flexibility in how I employed them. So I called a quick council of war the third night after the Battle of the Lantern at my tent in the courtyard of Green Hill Castle to figure out where to go next.

I’d borrowed the Baron’s big map for the occasion, and then spent two hours with my warmagi scouts to fill in the positions of the troops on both sides before I invited everyone in to see what we were facing.

“We’re here, in Green Hill,” I started out, pointing to the castle on the map with the tip of my wand – my all-purpose wand, not one of my warwands. No need to accidentally blast a hole in the table. “We have about four thousand troops we can use from here, not counting the garrison. Vorone is to the south, and Duke Lenguin is drafting every dotard who can still hold a spear for his grand army, so we’ll avoid any inter-Duchy unpleasantness by avoiding Vorone. That won’t make Lenguin happy, but it’s not in danger right now, anyway.

“Now the ten thousand goblins threatening Tudry, puts it in a lot more danger. So far the gurvani haven’t attacked outright, probably because they lack the proper siege equipment, but they’re keeping anyone from getting into or out of Tudry without a fight. That’s a problem.

“There are another few thousand ranging along the west side of the Moran River, but they haven’t crossed it in force this far south, not since the Lantern Ford. There’s this smaller band that has been seen around Nandine, but they’ll be too far away to arrive in time to help even if they did get word. And you can expect foragers and skirmishers to be under every bush from here on. There are larger bands to the south and of course to the west, but these are the forces that are within striking distance of ours. That’s the bad news.”

I walked around the map until I was standing on the north side. This was the worrisome part.

“But here’s the very bad news: there is a massive force, at least sixty thousand,” I said, and watched their expressions pale, “that seems to be moving east beyond the Northwardens, and growing larger as it absorbs other tribes and legions. And from our scouting reports, they aren’t just infantry, either: great wagons pulled by oxen, hundreds of pack animals, and plenty of shamans. Everything you’d need for a major assault, from a goblin point of view. But this very large horde has evaded most of the Northwardens and skirted the edge of the Crinroc territory, even while smaller bands attack the Northwatchmen. They’re heading east without stopping to take the castles along the way, when they could easily aid their comrades and overwhelm each one. And that mystifies me.

“It could be that the Dead God wants to attack the hill clans and try to penetrate into the Duchies that way, away from the big castles, but I just can’t see that. Even they would get bogged down in those glens. More likely, he’ll bring that force into the Great Valley and try to attack Vore from the east – which is preposterous, but that’s all I can imagine. They’d have to go through the Valley People, the petty kingdoms, and a dozen robbers’ nests and savage tribes, and Vore is hardly a prize worth the trouble.

“So I can only imagine that they are holding Nandine to block us from taking their larger group in the flanks. And it’s the only other strategic target in the area, besides Tudry. I can only think that they’re holding out way up there to lure us north, away from their comrades.” I looked around at the faces of my commanders: Rogo Redshaft, Kaddel the Hellrider, Sir Pendolan of Kayfier, Bold Asgus of the Orphans, Baron Magonas of the Green Hill knights . . . and then there were my warmagi, each wearing a dirty yellow sash with our rune on it. They were all looking at me expectantly, after that preamble, waiting for the next clever trick we were going to pull. I know I would have been.

“So we have a couple of choices available,” I offered. “We can sit here and wait for the gurvani horde to descend, and hope we can hold out and that Duke Lenguin will have the good sense to come and rescue us.” That produced more than a few wry chuckles. “We can ride in support of Duke Lenguin at Vorone, and sit there with the rest of his men and hope that disease doesn’t wipe us all out before the goblins get there.” I could tell that there was not much support for that proposition, either. “We could march north and try to attack the northern horde, but we’d be outnumbered pretty badly, and not even magic could save us. Not against ten times our number.

“Or,” I added, with a meaningful look around the tent, “we can ensure this keep is properly supplied and garrisoned before we move . . . and then ride to the relief of Tudry.”

“Tudry, Min?” asked Terleman, concerned enough to chew his lip. “If Lenguin isn’t defending it, why should we?”

That brought a lot of chuckles from the men, most of whom were rough-mannered Wilderlands-bred warriors, iron and stone in their bones.

“Because there are thousands of real people that live there and they were depending on their Duke to protect them. Since he’s abandoning them, we’ll do what we can.”

“Peasants,” sneered the Baron, good-naturedly. “Shopkeepers and traders. All of the stout lads were recruited already. Thousands have fled toward Castal. The rest will just eat our rations without defending the walls.”

That made me a little irritated, too. “Baron, with respect, not only are those people your fellow subjects, regardless of the station of their birth, they are also highly valuable to the Dead God.”

“How so?” he asked, a little sarcastically. “Does he need a chambermaid?”

“He needs sacrifices,” I said, flatly. “Human sacrifices. He can magically harness the suffering and death throes of his victims to increase his powers. To you Tudry might be thirty thousand extra mouths to feed – to the Dead God, they’re ten thousand brands ready to be thrown into his ovens. And his troops need to be fed, don’t forget. I’m certain that when he’s done with their bodies, they’re turned over to his commissary.”

“Are you serious?” he asked in a whisper.

“When I was scouting the western reaches,” Azar, who is nearly the most imposing man I know answered with a growl. “I saw strings of prisoners that stretched a mile long, captives taken at Ganz and Farenrose and Three Hills. They were marched to Castle Glandon, which was a fair place once.

“Now it is blackened with soot and blood, it’s people slain or taken. The dead are the lucky, even as they simmer in the soup pots of the goblins. The unlucky are those who aren’t found useful by the goblins. They go see the Dead God, in person. Lords, peasants, men, women, adult or child, it didn’t matter: they were stripped naked and tied at the neck and dragged into that cursed valley,” he said, in a low, feral growl. “None came out again.”

That shook everyone up a little. I seized it as an opportune moment to argue my case. “By depriving him of Tudry, we deprive him of a resource,” I repeated. “And we also save a few of our own people, if that makes any difference to you.”

“Tudry is in the Barony of Megelin,” Baron Magonas said, shaking his stringy head stiffly. “And we’d have to pass through the northern reaches of Fesdarlen,” he said, as if it meant crossing a river of fire. “We are currently at war with Fesdarlen. That’s why I happen to have so many men at arms at the moment.”

“Private wars are suspended when the Duke calls his banners,” one of the other knights observed. “We’re all at the Duchy’s service, now, you and Fesdarlen alike.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “The Baron of Fesdarlen won’t mind us using his lands, considering his are the next to face invasion if Tudry falls. Now, if we begin to move tomorrow morning just after dawn, we should be able to make our way westward around – what’s the name of this hill?”

“Madiboll Hill, milord,” one of the local knights answered helpfully. “There is a large temple house there, dedicated to Huin, god of the fields. The priests provide a home for a burrow of River Folk to help with growing herbs, but nothing of value.”

“River Folk?” I asked, intrigued. They were nonhumans, distant cousins to both the gurvani and the Alka Alon. Almost entirely peaceful and harmless – save when their burrows were threatened – the little brown furry people were waist-high and knew how to grow vegetables like a priest knows prayers. I’d only met a few – they aren’t common where I grew up. But I wanted to meet some, for professional reasons, and get their perspective on the greater battle between the gurvani and . . . everyone else.

Most humans look on them with disdain and disrespect – they’re a silly, inconsequential people more akin to rodents than peasants, according to most peasants. But the truth was that when it came to non-grain crops – vegetables, legumes, roots, nuts and fruits – the natural techniques or inherent magic of the River Folk surpassed human skills by leaps and bounds. A medium-sized burrow reputedly can produce thrice the produce from a one-acre plot that a human garden does.

Some of the Riverlands lords took advantage of this by treating them almost as well – or as poorly – as their human peasants. This did nothing for their reputation amongst those peasants, but where the River Folk were allowed to settle, the land prospered. They had some odd ways, and some queer ideas, but no stranger than those of the gurvani or the Alka Alon. And they knew the art of brewing by nature.

“If we have a chance, I’d like to stop and meet them,” I mentioned, which earned me some strange looks from some of the local knights. “I have my reasons,” I said by way of an explanation. “But if we move north of the hill, we can skip the Great Western Road entirely and approach Tudry from the east.”

“And if we do?” asked Rogo, astutely. “We put our four thousand lances against ten thousand maces?”

“And a thousand bows, two thousand infantry, a few thousand merchant-soldiers from Tudry, a few hundred more knights from the Baron of Megelin, and let us not forget seven warmagi,” I reminded him. “That should count for something. “

“A frontal assault, then, Master Minalan?” asked Kaddel.

“There will be time for charging, but that’s not the entirety of my plan. If we can coordinate with the militia inside Tudry, we can get them to send a foray into their flank. Between the two forces—”

“We could get pounded,” Wenek said, discouraged. “Captain, I’m as much of an optimist as anyone,” the portly warmage snorted, sarcastically, “but even I don’t think that would work. Maybe in broad daylight, in open country, with plenty of room for a massed cavalry charge, but . . . well, unless you figured out a mass-annihilation spell you didn’t mention . . .”

“Well, let’s consider a magical solution, then,” I reasoned. “Four to five thousand humans against ten thousand goblins: how do we use magic to win a battle like that?”

“We don’t have to annihilate them,” Captain Kaddel said, looking at the map and stroking his chubby chin thoughtfully. “We just need to break them down into smaller, easier-to-fight divisions.”

“And just how do we do that?” asked Hesia. “Tell half of them that they’re invited to a party that the other half doesn’t get invited to?” she asked. She tries to be funny, and she really shouldn’t. She’s outstanding at fortification magic, but Hesia can be a little hard to live with.

“If they’re scattered around the town, then peeling them off in small bits shouldn’t be a problem,” Rogo pointed out. “Ride up close, drop a couple of volleys on them, get them to chase us, and catch them out in the open.”

“They’d see us coming,” I said, biting my lip and shaking my head. “How exactly, are they situated, Terl?”

My chief military aide grabbed a couple of battered wooden markers from a basket. “The main force is encamped here, just north of this little village – well, it used to be a little village. Now it’s a smoking ruin, and it’s surrounded by goblins. About six thousand in that band alone. Then there’s another band of a thousand on the eastern side of the Anfal, within sight of the temple of Huin. Then clustered around the town proper are five or six bands of a hundred or so, acting as interceptors, raiders and skirmishers.”

“See?” I asked. “If we do this right, we can eliminate the first thousand on the eastern side, and then force the rest to cross the Anfal to meet us. And then we can catch them between us and the Tudryan militia.”

Wenek groaned. “You make it sound so easy!”

“We faced much worse odds at Boval, remember.”

“I do,” he nodded, gravely. “I also remember how that turned out.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” I asked, pointedly.

“Yes, I am,” he sighed, looking at the map. “For a few more days, at least. All right, Min, suppose we march cross-country and take them from the northeast. And we get the burghers to trot their chubby butts out like real men and hit them from the other side. But what if the goblins don’t cross the Anfal?” he asked, tapping the bridge on the map. “What if they wait for us to cross it, and attack us then?”

“We won’t,” I assured him. “Look, as long as they’re on the eastern side, they aren’t threatening anyone – anyone who still can fight, that is. If they stall their forces there, I’ll count it as a blessing.”

“And then what? We ride to Tudry and get treated like heroes?”

“With eight thousand gurvani still outside the gate?” snorted the Baron.

“No,” I said, taking a deep breath. This was going to be the difficult part. “We evacuate Tudry.”

I saw a wall of blank faces staring back at me.

“Evacuate it?” asked the Baron in disbelief. “And leave it for the goblins?”

“The goblins could care less about the town,” I pointed out. “They want the people. I think that’s what they’re doing, preparing to sack Tudry and drag its folk back to Boval to meet their shiny new divinity. Therefore evacuating Tudry will interfere in his plans. Which makes it an ideal plan in my book.”

“Where do we evacuate them to?” asked Hesia. “That’s thirty thousand people, Min. You can’t stick them all in this castle. Or even the other big castles. There’s just no room!”

“Then we escort them to Vorone, to go see the Duke who failed to defend them, and have them demand that he protect them and feed them. And eventually to Castal, I think. But at least further east, away from the hordes.”

“Duke Lenguin isn’t going to like that,” the Baron pointed out, frowning.

“I didn’t ask him to,” I shot back. “He abandoned those people – I’m just picking them back up. And he’ll be thanking me next year, when he looks around and realizes that half of his realm is under the sway of the Dead God. Thirty thousand extra subjects might seem more beneficial then.”

“Be careful lest he take offense, Spellmonger,” the Baron said, quietly. “I know the man, though not well. He is a well-spoken gentleman, but rash.”

“I’ll take that chance,” I said, shaking my head. “Tell me, Baron, has this barony here, to the east, contributed any men to the banner call?”

“The Pearwoods?” he asked, surprised, then snorted. “Hardly. Those people are hill clans,” he explained, “only a barony by a technicality. Why, they’re one step away from a tribe! Their lord is Ozzig the Black, but his rule extends as far as the reach of his axe. He swore fealty to Lenguin, true enough, but his own people treat him as a king in ceremonial matters and just another lord in practical terms. But they won’t march without his say. He heard the banner call, but his people detest goblins and will not willingly go that far away from their homes to fight to defend Vorone – lowlanders.”

“Doesn’t he fear reprisal from his overlord?” asked Terleman, surprised.

Baron Magonas shook his head ruefully. “His Grace’s grandfather once sent an expedition into those hills, thinking to conquer the hillmen of the Wilderlands like another rebellious Riverlands fief. Three thousand knights and sergeants poured into the Pearwoods that spring. Less than five-hundred returned that autumn.”

“Then they sound doughty enough,” I pointed out.

He nodded, emphatically. “They can be ruthless. The men of the Pearwoods are expert shots with the longbow, and fearsome fighters on foot. They excel at sniping and hit-and-run raiding – just ask their neighbors. But put them on horses and they might as well be on stilts. Put both of their feet on the ground with the hills at their back and they can fight as well as any man. They use short swords and long, two-handed axes.” He sounded as if he’d been on the other side of one of those axes.

“So why didn’t this Ozzig the Black send any men to Vorone?”

“They’re hill clans,” Magonas repeated. “They consider the affairs of lowlanders as unimportant as the politics of geese. They can’t fight from a garrison, it makes them absolutely miserable and they drink and fight too much. They can talk for days about their honor and the grand feats of their ancestors, but unless their lands are threatened or there’s gold in it, they won’t serve a lowland lord.”

“Pity,” I sighed. “I was hoping we could convince them to join us. A few hundred of them—”

“Hundreds, my lord?” asked the thin knight who’d spoken earlier. “Nay, they number in the thousands. The hill men take many wives, and spawn brats like rabbits. They live on potatoes, beans, whiskey and rocks. Most yeomen have three or four wives and a dozen children in their halls.”

“Really?” I asked, being unfamiliar with the culture. “Isn’t that against the custom of both Imperials and Narasi?”

“They follow Pramm the Blessed, one of the gods of the Valley People, most of them,” the knight explained, a note of amusement in his voice.

That did explain a lot about the notoriously rustic hill clans. Being the patron of distillation, Pramm was a notoriously raunchy divinity known for periodic wild orgies and drunken rites in his honor. It was a religion despised by the civilized Riverlands folk in the south as a twisted cult, and it was tolerated by the rugged Wilderlands lords as the butt of a thousand dirty jokes.

But the hill clans welcomed the God of the Still every full moon, the knight explained, and their riotous culture thrived accordingly. They made liquor out of everything they could find, but particularly brandy from the pears their hills were named for.

Parentage was such an open question that a new son belonged to the clan of his mother until he married, only acknowledged by his father (if known) if he won some token of renown. An interesting people, the hill clans of the Pearwoods.

“They’re no good at marching, either,” Wenek agreed. “I should know. I was one. Before I came into my Talent, I was a lad in Clan Shorell. My chief sold me to a wizard in Flendon Town in the Riverlands when he found I could witch the winds.”

“You know these people, then?” I asked, fascinated. Wenek, while sarcastic, had never struck me as backwards in the slightest.

“Some,” he admitted. “I’ve seen them fight, up close. Clansmen are deadly with an axe or bow in their hands and the hills at their backs. You march them two days, three days away, and they become a bunch of whining peasants ready to desert the first moment they can,” he said, disgustedly.

“Not all of them,” Baron Magonas said, shaking his head. “There are plenty of honorable warriors, great heroes even, from the Pearwoods. But they do make shyte for soldiers.”

“Then let’s not worry with them,” I dismissed, with a sigh. Another couple of thousand men would have been nice. “Because we’d have to march them west, against the goblins and away from their precious hills.

“But that leaves plenty of men for our present task. I say we ride to relieve Tudry, and we move soon.”

Gods help me, I tried to sound decisive and commanding. But I didn’t see the determined looks I’d expected. That bothered me, at the time.

* * *

Min!

Pentandra screamed into my mind, loudly and suddenly. I was stumbling back to my personal tent – as opposed to my headquarters tent – and her instant summons was so startling I emitted a yelp that was not fitting for a valiant leader of men.

WHAT? I screamed back. Are you in danger?

No, no, no, she insisted, sounding irritated. Just excited!

Obviously, I thought back, continuing on my way. What’s got you so excited? New crop of lusty young farmhands come in?

No! But kind of you to ask. No, the Order met tonight. I automatically stopped and looked around, to see if someone could overhear my telepathic conversation, which was just silly. A testament to how tired I was. Hamlan was peacefully snoring, his head on my baggage. Isily had left the night before with Mavone, so I was alone.

So? Did they successfully plan the spring picnic?

They agreed – in principal – to back you and your proposal.

I’m hardly shocked, considering how much it will benefit them. And considering I’m the one taking all the risks. Did you tell them it didn’t really matter what they did, that I was already in the field?

No, I’m more diplomatic than you. But they did allow me to address them as your lieutenant. Assistant. Aide. Whatever.

I prefer the term ‘lackey,’ I thought, amused. But you’re the Order’s Steward, remember?

And I prefer the term ‘wet nurse,’ but once again I wasn’t consulted. Will you just listen a moment? I’m getting to the important part! The Order of the Secret Tower has voted to form an alliance with our Order . . . whatever we end up calling it.

That’s great. Really, I appreciate their support.

If you succeed in Alshar and return alive, that is.

That sounds like a stunning vote of confidence, I thought back, sourly.

It’s better than it sounds, I promise. For one thing, Daddy is now our liaison with the Order, so anything we want, we just ask him. He’s swinging a mighty big stick in council now that he’s got glass.

I’m sure you both cut an impressive figure. I did, actually – Penny’s dad was a well-respected mage with a highly distinguished lineage even before he got irionite. Now that he was attuned to the stone and learning how to master its power, he was more powerful than every other mage in a room full of powerful magi. And so was his little girl. That sort of thing gets you a lot of respect in our profession. But what does that translate to, in practical terms?

Respect, for one thing. Influence, for another.

I’ve been hobnobbing with the nobility already.

Not the Remeran nobility, you haven’t. And Remere is one of the richest Duchies. What we do will probably influence Merwin and Vore more than Castal does. If most of the important magical families line up behind your proposal, then it won’t matter what title anyone calls themselves. Since the Remeran Ducal Court Mage was at the meeting last night – and horrendously jealous of me and Daddy – I’d say that whatever influence he can extend on our behalf to the ear of the Duke would be welcome. As long as he gets a shard of irionite someday.

And that helps me . . . how?

Well, you’re going to need some place to hide out, if you screw up Alshar and Castal, she offered. Look, it’s a long-term benefit, not a short-term one. But if you—when you do survive the war in Alshar, we’ll be in a lot better position to take advantage of it.

I know, I know, I just wish that it translated into something a little more concrete. I’m marching off to battle tomorrow – or at least toward battle – against a whole army of goblins. It would give me great pleasure to know that I had help coming for that.

Well, sorry about that – my days playing warmage are over. I’ll stick with politics, I think. More ladylike.

Well, I need more warmagi, I thought, bitterly, not more politics. I thought I was done with politics when I left Wilderhall.

I could ‘hear’ her chuckle in my head like she was whispering in my ear. You stupid, silly boy, she sighed. You’ll never be done with politics . . . not until the politics is done with you. Luckily, you have me in your corner. Now aren’t you glad I figured out the telepathy spell so I can do the hard thinking for you while you’re slaying goblins?

You mean the direct mind link to my ex-girlfriend that I can’t shut off so she can lecture me about my inadequacies any time a goddess has a mood swing? I asked her, my brain dripping with sarcasm. It’s lovely, yes. Brilliant of you.

Chapter Eight:

Breakfast With The Court Mage

Wilderhall, Midsummer

I was awakened just after dawn by liveried page – a lad of about nine, wearing a tabard with the stars-and-moons over the Ducal badge of antlers-and-roses that served as the Court Mage’s device. I opened the door groggily, the taste of good wine gone sour in my mouth, and stared at him almost in a stupor.

Apparently the boy was used to that kind of reaction. He bowed his neatly-combed head in my direction and announced that Master Dunselen requested my presence at breakfast in the Mage’s Tower, a small, crumbling structure attached to the Ducal residence. I blinked a couple of times before I realized he was awaiting a response. I told him I’d be along shortly, and that I would be most happy to dine with the Court Mage. I threw him my last penny as a tip, and then got ready.

I poured water in the basin and then indulged in using magic to heat it to the perfect temperature before splashing my face and shaving. I took care of a few other things, set the chamberpot beside the door, and took the time to dig the out traditional hat for certified magi.

It’s technically a four-pointed hat, popularized by renegade Wenshari magi before the Conquest, but somewhere along the line three of the points got sewn to the largest peak, which rose over a foot over the brim, so it was basically a one-pointed hat. Mine was very basic – I rarely wore it, since graduation, although some of my spellmonger associates took to wearing theirs all the time. Particularly the shorter ones.

The day was still fresh and damp and cool, and walking across the bailey, watching the churls and servants bustling about with the thousand daily errands it takes to keep a castle this large running smoothly. As I saw one poor fellow carrying not one, not two, but four full chamberpots, I was suddenly very gratified at my choice of trade. And it wasn’t just the lack of muck. Magi very rarely bustle. Some strut, some stride, some loom, and some fidget annoyingly, but with magic, there’s nary a reason to bustle.

I arrived at the private entrance to the Mage’s Tower, a pleasant-looking circular tower six stories tall that was attached to but separate from the Duke’s Tower. Thankfully Master Dunselen’s dining room was on the ground floor. I love towers – hate stairs.

There was a single bored-looking sentry almost holding a spear who took my name, searched his memory for a moment, and then admitted me. From there, an old woman with a castellan’s knot around her neck directed me into the dining room as she was bringing food from the kitchen in a big wicker basket: fresh baked biscuits, honey, a bowl of tiny sausages, some cheese, a smaller basket of fruit, and a bowl of boiled hen’s eggs peeled and sprinkled with salt and savory herbs.

A much better breakfast than I expected. I could see why you might want to consider life as a court mage. The food’s good.

She laid about the table with the ease of long practice, muttering to herself incomprehensively as she cut cheese, poured me a mug of weak beer, poured cups of hot tea for the two of us, and sliced up a couple of pieces of fruit. She disappeared just as Master Dunselen was making his way down the richly-carved wooden staircase.

“Good morning, Master Dunselen,” I said as I stood and bowed with my best court manners. Pentandra had made me practice protocol and proper forms of address for hours, damn her, and I found them coming to me easily now. The old man executed a stately bow just a bit higher than mine, after acting a little startled at seeing me there, as if he had forgotten the appointment. Then he noticed my hat and chuckled.

“I rarely wear mine,” he confessed. “I used to wear it all the time, but when I got this post, well, the hat that comes with it is pretty heavy.” I remembered it from graduation – a singularly tall affair in the Duchy’s colors, yellow and red, festooned with silver and gold symbols. “It’s beastly hot in the depths of summer, too. Hard to look mystically competent when you’re sweating like a pig.”

He took a seat at the table without further ceremony, and I followed suit. “Thank you for joining me this morning, Master Minalan,” he said, kindly. “I wanted a chance to speak with you before the others got their grubby hands on you. One mage to another.”

“The others?” I asked, intrigued, as I speared an egg on the point of my knife. “Am I in danger of being kidnapped?”

“Hardly!” chuckled the old wizard. “Indeed, I can’t imagine a person in the Five Duchies who could manage that . . . now that you have a witchstone.”

Ah! I knew there was a purpose to this early meeting: the old geezer wanted a piece of glass. Just as Pentandra had predicted. That made sense. He wanted his bribe. And that was something I could work with, once I got past the niceties.

“I wouldn’t advise abducting me,” I agreed. “It wouldn’t be prudent. So what ‘others’ are you speaking of?”

“The other members of the Council,” he explained, sipping his tea while it was still piping hot. “The Ducal Court has many courtiers whose interests intersect with ours,” he said, conspiratorially. “You can expect several of them to try to ‘reason’ with you today – oh, always in the interests of the Duchy, as they perceive them.

“Most of them will be deeply troubled by your radical proposal. Attitudes at Court tend to run toward the conservative, I’m afraid. Even with this new threat on the horizon, most won’t see the advantages to it, not without a compelling reason. If I know them at all, I’d guess that they’ll try to persuade you to drop your demands and go fight the gurvani anyway.”

“Master, I’m not inclined to be persuaded,” I said, politely. “Although I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts on the matter.” Best pin him down, now, establish where he stood. Would he back my plan out of his own – and his professional – self-interest? Or would he sit out and wait to see which way the winds were blowing before committing, one way or another? The problem with court magi, of whatever level, is that they know just how easy a job it is – and how easily they can be replaced.

The old man bit off an almost dainty piece of sausage and looked at me thoughtfully. “Minalan, I’ll be candid: the idea of the Dead God out there scares me a lot more than the prospect of mere invasion.”

“Then you are more wise than some in Court,” I said, thinking of Count Sago’s dismissal of the Dead God. “I do not have words for how truly powerful and malevolent he truly is. And his servants are nearly as bad.”

Dunselen shrugged. “I am not so concerned about them,” he admitted. “We can kill goblins by the thousands, but as long as that abomination remains, we cannot win this war.”

“We agree on that point, at least,” I nodded. “But do not dismiss his minions lightly. I’ve faced them in battle, and while they are unsophisticated, they are drunk with power and fanatically enthusiastic about their service. They will strike at us any way that they can, as long as they can. Their hate for us is palpable.”

“The gurvani have never been genocidal,” he said, shaking his head. “Warlike, yes, upon occasion. But even they have some measure of respect for life and the rules of war.”

“Had,” I corrected. “You underestimate the influence the Dead God has had on their culture. The gurvani in the Minden range are almost entirely under his sway.” I thought of Gurkarl, the gurvan I’d captured in battle and whose life I’d spared. He had been an exception, one of the gurvani who had been drafted into the hordes just as I had been drafted into the army for the Farisian campaign. He held to the older, simpler, more tribal ways of the pre-Sharuel gurvani.

It had turned out to be the right move, even if I’d been conflicted about it at the time. There was a century-old shamanic prophesy about the first gurvan to see the sacred cave, blah blah blah, and while the Dead God thought he had been the one to do so, the fact was that I’d allowed Gurkarl to see it first. He’d been smuggled out of Boval castle with the rest of the survivors, traveling through the sacred gurvani molopar swaddled in cloaks and cowls to keep him from being seen for what he was.

I’d had my second apprentice, the bookish Rondal, take charge of him. From what I understood, he and Gurkarl were secluded in the south at an ancient monastery devoted to Gorbarb, the old Imperial god of war. He was surrounded by some friends of mine, the Gobarba, mercenary monks whom I’d hired out of Tudry last spring. They were devoted to the archaic divinity, and they realized the potential importance of the prisoner, once I’d explained it to them. Hopefully he’d be safe there until I could find a more permanent place for him.

“What you say may be true,” he agreed, reluctantly. “Surely they can start some mischief. But primitive shamanic magic, against Imperially-trained magi?” he scoffed. “Even with irionite, without the power of this Dead God behind them, I can’t see them becoming much of a threat,” he said, convincingly.

Only I wasn’t convinced. Master Dunselen, despite his age, wisdom, and experience, didn’t know what he was talking about. Shamanic magic was nothing to dismiss lightly. Not if you wanted to survive the day.

“I don’t think the Council truly understands just how profound a danger there is,” I said, diplomatically – no need to correct the man if I didn’t have to. I remembered what Penny said about getting the Court on my side. “But if the gurvani aren’t countered, and quickly, then there won’t be much of a Duchy left to worry about the Dead God. It’s going to have to be a war on two fronts, one temporal, one magical.”

He nodded sagely – I’m sure he practiced that look in the mirror. “Indeed. I’ll admit your . . . proposal yesterday gave me food for thought last evening. I sat in front of my fireplace and meditated on the ramifications of relaxing the Bans . . .” he trailed off.

“And did you come to any conclusions?” I asked, eyebrows raised. This was the important part. This was the Ducal Court Mage of all of Castal. If Master Dunselen wouldn’t support the relaxation of the Bans, then I couldn’t see anyone else in Court doing so. No one important, at least.

“I did,” he sighed. “And after a long contemplation, I have to agree, we cannot win the magical war with the magi we have. Even warmagi. Not against the Dead God.”

“There are just too few, and even with irionite, there are too many restrictions on just what kind of magics can be practiced,” I agreed. That was one of my profession’s biggest complaints about the Bans, and the Censorate that enforced them: the harsh restrictions on research. There were whole fields of study that were considered off-limits or highly-restricted, and the Censors had a habit of broadly interpreting the statutes.

Sometimes it made sense – experimenting with deadly diseases, for example, or charms to compel a suicide or murder are dangerous. Other times, the restrictions didn’t seem to serve a purpose.

My own field of specialty, for example, the thaumaturgy of sex magic, had been discredited for years because of the prudish nature of my barbarian ancestors. There wasn’t even a particular regulation about sex magic, per se, just a few codes concerning using magic to abet rape or murder, or compel consent and such. But the Censorate just didn’t like that sort of thing, and so a promising field of research had been atrophying for years for no good reason.

“But to relax the Bans . . . that may well give us a valuable tool in this magical war. If the Duchy could add to the ranks of the magi without the Censorate breathing on the back of their necks, we could put far more warmagi in the field and have far more spellmongers and hedgemagi supporting them,” he declared.

Certification has always been an expensive prospect without a sponsor or patron to pick up the fees. That has forced many low-born, Talented students to either abandon the practice due to lack of funds, or develop their powers slowly, haphazardly, and without controls and become hedgemagi or foot wizards.

I nodded, as if he had brought up a powerful point that I had yet to think of. “If we were able to bring some of our clandestine brethren into the light, well, I’d count that as a good thing for our craft. Particularly if they were armed with irionite,” I said, wryly.

“Oh, yes,” the old wizard said, clearing his throat self-consciously. “There is that.” The pause afterward was pregnant enough to have puppies.

“You want a stone, don’t you, Master Dunselen,” I observed. It was a statement, not a question.

“I will not beg for one, nor will I betray my liege,” Dunselen declared, finally naming the price of his bribe. “And, technically, the simple possession of a stone violates the Bans, the way they have traditionally been interpreted. But I will not deny I am envious, Master Minalan. Jealous, even. I saw but a glimpse of their power, yesterday, and it was breathtaking. I have been able to think of little else, since. To have such forces at your command . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head while he ate a biscuit.

“It’s more invigorating than you can imagine,” I agreed, softly. “But there are other dangers you should know, before you decide to commit. You can over-use a stone, become dependent upon it and crave it like a drug, if you are not careful. The power can drive you mad. As it did with Orril Pratt. And one poor spellmonger’s apprentice in Boval who allowed the power of the stone to overwhelm him. He killed his senior apprentice, and we had to destroy the stone . . . which ended his own life. I learned a tragic lesson about irionite that day. Which is why I have instituted the oaths I have, Master, so that there is some responsible oversight for their use.”

“Some would say that a commoner’s son who works as a village spellmonger is not the best warden of responsibility,” he pointed out, gravely.

“Let them say it to my face,” I suggested. “If they have a compelling argument, I’ll hear them out. I might challenge them to a duel, afterward, but I’ll hear their argument.”

“And you would win, no doubt, regardless of whether the contest was magical or martial in nature,” he observed with a chuckle. “You have suddenly come into a great deal of power, Master Minalan. And you refuse to be any man’s tool. That’s a dangerous combination.”

“I don’t refuse to be any man’s tool,” I pointed out, “I just want a fair price for my work. If the Duchy wants to contract me to go kill gurvani, then I’ll do it. If they meet my price. I want the Bans relaxed; I want magi to be able to purchase and inherit property, and to retain their noble titles. And I’ll distribute irionite as I see fit, to further the war effort,” I said, reasonably. At least it sounded reasonable to me.

“But the oath you require binds the recipient to you, personally,” Dunselen said, shaking his head. “Not the Duchy, nor even the Five Duchies of the Kingdom. Nor to the Censorate. You, Minalan the Spellmonger. That smacks of the tactics of the Archmagi of old. That kind of oath was foresworn after the Magocracy fell.”

“I thought it was a good institution,” I shrugged. “It used to be that the Archmage regulated the use of magic, and that if you had a stone, you were his man, in service of the Empire. That system worked well for centuries.”

“Yet you are no Archmage,” he countered.

“I’m still working on that,” I quipped, with a small, tight smile.

I wasn’t being serious, at the time. The institution of the Imperial Archmage traced its roots back to ancient Perwin, long drowned beneath the waves. For the Empire founded by its survivors, the Archmage was at first a hereditary non-entity, then a competing power, and finally an all-important figure of unity . . . before he confiscated all the loose irionite, threw it into the sea, and kept just a few pieces for himself.

A few centuries later, the magical aspects of the office had become largely incidental as the Archmagi became sated with temporal power, and saddled with the administration of the Empire. They studied magic less and less. Then a bunch of northern barbarians came along, and they didn’t have the ability to defend themselves. The rest is literally history.

“But it does beg the question, Master Dunselen,” I continued, “that if it is not me who controls who does and doesn’t get witchstones . . . who does? You?”

“Oh, that would be for the Duke to decide,” he dismissed. “Or the Censor General, Master Hartarian.”

“Duke Rard would likely defer to his staff on the subject,” I pointed out. “That would be you. Who would you hand over a witchstone to? And could you guarantee that it would be used wisely, and in the defense of the realm?”

Dunselen looked troubled. “I . . . there are certainly plenty of deserving . . . I’m certain that the political reality . . . His Grace is usually adept in matters of . . . oh.” He heaved a great sigh. “I think I see what you mean,” he admitted, sadly.

“Exactly,” I nodded. “If the task and responsibility is made part of the Ducal hierarchy, then the distribution and regulation of Irionite becomes a political issue, and suddenly you’re handing out stones based on noble birth and wealth and political connections and favors owed, not merit.” Penny had coached me on this part, too.

“I see your point,” nodded the old man. “I think our ancestors were wise to put the Censorate outside of the reach of any single Duchy. Someone who had the power to grant irionite, who could become a powerful, insidious weapon. And a political nightmare.”

“Which is why I insisted on my resolution to the problem. Part of it is pure pragmatism: I’ve got the only stone that can shatter the bond to the Dead God. Which means any truly useful stone has to come through me. I’m not impressed by titles or who your sire was, or how much gold you can loan to the Duke. I’m going to look you in the eye, test your will, evaluate your abilities, and make a decision based on that. This keeps the issue apolitical.”

“You might be right,” agreed Dunselen. “As to the matter of Irionite, I cannot fault your reasoning. But then you propose to let magi buy or inherit property – which makes us an even bigger political issue, when our profession is already reeling from the madness of Orril Pratt.” He looked guiltily through a window facing away from the courtyard, into a private garden. “Did you know that I, myself, was in line to inherit?” he asked, a troubled look on his face.

“I was not aware of that, Master,” I said truthfully.

“It wasn’t a huge fief, but my father was Lord of Greenflower, in southern Remere, long ago. I was the eldest, and the only son. Destined to be a knight, or at least a prosperous lord of the land. When my powers became manifest it was decided that they were too profound to be easily bound, and I was sent to apprentice with old Master Inglo, court mage to Count Brasalan of Remere. It was a great honor,” he insisted, as if he had to convince himself. “My sisters’ husbands divided up my patrimony. Of them, two are dead and their land belongs to strangers. The third . . . she’s feeble, and likely won’t live to see Spring. And then lovely Greenflower will have left the family for good.” He seemed pretty sad about the whole thing.

“If the Duke can be convinced to accept my bargain, then that won’t happen again,” I vowed. “A son could inherit his father’s lands as a magelord. A worthy warmage could be rewarded by the Coronet for good service. And we wouldn’t be a pack of mumbling mystics moving from barony to barony looking for work most of the time. Think of what we could do, with irionite and lands to sustain us!”

“I know, I know,” he said, testily. “I’ve thought of little else since we ended our session yesterday. Do you not think I haven’t dreamed of this impossible day? I’ve had a longer life than you, Minalan, and I’ve read more. I’ve read accounts of the greatness of the Magocracy, of the even greater heights of lost Perwin. The magelords of old brought fertility to the fields and flocks and protection for the people. They flew from place to place in magical contraptions. They could speak to each other at a great distance. Their powers seem boundless . . . our modern profession grasps at the crumbs from their table and tries to call it progress!”

“So you are in favor of me pushing the Duke on this?”

“I think I am,” he said, decisively. “We are all doomed if we don’t do something.”

“And what are the chances, do you think, of convincing him?”

Dunselen pursed his lips over his frosty white beard. “He won’t make any decision until he has consulted with the Censor General. But he has no real love for the Bans or a loathing for our trade. He’s a good leader, and simply wants to rule his realm in peace and prosperity. If this will help with that, then he will consent.”

“Gods help him if he doesn’t,” I sighed. “I’m serious about my pledge: if my terms are not met, then you can expect to see me and my warmagi on the next ship for Vore. It will take a couple of generations for the Dead God to reach that far east, and perhaps by that time the remaining Dukes will have better sense.”

“The Duke may not allow you and your brethren to leave,” suggested Dunselen.

“The Duke may want to re-think that,” I answered. “I daresay I could defeat any attack he cared to throw at me. And with my men with me, there’s not force that can stand against us. No human force,” I amended. My warmagi and I had stood against the might of Sharuel and were lucky to be alive. He swatted at us like bugs. Compared to him, all the knights in the Duchies were preferable as foes.

“So I advised him,” Dunselen agreed. “I don’t think such a course is likely. I feel you have nothing to fear from the Duke. The Censor General may have other ideas. As I said, great power has come to you. And that power will attract enemies.”

“So how about you, Master Dunselen?” I asked, slyly. “Are you my friend or my foe?”

“Neither,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I may not be the most powerful mage in the Duchy, but I am the most politically adept. Of course I’d like to call you an ally – it’s rare that the Court Mage has an ally in court. But I will not betray my Lord for the chance. Your oath . . .”

“Only concerns the realms of magic,” I pointed out. “It merely governs how the stones are to be used and prescribes them from misuse. And invokes your aid or assistance in supporting me in removing stones from those who prove themselves unworthy.”

“And if a mage you’ve given a stone to does prove unworthy?”

“Then the stone is forfeit to me. I make no claim on the mage’s life. I merely reclaim the property and give it to another.”

“Those are not arduous promises,” he conceded. “Mayhap the Duke would allow such an oath, if it would grant the Duchy a stone.”

“The Duchy does not get a stone,” I declared. “The stone belongs to me. I grant it to an individual, regardless of position or title. And it stays with that individual, regardless of position or title. The Duchy cannot take an oath.”

“But you would consider granting a stone to . . . to me, personally?” the old man asked, his voice quivering.

“I have long admired your work and been impressed in how you administer the Duchy’s magi,” I admitted. “You are correct: you are not the most powerful or adept mage in the Duchy. But you have good sense, political savvy, and the ability to put the needs of the Duchy and its people before your own. I would certainly consider granting you a stone.”

He looked as happy as a kid with a sugar lump. “Really? Truly?”

“As a matter of fact, I would accept it as a condition of the deal. If the Duke meets my terms, then you shall take the oath and have a stone. You may use the stone to defend the realm and shore up its defenses, or you can go east and make yourself fabulously rich. I’ll leave that to your conscience. But I need the Duke to listen to my plans and do as I say. And it is known he turns to you often for advice.”

“Of course, of course,” he nodded. Then he paused, a biscuit halfway to his mouth. “Master Minalan, are you using a witchstone to bribe me for my support?” he asked, suspiciously.

I considered. “Yes, actually, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” I conceded.

He thought about it for a moment, and then his biscuit resumed its journey. “All right, consider me bribed. I lust for the power of the stone – as any mage might.”

“And once you have it, you will realize just how pale a lust it was, compared to the fulfillment of desire,” I promised.

“Then you shall have my aide,” he granted, nodding. “It may be that you will remake the image of the magi throughout the Five Duchies, Minalan.”

“I’ll settle for a nice, prosperous little village somewhere where me and my woman can raise our children unencumbered by gurvani,” I shrugged. “Truth is, Master Dunselen, I have no personal ambitions beyond that. I don’t want to be a court mage, or a warmage, or even a spellmonger, if you want to know the truth. I just want to live my life and pursue my research without being bothered by the weight of the world. Alas, if I get what I ask from the Duke, the thing I want most will be furthest from my grasp,” I sighed.

I might have been a little dramatic about it. It wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t completely candid, either. With the power I had and the money I had, I could afford to buy myself into the nobility if I survived. A small rural lordship somewhere. Maybe somewhere east. But until the threat of the Dead God was abated, I knew I couldn’t rest. Not for long, anyway. He had stared into me with those soulless eyes, and that’s an image that doesn’t fade over time.

“Well, you have my word, I shall support you, Master Minalan,” Dunselen agreed, confidently. “Now, tell me about these warmagi . . .”

The rest of breakfast was far less stressful, once we had covered business. Dunselen’s professional specialty was water magic – the man knew more about how water flows downhill than I knew was possible. His pet project was at one of the Duke’s minor estates, “loaned” to Dunselen to get around the Bans, where he had built an intricate waterwheel and other hydraulic contraptions to harness the magical power of water. Considering Wilderhall is in the border regions between the northern Wilderlands and the southern Riverlands, there was water aplenty to work with.

And I learned something else very important at that meeting. Water is boring.

I excused myself afterward as soon as protocol allowed, and was making my way back to my new quarters, when another page caught up with me. This one was older, maybe eleven, and his tabard had a golden axe crossed with a silver sword on a scarlet field, silver antlers behind – the livery of the office of the Lord Marshal of the Duchy.

“My master’s compliments, milord,” the boy said, his voice cracking at entertaining points throughout his words, “Count Sago invites you to join him in the Practice Yard this morning, if the Spellmonger will consent,” he recited.

“I’ll be there soon,” I answered. “I need to speak with the castellan, first. Tell me, with which weapons is your lord practicing today?”

The page had to stop and think for a moment. “Swordplay, today, milord. Archery firstday, grappling secondday, swordplay thirdday, lances fourthday, maces and axes on fifthday.”

“Swords it is, then,” I nodded. I had run out of pennies with which to tip him. Oh, well. He ran off when I dismissed him.

Indeed I did need to find a castellan, Harren, and I did – after asking three or four gold-tabarded castellans, they directed me to where he was overseeing the laundry. I waited politely before interrupting him as he chastised a group of old women that they weren’t getting the clothes clean enough for the fortune he paid them.

“Master Spellmonger!” he said, bowing deeply when he noticed me. “What service can I provide for you today?”

“Simple: I need some money.” I watched his face contort as a variety of reactions conspired. Better elaborate, I decided, before poor Harren thought I wanted a loan. “I left most of my belongings with my apprentices in my haste to get here, including my purse. However, I do have this,” I said, taking out a rough leather pouch. I opened it and put a single uncut emerald into his palm. “I got this from a gurvani – spoils of war,” I explained. “They use them like money, some of the more civilized ones. In any case, I have yet to have the time to find a jeweler to sell them. If you happen to know of one . . .”

“As it happens, I do,” Harren. I knew he would. “My sister’s second husband is a journeyman in the trade, in town. He does much of the repair work for the ladies of Wilderhall. He will give you a fair price,” he nodded.

“If you handle the matter yourself for me, you may take a quarter of the price,” I told him. His eyes opened a little wide – that was a substantial amount. “I just need some coin in my pocket, is all.”

“Quite understandable, Master Minalan,” Harren nodded. “I suppose usually your apprentice would handle such matters . . .”

I tried to imagine Tyndal, a low-born orphan who was a stableboy when I met him, bargaining with a wealthy jeweler. He’s an outstanding apprentice and a potentially powerful warmage, but Tyndal, unfortunately, lacks sophistication in many things. “Ordinarily, a guest arrives with a manservant or two to deal with such details.”

“My apprentice has better things to do than wait on me,” I said, shaking my head. “But I suppose I should consider employing someone to help out, temporarily. Pray, do you have anyone in mind?”

“I do, Master,” Harren nodded. “My cousin’s boy, Hamlan, is without a situation at the moment, after his last master died. He is well-trained for service, and he seeks employment.”

“If you get enough for that emerald, tell him I want to meet him. Can he use a sword?”

“Master? As well as any townsman. When we are sixteen, we spend two summers drilling with the militia. If I recall correctly, he was tolerable with a blade or spear. Do you expect that to be a necessity for the position?”

“It might be helpful,” I agreed. “And I need someone loyal, too.”

“Of course, Master. Hamlan’s reputation is pristine, although there was little enough to do for his last master. He took ill not long after Hamlan took his service.”

“Fine, send him to me this evening, then.”

Then I headed back to my room, grabbed my mageblade and weapons belt, and headed clear across the inner bailey to the Tower of Swords, where Count Sago awaited me. No doubt he wanted to ‘persuade’ me, as well. I wondered if I was going to have to wait on every courtier in the castle. If so, it was going to be a busy day.

Chapter Nine:

The Terror of Kitsal Hamlet

Green Hill, Late Summer

I used to think that there wasn’t anything worse than the terrifying nightmare of battle.

Not all battle – leading a thunderous cavalry charge into an inferiorly positioned foe, destined to slaughter them quickly and brutally is actually kind of fun, once you get over the pure gore of it.

I mean the other kind of battle, the one where the outcome is uncertain, at best, and your hope of survival is purely a matter of luck, skill, and the fickle whims of the gods. The press of flesh and metal and hair and blood, the screams of the wounded, the dying, the calls to mothers in the speech of infants, coming from the mouths of men grown, the curses and prayers and pleas for mercy, the drums and horns and war-cries by strangers who want to kill you all combine into one ghastly symphony from hell that assaults your ears and your mind all at once.

Mix that with the stench of fear and vomit and bile and piss and shit and mud and horse and steel and sweat, fire and ash . . . battle has a nauseating perfume all its own. It haunts your nostrils for days after, and there’s no passage of years that can dim the memory of that harsh aroma.

That’s on top of the confusion and shock of being faced with death not once – like when a cart almost ran over you and you narrowly escaped – but again and again and again. Death from the foemen in front of you, death from a fated arrow from the sky, death from behind by someone you didn’t even see was there, death from your tent-mate who mistook you for the foe, trampled by horses or bashed by maces, sliced by swords or punctured by javelins, from any direction at any time – not once, as I said, but over and over and over within the space of a hundred heartbeats.

Where every time you blink a new foe could reveal himself, a new danger could manifest, and you are helpless in preventing or avoiding it. Where every step you take seems foreordained to inch you closer and closer to your own grisly death. Where the surge of terror compels you to fight madly, or to retreat madly, or to scream madly into the chaos in defiance not of the foe, but of death, itself.

Where comrades and friends, men you diced and drank and whored with, lie gasping at your feet, their hot blood pouring from their bodies and pooling at your heels, their terror-filled eyes turned toward\ you in pleading despair, begging you to save them from their grim fate while knowing – as you do – that there is nothing that you can do to save them from the abyss, and that you will stand their helplessly while they die – or worse, forget about them in an instant as you dodge the next volley, next charge, next slash.

Where blood becomes as common as rain and screams are as normal as breezes, where rank and position and class have no meaning, and the basic commonality of struggling just to survive the man-made madness puts you and the greatest Duke on level. Where retreat into drunkenness, madness, or impervious detachment is the only remedy to the stain of the assault on your memory. Where the subtlest reminder of some far-away battlefield a lifetime away turns your blood to ice in your veins and makes old men wake up in the middle of the night, bawling like babies or screaming like terrified little girls at the memory.

I used to think there was nothing worse than that.

I was wrong. Kitsal Hamlet was worse than that.

* * *

It started raining just after dawn the day we set out from Green Hill Castle, and it continued all morning as our column wound its way down the hill and off to the northwest, toward the ford. I was riding in the vanguard with about twenty scouts, making sure we didn’t inadvertently blunder into any magical traps, ordinary traps, or ambushes. There were a few, at first, crude things that probably wouldn’t have done much even when they were fresh. I ripped through them like cobwebs.

But then the number of obstacles passed, and we thought we were through with the worst depredations the goblins had inflicted on Green Hill. Then the vanguard went up the ridge on the other side of the ford, over another ridge, and down into the shallow valley where Kitsal Hamlet was.

In Alshar and Castal, they call any group of huts with more than three families and less than ten a “hamlet” – otherwise it’s a village. In Remere they’re known as ‘cantons.’ I don’t know what they’re called in Merwin or Vore – I’ve never been there. But in Alshar they’re called Hamlets, and this one had four families crowded into five huts.

Past tense.

The goblins had arrived here first, it seemed. Kitsal was a tiny dot just outside of the Green Hill bounds, a cluster of homes of peasants and charcoal burners who eked out a meager existence on the margins of the two baronies. The four families had all been related by marriage or blood. I’m guessing that the goblins attacked them at night, because two of the bodies were still in nightclothes. In fact, they were the only two still dressed.

Everyone else had been stripped naked, beaten, and then tortured.

I could tell something was wrong the moment the winding path that led into the northernmost vassal of the Baron of Fesdarlen. Kitsal was a “border hamlet,” that is, an unofficial settlement near to the frontiers of two contentious fiefdoms. Usually these places get started as thinly-disguised smuggling operations, outlaw communities comprised of peasants on the run from justice in one barony taking refuge in the other. I don’t know how Kitsal got started, but that’s the kind of place it was. Poor. Unkempt. A community living on the margins of society by doing the jobs no one else wanted: trapper, tanner, woodman, charcoal burner.

There wasn’t a stone tower, a wall, or even a brick building that they could have taken refuge in away from the goblins. Not a root cellar. There wasn’t even a timber building – the crude huts they lived in were round wattle-and-daub affairs in various states of shabbiness.

They weren’t totally destitute – there was a large flat stone near the central fire pit where they made flat-bread. The goblins had used it as a sacrificial altar. There was an iron kettle three feet wide nearby, also communal. Only instead of vegetables and the odd bit of mutton or chicken or fish, it now it had fly-covered, rotting bones in the cold muck in the bottom. Children’s bones. About four of them. From the skulls, the largest of them was perhaps seven.

The corpses of the adults were tied to trees or posts around the center of the fire, where they had been forced to watch the proceedings. Except for the two in their nightdresses, they had been nailed to the walls of their huts. All the bodies bore testimony to the various means of inflicting pain that had been inflicted upon them: knives, rocks, sticks, slivers, fire, heated metal, boiling water . . . the limbs and extremities had been smashed, burned, or hacked off, piece by piece, by someone who knew how to do it without killing the victim right away. Even two days after the goblins had left, their corpses were still locked in a rictus of horror reflecting the terror in their final moments.

“Dear gods,” Azar whispered behind me. That impressed me. He’d seen some carnage in his time as a warmage. “They dare . . .”

“They do,” I said, grimly. “Look,” I added, nodding toward the corpse of one woman nearest the fire pit. She had been bound with her arms suspended from a branch tied cross-ways to a sturdy oak. Maybe twenty years old, her naked body had been tormented for days. There was a wooden ladle jammed in her mouth, so far down her throat it had ruptured it. I hoped she was dead already when the beasts had given her that indignity.

I dismounted, along with Azar and Astyral, who were with me. I had the twenty or so Hellriders who were with us form a loose perimeter while we studied the miserable place.

“She was held here . . . while her children were slain in front of her,” I said, sadly, as I touched her face gently. Her eyes, thankfully, were closed. I didn’t want to see the horror in them that might have survived death. “Not just slain . . .”

“Boiled,” Azar said, hoarsely, as he stared gingerly into the kettle. “Alive. See, their bonds are still in the bottom of the pot wrapped around their arm bones. They made her watch her own children get boiled alive.”

I removed the spoon, my heart sinking into disgust and despair. “And then they made her . . . they made her eat some of it,” I said, my heart in my throat as I carefully removed the spoon. “See how her teeth are broken? She tried to resist, but after making her suffer, and eating the stew in front of her and the rest, they tried to make her eat it. They killed her for refusing.”

“Captain, take a look at this,” Astyral murmured, kneeling in the torn up ground around the fire. “There were some fights, here. Not goblins, humans. I’m not a great tracker, but . . .” he said, fading off as he brought out his witchstone and cast something over the area. In a moment he grunted. “Yes, definitely two humans fought here. They were both wounded. One died . . . the other was dragged off.”

“That’s a pretty impressive spell,” I said, trying to focus on something – anything – to keep my mind from acknowledging the horrors around me. “Anything else?”

“It’s . . . it’s pretty confusing,” he admitted, glancing around purposefully. “If I had to guess, I’d say that the there was some kind of gathering here of between . . . twenty and thirty goblins.”

“And a shaman . . . his marks are all over the place,” I added. “Not one of the low-class kind, either. An urgulnosti. This one knew what he was doing.”

“It wasn’t just sport,” Azar agreed. “There was purpose, here. Some necromancy, perhaps?”

“It’s been known to happen,” I nodded. “But it looks less like they were trying to reanimate them, and more like they were sacrificing them. From the looks of things, the terror must have gone on for hours . . . days. That kind of raw emotion in the air can make a lot of things happen.”

“So what was the purpose of . . . of all of this?” Azar asked, a look of supreme disgust on his face. I could sense his own raw emotion boiling beneath a calm, cool exterior. When it finally came out, it was going to be ugly.

“You’re the thaumaturge,” Astyral said, standing up and nodding toward me expectantly. “You tell us. I can track, but I can’t tear down a spell.”

Damn. He was right. Azar was great at blasting enemies with righteous fury, and Astyral had more finesse than just about any warmage I knew, but this wasn’t warmagic. It was thaumaturgy.

I sighed. “I’ll take a look. It might be important,” I admitted, more to myself than them. I really didn’t want to look into this for fear of where it would lead. But I had to. That’s why I was the captain. “You and Azar go give me a perimeter. Make certain I’m not disturbed . . .” I said, looking around at the corpses hung out like solstice decorations around me. “Any more disturbed than I already am,” I added.

They both nodded gravely and went off in opposite directions while I sat down on the ground in front of the baking stone that had been used for such a macabre purpose. The victims’ blood stained the gray slab black, and the ants and bugs were already swarming around the edges to exploit the gory bounty.

I closed my eyes as I took out my stone, and I prepared myself thoroughly before I began the first silent invocation. I chanted a whisper under my breath, knowing that feeling my mouth shape the words and syllables was more important than actually hearing them, and I visualized the first keystone components of the spell. In moments, the rest of the world fell away, and I was surrounded by the faint remnants of the goblins’ spell.

I was right – the work was far too patterned and orderly to be the work of your average rural shaman. This was well thought-out spellcraft, deliberately applied for specific purpose. It was masterful, in its way – the mechanics behind it were elegant, if I understood them right, and whoever the practitioner was, he had used the seething energy of despair he’d collected with his stone extremely efficiently. I’d only seen work like this a few times, and I had been exposed to a lot of gurvani magic back in Boval. I probably knew how to interpret it as well as anyone.

Despite its elegance, it was jagged and harsh – this wasn’t a simple protection spell, or a shielding spell. There was greater purpose to it. And as I studied it more closely, I noted that it wasn’t a single spell, but three separate ones. Even more interesting.

Holding the images in my mind, I cast the Mortine’s Discovery appraisal spell, which separated the three sets of symbolic energy from each other. I took them chronologically, to help better establish what happened here. I owed the people of Kitsal Hamlet that much.

The first one was a seeking spell of some sort, I determined, but unlike any seeking I’d ever seen. But then I’d never seen a seeking on that scale before, never one that powerful and obscure. It had required a lot of force to implement, I could see, and the objective of the seeking, while obscured, was clearly something of power or value. The lingering knot of magical forces that remained imprinted on reality was not something I could easily untie, not without knowing more of gurvani magic.

So a seeking. They were looking for something.

The second spell was far more powerful and broad in scope, according to the Discovery spell. I could see that it was offensive in nature, but insidiously so: it was a potent emoting glyph enforced and amplified. I feared what I would find if I tried to interpret it, and wasn’t confident that the interpretation would be particularly accurate, but then I realized that I was just coming up with excuses why I shouldn’t do it, instead of just doing it.

I kept the Discovery spell in place and cast a standard Thaumaturgic diviner known as the Second Interpreter of Gois, one of the ancient Archmagi of Perwin. It examines the essential character of emotional-based magic. (For those taking notes, his First Interpreter is for elemental magic, and his third is for Theurgic. Yeah, you’re probably right not to take notes.)

It took a moment for the spell to begin to work, but then it would have taken hours for me to cast it without irionite. A cascade of glyphs, specially-created by the Archmagi to represent human emotions, appeared in a circle in front of me.

Fear. Terror. Panic. Agony. Helplessness. Sadness. Desperation. Anguish. Confusion. Hate. Rage. Temper. Jealousy. Hopelessness. Sorrow. Lament. Despair.

Despair, most of all. It pulsated in front of me like a beating heart, more palpable than even rage or terror. Despair ruled this casting. But the others were powerful in their own right.

It was a litany of pestilent emotions, wrapped tighter than a braid and combined in one oppressive miasma. It was the selected emotions from those poor victims of Kitsal, made large by magic and projected into the other half of the spell. I needed yet a third spell for that, and I didn’t feel like being reminded of what I was handling here – the dying thoughts and feelings of these people – any more than I wanted to handle their tortured bodies. So I dropped the Interpreter and used a more analytic spell for the other portion. I suppose I could have held on to all three, but that was just work I didn’t need to be doing right now.

The analytic spell told me that the emotions, having been bottled like wine and amplified, had then been poured out into the psychic atmosphere around us in a sophisticated sending spell.

The goblins were, quite literally, making us feel bad.

There was a lot of warfare potential for that – I’m good at blue magic (shorthand for emotionally-based or charged spells – like sex magic) and I’d used such runes exhaustively against the gurvani in Boval during the siege. Terror is an excellent ally, but a treacherous foe. Despair even more so. A couple of well-placed runes could get an enemy commander or an important officer off his game enough to make bad decisions. And a demoralized enemy is hard to compel to fight.

But I’d never seen anything like this. My runes were standard, similar to the glyphs I’d seen from their sending. “Rage” is a pretty easy emotion to manifest, after all, we’ve all experienced it. It’s almost comfortable. “Fear” is another easy-to-understand emotion, since everything more advanced than a slug can feel it. But these were far more particular.

This wasn’t just fear, it was “fear for the lives of my family” and “fear for my life,” boiled down and distilled to its brutal essence. It wasn’t just sorrow – it was the sorrow of watching your babies being boiled alive for the entertainment and nourishment of your captors. It wasn’t just anguish, it was the anguish of . . .

Oh, gods.

It was the anguish of being given the choice, of either watching your beloved child’s limbs be eagerly bludgeoned by one of those wicked iron mallets the gurvani favor, starting with the fingers and toes and working up to the pelvis and then being thrown in boiling water to suffer even further before they expired . . . or being allowed to spare her that horrible fate by bashing in her skull yourself before she was cooked. Brutally murdering your child out of a sense of motherly love . . . it was that specific kind of anguish. An emotion so raw, so powerful, and so foul in its inception that it washed across my mind like a putrid hide.

I vomited uncontrollably for a few minutes, after that.

I almost didn’t continue, because I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be there, I didn’t want to be alive, after understanding what the purpose of the sacrifices here had been. They had been designed to elicit just that kind of anguish and despair, so that it could be captured and broadcast like a handful of seed. It was the most vile and loathsome feeling I’d ever encountered.

I understood, finally: part of the reason behind the generally lackluster defense of Alshar was due to this spell – and others like it – being forced into the sub-conciousnesses of every man, woman, and child for hundreds of miles around. It infused the very ether, tainting every thought and every action without us even realizing it.

Oh, most magi have basic protections against that kind of intrusion, but they rarely extend it beyond themselves – too much work and (before irionite) far too much energy. Even with irionite, the power expenditure needed for a spell this size would be staggering. That’s why the shaman had to use the pain and anguish of his victims to fuel the spell, as well as provide the “inspiration.” Even with his stone, without a direct link to his bloody divinity, he’d have to find the raw power someplace else.

And the effects were clear. I’d seen the reflection of these emotions on the face of every refugee on the road, every peasant cowering inside castle walls, every lord realizing he faced the end of his days and the end of his line. It would be nearly impossible to live within range – and I had no clear idea how large an area that was – and not have those thoughts unless you had the empathy of a stone.

Having that in the back of your mind, day in, day out, haunting your dreams without you knowing it? It produces its own sort of terror, the kind that leads to abandoning determined thought and descending to the most primal depths of desperation and despair. And when your enemy is already terrified and full of despair, your battle is half won.

Weakened and shaken, I took a breath and resolved to press on, spitting the last bits of bile out on the ground. I still had one more spell to dissect. I owed it to these people to finish this job.

The final spell was the most direct and specific of the three. It was also the simplest to fathom. A directional spell, primed for one area, and saturated with but one motivation: panicked hesitation.

It took me three tries to triangulate the target of the spell, based on multiple sightings taken at different angles. I was pretty certain where it was supposed to go the second time, but I wanted to be certain.

Vorone. They were targeting Vorone, where Duke Lenguin was “gathering a force” and “marshaling his resources,” while Tudry lay besieged and the Wilderlands burning. Panicked hesitation. That perfectly described all of the contradictory orders and reports that were coming out of Vorone while terrified peasants were being drilled by sergeants, and knights were holding tournaments – tournaments! – in an effort to prepare for the coming battle . . . whenever Lenguin got around to it.

The Dead God and his shamans – no, call this one a priest, this was beyond simple shamanic magic – had been raining doubt and hesitation, fear and insecurity down on the minds and hearts of Alshar’s leaders, far beyond the capability of the Alshari Court Mage to defend against – if he even had the ability. This was a powerful bolt, decisively cast, and it brought new perspective to the war.

While I had been dithering about troop movements and enemy positions and political considerations and how many pounds of sausage we needed . . . the goblins had been poisoning the very air we breathed . . . the very thoughts in our heads . . . without our realizing it.

It was a ghastly use of an elegant piece of magic. I was impressed and appalled at the same time. And the implications were clear: Duke Lenguin’s army would not march anywhere as long as he and his men were subjected to this miasma of doom and uncertainty. And that wasn’t even the worst thing. The worst thing was that this crafting, this murderous sorcery, had the feel of a part of a greater whole.

I suddenly imagined scenes like Kitsal happening all over northern Alshar, with rural villages turned into ghoulish manufactories of terror and despair, their product fueling a concerted effort to turn any organized resistance against the Dark God into a terrified and panicked mob of desperate, hopeless souls.

I allowed the spells to fall, collected my thoughts, and stood, finally. It was late afternoon, now, and I could see the men in the woods were restless. I couldn’t blame them. I waved Azar and Astyral back over, and put my stone away.

“Well, I know what they were doing. I even have a fair idea of how they did it. I might even have a glimmer of a notion about how to counter it. At least where it most needs to be countered.

“But all of that’s secondary,” I sighed, as I pulled on my riding gloves. “Tell off ten men to dig a pit for these poor wretches, so that they may lay at rest and find what peace they might. Put every last bone, every last shred of skin in it, and bury it. We’ll proceed ahead to the temple of Huin and send a priest to do what cleansings he can – perhaps the gods can purify this, this tragic waste of life. I know I can’t.”

“Are you all right, Captain?” Azar asked, concerned. He was looking at me funny.

“I’m fine,” I said, leading them away from that stone – that sad little stone where one by one they were brought, beaten, sliced, and bled. “Have the rest of the van go well north of this spot. I don’t want any of the men to see this horror. Bearing witness to this will do nothing but enrage them, and make them prone to error. It’s enough that . . . that we’ve seen it.”

“Enough, Captain?” asked Astyral, his head cocked. “I’d say it’s more than enough. When we get to Tudry . . .” He looked more serious, more angry, and more anxious than I’d ever seen him.

“Then there will be vengeance enough for us all,” I agreed, quietly. “I just wish Master Dunselen was here, so that he could see just how terrible a goblin’s witchstone can be. Come on, let’s move on to the temple. If ever I’ve needed the purification of the divine, it’s after putting myself through that.”

Azar nodded, and began shouting orders to the Hellriders, as he motioned the trooper who was holding my horse forward.

It was only after I’d mounted Traveler and we left Kitsal that I realized why everyone had been looking at me strangely.

Tears had been streaming down my face constantly since I’d finished the spell.

Chapter Ten:

Exercise With The Lord Marshal

Wilderhall, Midsummer

I never thought I’d hold a sword, right up to the day when I finally did. And I’m not going to claim that I was a natural talent, from the moment I took one in hand. In fact, according to my instructors at War College, my early attempts at the noble art of steel were laughable, at best. I am not a natural swordsman.

But I am a good student – I had to be, back during my days at the academy. The Swordmaster at the academy was a nominal presence, a drunken knight with a flamboyant personality and a taste for young whores.

He was there mostly to appease the nobility’s burning need to stab at each other in adolescence, and to teach us peasants enough basics so as not to embarrass ourselves – because while spellmongers and court magi cannot hold lands, they can be challenged to duels. It has happened. I had a passing interest in swordplay, but I never thought it would come in handy and the Swordmaster smelled funny, so I went back to my books.

Most of my peers were disdainful of the sword as a means of defense, or had long ago mastered its use under private tutors. I wasn’t. When I got drafted and I realized that my life might depend on my ability to whip three feet of steel around, I realized I had to study. So I did.

For the first few weeks of War College, I spent what little free time I had in the yards, sparring with anyone who would teach me a thing or two. Luckily, nearly every older soldier there was eager to teach all the little tricks and techniques they’d picked up over the years. And I devoured them.

I discovered that sparring was fun. Learning how to stand, how to hold a blade, how to balance, how to strike, how to recover, how to parry – none of it has anything to do with how high-born you were. I went from laughable to respectable, and I could have stopped but when there’s nothing else to do around camp or on ship or in a garrison, you train and you learn.

I would claim that it was the essential aesthetic of the weapon and the purity of the dance of death it weaves in the hands of a passionate artist that drove me to the pursuit. But that would be incorrect. At the time, I knew I was going into the jungles of Farise, and I was terrified I would fall apart like a besotted peasant militia and piss myself before getting killed the first time I was in combat. So I studied . . . and I got better.

A lot better.

Part of it is the magic, of course, and part of it is pure swordsmanship. There are plenty of warmagi whose skill with a mageblade is better than mine. My comrade and colleague Azar, for instance, can do things with steel I’ve never seen another swordsman do before. He has really long arms, which helps.

I’ve heard there are eastern warmagi who will fight four opponents at once in practice with those incredibly thin eastern mageblades and best them all without even using as much as a cantrip. I’m not one of those, either. Indeed, without magic, I’d say I’m as skillful as your average enthusiastic squire or competent man-at-arms.

But once you add magic into the equation, things get a lot better. I was counting on that. Otherwise, I was going to get my ass kicked, I could tell.

The clang and clank of armor and swords and shields all banging around told me where the practice yards were without asking. Even one man in armor makes a terrible noise just walking across the room. Put a hundred of them on a yard at once, and the noise is nearly deafening.

The Lord Marshal was in his practice armor, well-beaten and hacked, and he was entertaining two opponents at once. Squires, it looked like, they had that eager-puppy look, a mixture of pride and fear and pure cockiness. They had probably been practicing swordplay since they were seven, but they were nothing compared to Count Sago.

He was good – as in, stop whatever you’re doing because you can’t take your eyes off of the way the man used a blade, that kind of good. Sago had complete control of that fight from start to finish, and he was brutal to his students. He slapped away their swords and made them stumble and pushed them off balance and did all those other things an experienced swordsman learns how to do.

Meanwhile, he yelled obscenities at them for their failures in a voice loud enough to be heard over the racket. Clear across the yard.

I watched for a while, and despite his clear mastery of the sword, a dozen casual conversations in yards like this over the years came back to me: every swordsman has weaknesses that can be exploited, if you have the wit to see them. I tried to find Sago’s, and it took a while.

But I did note that Count Sago couldn’t seem to keep his left foot on the ground when he advanced, and that he cocked his shoulder up a bit too far before he threw a blow overhand. Other than that, his technique was near flawless in my estimation. He validated it a moment later, when he disarmed one squire and had sent the other one on his armored backside when he was off-balance.

Then he helped them up and spent five minutes explaining exactly why they had screwed up, and what to do to fix it. Then he got a drink of water and noticed me standing there.

“Good morrow, Master Spellmonger,” he said, pleasantly enough. “Thank you for attending me.”

“I am at your service, Lord Marshal,” I said, bowing formally. I was still wearing my silly hat – I’d forgotten to take it off – and it almost fell off when I bowed. “What do you require of me?”

“You are a warmage?” he grunted, nodding toward Slasher’s scabbard in my hand.

“Trained and certified,” I acknowledged.

“Then you know which end of a sword to hold. Good. Armor up. Let’s see how well you fight. Single sword,” he added. The feeling I was about to get my ass kicked returned.

I nodded, as if nothing would please me more in the world, and followed a squire who brought me to the armorer – mock armorer, I should say. All of his swords and axes were blunted. Even the maces were made of weighted wood, not steel or iron. He helped me into a set of practice armor and allowed me to look over his weaponry. I finally selected a blunted iron sword near the size of Slasher, though it wasn’t curved or nearly as light as my mageblade. The balance was decent, but not outstanding. It was a few inches too short, too.

Close enough. After I got the padded helm strapped on, I waddled back out to the yard, where Count Sago was putting on his gloves menacingly. You might not think the simple act of putting on gloves can be threatening, but that should just demonstrate the competence of this man at his craft. Count Sago’s fingers were more ruthless than most men’s steely gaze.

I wasn’t afraid. I’d gotten smacked around a practice yard before. I’d gotten my ass kicked before. I wasn’t expected to win, not without magic. In fact, winning against him even with magic might be a bad thing, politically speaking.

“Defend yourself,” he said, taking a guard position, as soon as I got my helm on. He was using a hand-and-a-half sword, a kind of all-purpose knight’s blade useable on horseback or on foot, at home or abroad. He held it steadily in one meaty fist making tiny circles in the air with his blade as if to taunt me.

I didn’t rise to the taunt. I’m far more of a defensive swordsman than an offensive one. Instead of carving away merrily, like many knights I’d seen, I tend to be cautious, sensible, and sturdy . . . until my opponent makes a mistake. Then I strike.

Or, at least, that’s what I try to do.

Whatever guile I might have at swords wasn’t impressing Count Sago. He slapped my blade away two or three times, commenting that I wasn’t attacking aggressively enough . . . while knowing full well that being that aggressive was going to put me at his mercy. Instead, I chased his sword point through the air with the tip of my own, until he got fed up and laid into me.

Now, when you think of “swordplay”, no doubt you’re thinking of the delicate interplay of blade on blade, where technique is paramount. That holds true in some circles – indeed, in the east they rarely use a blade any other way – but Count Sago was a husky knight and a legendary warrior, on the tournament fields or in the battlefield. When he indulged in “swordplay,” there were no half-speed strikes or pulled blows. My wrist and shoulder stung with the impact of his steel on mine.

That first pass he pressed the guard of my blade harder than I’ve ever seen a man do one-handed, to the point where I had to focus to keep him from pushing through my guard – just in time for him to reverse the force of his push, allow me to force my own blade out of position without his resisting it, and then a half-step, a turn, a flick of the wrist . . . and my helm rang out like a temple bell.

Hard, that is.

I caught a wicked chuckle from him as he completed the pass, and I silently cursed myself for falling for the trick. I allowed him a second pass, where I didn’t fall for the same trick twice, thus demonstrating that I had at least half a brain in my head, and even managed to escape without him landing a blow. After that we circled each other, both studying to see any weakness.

There wasn’t much, on his part.

But then I saw that shoulder dip almost imperceptibly, and I managed to whirl around and block a strike that would have removed my kidneys, had we been in earnest. My wrist felt numb at the force of the blow, and I cursed. Sago chuckled and kept going.

“Well, you aren’t embarrassing yourself, at least,” the knight said, still only using one hand on his sword. It stung a little more because it echoed what I was already thinking. “I’ve seen belted knights who would have done worse.” He tried a feint as he distracted me with his words, but I noted that shoulder going down again and I managed not to be there when his sword whished through the air. “Well done!” he said, encouragingly.

“If you’re about warmed up, now, Lord Marshal, we can begin,” I said. He snickered at that, and nodded.

“I was hoping that wasn’t your best work,” he said, his face full of pity.

I could have just stayed there and let him hit me until he got his frustrations out – but I didn’t think that Count Sago was that kind of man. You learn a lot about a man’s character by how he uses a blade. I got the feeling he wanted to see me at my best, and truthfully I was only at my best when I used magic.

As my blade swam through the air, I mentally felt for my stone and brought forth a tendril of energy, and fed it to a spell I had hung for just such an occasion. I triggered the working with a softly spoken word, and suddenly everything was in slow motion. Count Sago’s blade was sailing for me making a blatant arc of steel in the air, one I was easily able to dodge by stepping back. I waited for the point of the blade to pass in front of my chest, and then stepped in as Sago became slightly unbalanced.

I wasn’t going to let that advantage pass: I grabbed his wrist and employed just the slightest amount of pressure to encourage his body to follow his momentum. When I was certain he was off balance, I carefully aimed for his now-exposed helmet, and struck him thrice, twice on the left temple and once on the right, as he fell to the ground. Then I took two steps to the side, turned to face him, and brought my sword up into a showy sort of guard that the eastern swordsmen fancy to impress girls. Then I dropped the spell.

And Sago fell on his face.

I give him credit – he rolled back to his feet in full armor a lot sprightlier than I would have believed. He was grinning too, which I wasn’t sure was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Ah!” he said, “at last – the vaunted warmagics!”

“It’s a poor substitute for a lifetime on the yards,” I said, diplomatically.

“Any advantage in war is an advantage you take if you value victory,” he quoted. I remember hearing that back in War College. I forget who said it. “So if you can use magic to best me, pray do so, Spellmonger!”

“That’s ‘Master’ Spellmonger!” I said, grinning back at him. For a moment, we were two kids playing in the temple yard sandbox. I suddenly saw a much different side to Sago, as I was trying to kill him. I re-energized the warspell and watched everything slow down again. He took two long steps to close the gap between us, his sword half-way thrust forward. A less experienced fighter might have taken that for a potential opening, but I knew that if I tried to counter the strike with one of my own, Sago would have a counter move that was likely to make me look stupid.

Instead I waited patiently for his second step and his lunge, and I just stepped out of the way while the sword passed next to me, his form nearly perfect. It seemed almost a shame to let him stumble like that – but his body was completely open and he was right: you don’t give up an advantage like that.

I hit him seven times before I assumed my own high-guard position, both hands on the hilt, blade perfectly parallel to the ground, weight on my forefoot, toe of my hindfoot just barely touching the sand of the yard. Then I collapsed the spell again.

Count Sago sprawled into the sand at my feet. A hush fell over the yard, which is saying something when you’re talking about a hundred men in steel armor.

“Well done!” Sago cried, springing to his feet. “Any one of these laggards would have been impaled by that!”

“Your Excellency, I did use magic,” I pointed out.

“You used your damned head, is what you did!” he corrected, dusting off his hands. “One of my boys would have tried to meet that thrust with a counter thrust to show off how strong he was, or worse, would have missed it all together. You had the sense to move out of the way and not let my attack ruin your own. That, Spellmonger, is far more important in swordplay than how pretty you look in your armor. Hear that?” he bellowed, loud enough for everyone in the yard to hear him, “This mage just did something that none of you maggots has been able to do in three years! Pay bloody attention!”

After that, we got along famously.

I can’t really blame Count Sago for his low regard for warmagi. Warmagi cost like mad, compared to an infantry soldier, or even a cavalry soldier, and it was hard to see a return on that investment, usually. Ordinarily, the magical corps of an army is used more in a support function, keeping insects at bay, defensive spells around camp, maybe a little scrying for reconnaissance. More likely they were employed to strengthen castle walls with various charms. A few, like me, actually strapped on a mageblade and fought in battle.

And some of us are just warmagi because we’re belligerent and Talented and like to hurt things. Not me, but some.

Sago’s association with warmagi hadn’t been positive, I knew, because he had sailed with the whiney lot who got to fight the Mad Mage’s vicious sea storms as they attempted a mass landing, and weather magi are notoriously emotional. My group had been a little tougher. We’d walked every step of the Farisian peninsula through unfriendly tribesmen, Farisian pickets, the jungle, and the mountains, and those hearty enough to survive attacked the city from the rear. As a result we were far more adept with “active” warmagic, not the passive stuff like fortification spells and weather magic that really pays.

But as we sat there, helms in the sand, a page bringing us both cool water to drink, I showed him I was as much a soldier – albeit not as good a one as he – as much as I was a mage. I commented about his shoulder, and he grinned and nodded. He pointed out how I dragged my left toe while advancing, and that was dropping the point of my blade by at least an inch. After discussing technique, reminiscing about the war, and covering the finer points of the differences between a war blade and a mageblade, he finally got around to what he wanted to talk to me about in the first place.

“So, Minalan,” he began, after drinking half a flask of water in one pull, “all of what you said in Council: how much was true?”

“Every word, my lord,” I assured him quietly. “And if you weren’t properly frightened, then I should let you know that I likely mitigated my observations for the sake of the ladies present. The truth, we are all in danger. Every man, woman, and child who draws breath. This is not an enemy like we’ve seen before. The Dead God cannot be bribed, appeased, or parleyed with. He can only be fought and, if the gods will it, someday destroyed.”

“And you are the man for that task?” he asked, skeptically.

“I know of no one better, my lord. If you do, then pray summon him and I’ll go home to my woman.”

He grunted thoughtfully. “That’s how I feel about this whole job,” he confided in a low voice. “I took it in the wake of the Farisian victory because I thought it would be a way to lead troops in battle and command respect and gain honor. If I had it to do over, I would have stayed on my estates and enjoyed my dotage.”

I couldn’t really believe that about Sago, but I nodded anyway. “It was bad enough when all I had to do was sort through the claims of inheritance and recompense from the campaign . . . now you bring me an implacable foe and dire danger, and a Duchy still recovering from Farise.”

“Perhaps you should look at it as an opportunity to die gloriously in battle, Excellency,” I offered. That made him roar with laughter.

“I like you, Spellmonger,” he said, finally. “I don’t give a horse’s hindquarters about the Bans. I don’t care if my neighbors and vassals are knights or wizards, so long as they keep their oaths and pay their tribute and keep to themselves. I don’t care if you can own property and be ennobled. All I care about is whether or not you can help me win this war ahead of us.”

“I will do everything in my power, Excellency . . . assuming that His Grace agrees to my terms.”

“He’s leaning that way,” Sago acknowledged. “The Duchess is in favor of your proposal, and her voice counts for more than most on the Council. Yet Rard has always been a Duke who prefers his own counsel the best.”

“Assuming he approves – and places me in command – then what forces could depart immediately?”

“I have a few ideas,” he admitted. “As much care needs to be given to their complement, as their number. I could drown you with peasant levies, or spearmen from the city militia, but I’d rather hear your recommendations.”

I knew a test when I saw one.

I shook my head. “I’d rather go alone. I need horsemen, at least a thousand, lightly armed and ready to fly. And as many archers as I can get who can move quickly and know their business. Not crossbowmen – I’ve seen too many who can’t repair their own equipment in the field.”

“Fine for clearing battlements or repelling invaders from crenellations, but nearly useless in open battle,” he agreed.

“I have seen eastern companies of mercenaries who were well accomplished in combat,” I pointed out. “But they were trained and well-armed and armored. And they were used to fighting other mercenaries, not gurvani tribes. These westerners . . . better give them a bow. The gurvani use them – and slings and javelins – but their range is far shorter than the Wilderlands bows. Oh, and they don’t know how to volley.”

Sago nodded appraisingly. “That will be useful. And heavy horse? You don’t wish for knights? No thundering charges, lances glinting in the sun?”

“They’d be worse than useless for what we go to do,” I said, kicking the sand at my feet. “Each one needs twice as much fodder, since they bring two mounts so as not to tire their warhorses. Not to mention a squire or two, a couple of pages, and possibly a blacksmith or other trusted retainer. This means a wagon, and two more oxen to feed. If I am to make it into Alshar in time to do any good, I’ll need to travel quickly. Men who can sleep in their saddles, live off the land, and keep moving at night. Veterans, if possible. No highborn fools with thoughts of gallantry. I need fighting men.”

“So no valiant, noble knights in shining armor?” Sago agreed. “You do have a brain, Spellmonger. Most heavy cavalry are too high-born to serve under a commoner – much less a mage – willingly. And every point you make is valid. That was the problem with the assault on Farise: every noble house from here to Vore wanted their pinion in the cavalry charge, and every noble idiot who felt his honor was at stake demanded a say in council.”

“If that is all you can get me—”

“I have something else in mind, actually,” he said, stroking his chin. “The Duchy has need, from time to time, to employ mercenaries for various duties which local lords are sometimes unsuited for. Such as garrisoning a castle in contention between houses. Or probing Remere’s borders without looking suspicious.

“There’s a particular company I have in mind. Light horse, spears and swords, five-hundred strong, well-armed and horsed and used to hard work. The Hellriders, a red stallion is their standard. Kaddel of Wenshar is their captain.”

“I’ve heard of the Hellriders,” I nodded, cautiously. That was true. I just couldn’t remember what I’d heard about them. “And archers?”

“There’s a town up river near the fork of the Yno and the Adkan river, called Nirod. It’s a free city, won its charter away from the Adkan barons in a war about fifty years ago. They’ve stayed free because they maintain a corps of archers who range their frontiers – free yeomen, mostly, and some burghers’ sons. Hardy folk. They owe a month’s service to the Duchy, by their charter, and another month for every year they aren’t used. They owe three years, so for three months they’ll be Duke’s men. Better yet, their town’s prosperity has led to them being mounted, some as richly as any knight. Five hundred, we could safely muster on short notice. Perhaps a thousand, if we encouraged them with gold.”

“Better,” I nodded. “And infantry?”

“Two companies: the mercenaries known as the Warbirds – they fly a raven standard – and the Orphan’s Band. The Birds are heavy infantry, used to long marches and garrison duty, but stout as oak. Five hundred, led by Sir Pendolan of Kayfier. The Orphans are better than they sound – light infantry, excellent sentries and pickets. Better, many are Alshari, so they’ll know the country. A thousand strong, sword, shield, and spear. Better yet, they are adept at field support. They run a commissary, supply, take care of all the needs of the detachment. And they fight. A little rough, but dependable. Their standard is a boar’s head – don’t ask me why – and their Captain is Bold Asgus.”

“Asgus!” I snapped. “I remember him from the occupation of Farise!”

“My harbor patrol,” nodded Sago. “And sentries. Don’t leave them alone with your daughters, but if you need throats cut, the Orphans are happy for the work. Asgus was the one who attacked the outer walls with his men.”

“So fifteen-hundred infantry, five-hundred mounted archers, five-hundred light horse.”

“Should you be commissioned with this, you can do me a favor and take Kavial’s Company . . . Sir Kavial of Kelaer. He was the other major contender for the post of Lord Marshal, and he hasn’t quite gotten over it. He has a company of well-mounted sergeants and a few knights, equipped to travel light and encamped not ten miles from here. I would be forever in your debt if you took him into Alshar and gave him a chance to win glory and maybe die a heroic death.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Send a rival away on a dangerous mission?”

Sago snorted. “Having him as Lord Marshal would be more dangerous – for the Duchy,” he said, shaking his head. “The man is a good leader of men, and wise on the field. Adept, even. But his opinion of himself does not meet his deeds, and he is a tactical thinker, not a strategist. He thinks of men and horses on the field, not in castles and fortifications.”

“Will he follow orders?” I asked, skeptically.

“Probably,” Sago admitted, after pausing a moment. “He’s high born, but he also prides himself on his camaraderie with the common soldiers. And he is popular. And open-handed. He has been skulking around Wilderhall for six months, now, hoping His Grace would have a need to employ him. The good news is that Kavial’s Company is a thousand-strong and carries its own baggage train.

“They are all good troops,” Sago said, matter-of-factly. “They have good captains and they’ve all been blooded. And they’re the troops we have available to ride, at the moment. What of your own men?”

“They are ranging, or encamped a few hundred miles from here,” I said, vaguely. “They will join me when I summon them.”

Sago looked confused. “Why have you not summoned them already?”

“They can cover great distances quickly, for one,” I pointed out. “If I call, most of them can be here within two days. I have most of them scouting Alshar, or running other errands. And they wanted to be certain that His Grace wasn’t going to do anything . . . rash with me.”

Sago looked troubled. “And if he had?”

“Twenty angry warmagi with witchstones . . . you saw the Mad Mage in action. Imagine twenty of them, laying waste to Wilderhall. Tearing it down, stone by stone. Turning the water brackish. Poisoning the very air.”

He paled. “And they would do this thing? If Rard had . . . “

“They are very loyal,” said, simply. “We faced the Dead God together, Count Sago. We walked through fire and waded through a sea of gurvani, and we survived. Together. You know how it is, when men face danger together.”

“I do,” he nodded, thoughtfully. “Let’s not see anything untoward happen to you, then, my friend,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “I can only deal with one military crisis at a time.”

“So you’ll support me with His Grace?”

“If you can win the war, I’ll give you every weapon I can,” he agreed. “And if the rest of your warmagi fight like you can, I’ll try to put as many in the field as I can.”

We walked back to the armorer together and got out of the uncomfortable gear, while Sago told me war stories, until a page in green with a yellow honeybee embroidered on the breast appeared. This one was a tow-headed boy of eight or so, the kind that ran everywhere. He made a very fast bow and blurted out his message, to the effect that His Excellency, Count Kindine of Sharr requested my presence at luncheon at noon in his study.

“Ah, the Prime Minister takes his turn with the Spellmonger,” Sago laughed, mirthlessly. “Beware him, Minalan. We are men of war. He is a statesman and a diplomat. You’ve given me a war to fight – you’ve given him the grandmother of headaches while he’s trying to govern the Duchy. The Hawk of Sharr rarely overlooks the source of such pains.”

I was surprised – the older gentleman hadn’t seemed particularly ill-disposed toward me yesterday in council. “He is against my proposal?”

“He will decide whether or not it benefits the Duchy before he forms an opinion,” Sago explained. “While Rard keeps his own counsel, Kindine is the voice who matters. He is the eyes and ears of the Duke. If Kindine decided that Rard was no longer going to be Duke, His Grace would fail to rise that morn. I may command the armies of the Duchy, but Kindine commands the purse that pays it.”

“Thank you for the insights,” I said, pulling my boots back on. “I shall be careful with my words.”

“He is not un-persuadable,” assured Sago. “But he dislikes disruptions, and this sort of thing he hates. The spies of the Duchy report to him, the tax collectors, the temples, the burghers, the merchants. And the bankers. Especially the bankers. He despises arrogance and stupidity – he’s a learned man, and practical. But also quick to temper. He will be watching your every breath like the Hawk he’s named for, and be suspicious of every word.”

“What a wonderful lunch I have to look forward to,” I said, glumly.

“There is a bright side,” Sago offered. “There will be wine.”

Chapter Eleven:

The Eve Of Battle

Temple of Huin, Late Summer

It was almost dusk by the time we wound our way around the rolling ridges and found ourselves at the Temple of Huin, on the northern side of a hill top in northern Fesdarlen. It was telling that from the summit of the gentle hill, we could look across the Anfal river and glimpse the massive black shadow in the gloom that was, I knew, the main goblin army.

“Great Duin’s hairy nutsack!” one of the Hellriders who were escorting us swore, alarmed. “There’re thousands of them!”

“Did you think I was jesting?” I growled, scornfully. I know, he didn’t deserve it – but after Kitsal Hamlet, I wasn’t in a charitable mood. I was tired, demoralized, and now far too conscious of the magical background “hum” of despair that permeated the ether around me. I was able to block the effects of the spell, personally and for my men . . . but the very fact that there was such a spell was inherently depressing and demoralizing. If ever I needed the solace of religion, this was it.

As temples went, this one was pretty rustic. Huin was a rustic god, of course, the second-youngest brother of the five half-brother divinities who conspired to slay and then cut up their father-creator-god, Vogar (who had a habit of raping his sister-gods in a drunken stupor – nice folks, our ancestral divinities). After the ritual murder, they’d used the dismembered limbs to create the lands of Callidore. Huin was the fourth son, after Duin the Warrior, Luin the Scholar, and Kulin the Horselord. Huin was given charge of the bounty of the earth after the slaying, runs the myth. His youngest brother, Tuin, the God of Mischief and Horsethieving (and other stuff) was far more popular in the urban areas, especially back east where his cult had taken hold in Vore. Huin was barely thought of, in many places, a hayseed divinity. A god of peasants.

But out here in the Alshari Wilderlands, where wheat and barley were more important than cities or warfare or cow herding, Huin had a real following. One of the Hellriders from this region filled me in as we ascended to the solitary building on the crest of the hill. This particular temple had been built about fifty years previous, after one of the barons of Fesdarlen was victorious in a war against Green Hill (over the possession of this very hill, and the village attached to it) in fulfillment of a battlefield vow.

It was large enough – indeed, it was built like a barn, that being the largest wood-framed structure the locals were familiar with. It had a fifteen-foot wide porch that ran across the front of it, where the priests of Huin could administer the more common rites to their worshippers in the light of the sun. Those included blessings of children, livestock, and farm tools (Huin’s symbol was a crossed Hoe and Sickle), weddings, funerals, name-day rites, and formal prayers to the god. Unofficially, it also included dispute settlement, preaching, instruction of the young and reading. About half the priests (there were seven of them) were literate, the only readers in the area. They also kept birth and death records, crop records, and records of prayers and petitions.

But it was shabby. I’d been familiar with the grand temple buildings of the south, back when I was in school. The Street of Temples had been loaded with ornate and elaborate structures dedicated to dozens of gods, mostly of Imperial origin but some Narasi and local divinities. Even the least of those took great pains to display their symbols and teachings with as much dignity and reverence as possible. In comparison, this temple badly needed a coat of paint, new thatching on its roof, and someone sober to tend the grounds.

But it was a working temple. Monks and priests were harvesting autumn vegetables in the overgrown garden that surrounded it, and a few worshippers were halted before various shrines throughout. It probably was even busier before the war. A temple to Huin This close to Tudry and in an area where farming was this important was certain to be popular. That didn’t mean it was well-kept. Both the priests and the few devout worshippers kept stealing nervous glances at the large goblin army in the distance, just across the river.

The High Priest in charge of the temple, an older man in a threadbare green robe and bearing a pruning hook-shaped staff, met us on the porch as we dismounted. He gave me a low and pious bow, and introduced himself as Landfather Gorin. I introduced myself and my men, and produced the writ that allowed me to be in Alshar and which insisted that I be extended every courtesy and assistance by all good Alshari subjects.

Gorin glanced at it, reading it quickly (he moved his lips) before grunting.

“So you’re a warmage?” he asked, skeptically, in a thick and rural Alshari accent. “You lot planning on doing anything about yonder goblins?”

“Eventually,” I agreed. “Have they tried to cross the river?”

“Not here,” he admitted. “At least, none that we’ve seen. Too deep, for one thing. Farther south, where the Great Western Road crosses the river, they’ve sent some war bands over, but the goblins don’t like water.”

“Lucky for you,” I nodded. “I’m bringing almost four thousand men here to fight them. I’ll be using this temple as a headquarters, if that is permitted.” I didn’t know a lot about Huin’s rituals, which I should be ashamed of. After all, according to western myth Huin married Breega, his half-sister and Goddess of Fire and Baking, whom my father revered and worshipped all his life.

I wasn’t exactly devout in any of the major cults. I knew Breega’s rites, of course, but before I’d had more advanced religious instruction I’d been bundled off to Inarion Academy and ended up learning the dry old rites of Yrentia and Avital, the Imperial God and Goddess of Magic. My ancestors, always suspicious of magic, didn’t have a divinity devoted to the study, themselves. They only had Luin, the “scholar”, whose major attribute was reading, which to my barbarian kin was magical in itself.

“Four thousand, my lord?” Landfather Gorin asked, astonished. He had maybe five teeth in his head, I noticed. “Has Duke Lenguin finally decided to save Tudry, then?”

“No, the Duke is still moribund in Vorone,” I informed him. “This is a Castali expedition, organized and financed by Rard, Duke of Castal.” Well, at least he was Duke of Castal at the moment – I wasn’t sure how much longer that would be true. “But I do intend to liberate Tudry, since Lenguin abandoned it.”

“Huin bless you and keep you fertile, Marshal!” Gorin chortled, excitedly. “We’ve been waiting daily for the hordes to cross the river and burn us out. Or a wandering band to destroy us. But Huin has spared His faithful such depravities,” he said, with all the faith a believer can muster.

Actually, I doubted the Lord of the Fields would have that kind of pull with the Dead God, but what did I know?

“What we require from you, Landfather, is concealment. My men will be arriving from now until midnight, and we chose the route we did to hide our movements from the foe behind your hill. I would like to keep them hidden, to maintain the element of surprise.”

Gorin nodded. “We would be honored to have you here, Marshal. Will you require the sanctuary?”

I glanced at the sky. It was fair, if a little cool – summer was already coming to an end. “I think we can get by with the yard, Landfather, with your blessing. Save the temple for the grievously wounded.”

He looked a little guilty – don’t ask me how I knew, it wasn’t magic, I could just tell that there was something he was keeping back.

“You have something to say, Landfather?” I asked him, boldly. “Something perhaps you were not forthcoming about?”

“Well, Marshal,” he said, smiling too much too suddenly, “when those damn goblins first came o’er the horizon and out of the Mindens, there was a bit of a panic, especially after Lenguin pulled all of his bannermen out of Tudry and left them with naught but the city walls and militia to defend them. Some of the temples and shrines in Tudry decided to go elsewhere, particularly some of the more vulnerable.”

“And this concerns us . . . ?”

“It’s just that in times of danger, this temple has oft been a haven for our fellow priests, and they likewise to us when Green Hill and Fesdarlen get to fighting o’er who claims us, like the Father of the Fields cares who we send tribute to. The Landbrothers and I have been known to go visit some of our sister temples when there’s too many ironclad folk about.”

“I see, Landfather,” I said, not seeing at all, but wanting the man to spit out his tale before I grew old.

“Well, when the mountain folk showed their ugly lil’ faces,” he said, sheepishly, “we had a few . . . refugees arrive, seeking shelter.”

Refugees. I was still confused, but I was willing to give the man another half a minutes of my time. “All right. So where are these refugees now?”

“Come with me, Captain,” he said, with a sigh of resignation. He led me into the temple, a hard stone floor sprinkled with sacred earth, the circular altar at the center of the structure under a window in the roof high overhead. There was no glass – this wasn’t a wealthy region, nor a terribly prosperous temple – but what the interior lacked in sparkles and glittering decorations, it made up for with the intricately-carved wooden panels that ringed the walls, each one portraying a scene from Huin Earthborn’s myth. I bowed reverently at the symbol of the gilded plow on the altar (no baker’s son was going to treat the Grainlord with any but the deepest respect) and waited.

Landfather Gorin went to a back corner of the neatly-kept sanctuary and touched three places on the paneling. There was a slight rumbling sound, and then a section of the stone floor seemed to collapse, before swinging aside.

“In these uncertain times, it’s wise for a Landfather to keep a secret or three,” he said, quietly, as the trap door opened. “Or, in this case, twenty-nine.” Three heads popped out of the door, and stared up at me curiously. “Captain Minalan, this is Herbmother Loradella, priestess of Falassa, and two of her Herbmaidens.”

I’m sure my face looked surprised at the plump, middle-aged face under a dark green wimple that stared up at me. She didn’t look surprised at all – just ill-tempered.

“Herbmother,” I said, bowing. “You and your sisters may come out, for now. I pledge no harm will come to you or your temple.”

“It’s about bloody time!” the high priestess swore, as the two younger women helped her rise out of the hidden room. “We’ve been in there for hours, now! Gorin, what took you so long? I was afraid you’d all been slain by goblins and were slow-roasting on a spit!”

“I’m far too old and stringy to tempt even a goblin’s palate,” the old priest replied, amused. “My apologies, Loradella, but I had to make certain that Captain Minalan could be trusted.”

I suppose I should have taken offense to that, but I didn’t. I knew just how bad having an army around could be, particularly for womenfolk. Too many men – especially mercenaries – did not see a woman in holy orders as any less-beddable than a farmer’s daughter. If she was not pledged to the gods a man followed, he rarely saw the harm.

“So you’re the one who Lenguin finally sent to rescue us,” she raged, bitterly. “About bloody time! Six weeks we’ve had goblins sniffing outside of Tudry, scaring the folk and raiding the farmsteads. Six weeks! And what does that idiot on the throne do? Recalls his men, and leaves us to die! May Falassa give him the itch!” she said, making a sign I assumed was protective in her cult – after she lifted her great bulk out of the pit. The two herbmaidens who assisted her looked almost condemned to their fate.

“Actually, Herbmother, I was sent by His Grace, Rard IV of Castal, although Lenguin has designated me a marshal and given me leave to ride through his lands. But I do intend to rescue Tudry Town from the horde, if I can.”

“Well Falassa bless you, young man!” she said, a mix of emotions on her wide face. “It sounds like you have more brains than a whole court full of nobles! So what can my sisters and I do to help?” she asked, brushing dirt off her hands.

Landfather Gorin spoke. “The Captain has asked that we use the temple as a field hospital. While the landbrothers and I know a thing or two about healing, your herbcraft could prove helpful.”

“For battlefield injuries?” she asked, skeptically. “Give me a simple plague or flux, any day. The herbs useful for such wounds are uncommon, and the poultices are difficult to prepare. We brought some of our pharmacopeia with us, but . . .”

“How many herbsisters are with you?” I asked, curiously.

“Four sworn sisters, and three novices,” she answered, curtly. “I left Herbsister Anawa in charge of the temple – she’s been coveting running the place for years, anyway, thought I’d give her a taste of the bitter leaf of leadership,” she laughed, wryly. “Along with two older Herbsisters, too hoary with age to tempt even the drunkest soldier.”

“Could you find some of those herbs in the forests and meadows? East and south of here,” I added, “not toward the foe. And not toward Kitsal,” I added. “Kitsal is . . . gone,” I added, when I saw the question in her eyes. “If I gave each of your sisters a trooper with a fast horse, could they find some helpful medicines?”

She considered the matter. “Aye, there be four or five herbs wild-grown my sisters know of,” she nodded. “Provided they keep their grabby hands to themselves!”

“I shall vouchsafe their conduct,” I nodded solemnly. “Gorin, you said you had twenty-nine surprises, yet the Herbmother and her ladies account for only eight.”

“You mean those filthy rodents?” the Herbmother nearly shrieked. “Goddess protect my nose, but they stink, Gorin!” she complained.

“All of Ishi’s creatures are sacred in Huin’s eyes,” he said, patiently. “Besides, you get used to them, after a while,” the old priest said, philosophically. “In addition to the Herbsisters, I thought it best to protect the Little Folk,” he sighed. “What’s left of them, at any rate.”

“Little Folk?” I asked. “You mean Riverfolk? Hoylbimi?”

“That’s what some sages call those ignorant rodents,” agreed the Herbmother with a sniff. “A dozen of them, that old man keeps down there with civilized folk!”

“The rest of their burrow was slaughtered by the goblins two weeks gone,” said the old priest sadly shaking his head. “They had a large one, up one of the tributaries to the Moran. Their chief, Lod, begged me for sanctuary. What was I supposed to do? They are Huin’s special children, beloved of the earth. Besides, the little buggers know their way around a vegetable garden.”

“And they know some herblore, too,” the Herbmother reluctantly agreed. “But that does not excuse that beastly smell—”

“Herbmother,” I interrupted, before she got going again, “please gather what you need, and I’ll have riders sent to you. Landfather, I need to get a messenger to Baron Merasan of Megelin, without alerting every gurvani in the valley. Do you have a man who knows the way?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Landbrother Masdal was born in that castle. He knows the quickest way, to be sure.”

“Then get your River Folk out to help gather your herbs, and send Masdal to me when he is ready to ride. I’ll leave fifty men here to guard – we’ll be bringing our baggage train up to the very base of the hill. But I want everything to appear normal, at least from afar. No additional fires, no more noise than necessary.”

The two priests agreed, and I left them to handle the details. I had plenty of my own to handle, and as much as I wanted a chance to talk with the Hoylbimi, I wouldn’t have that luxury until I was certain my plan was in motion. I spent the rest of the afternoon quietly posting sentries and snipers covering the approaches to the hill temple, and placing charms on the trails to discourage any casual wandering in our direction. My men continued to arrive, until just before dusk when the last wagon rolled in.

My men were eager to fight, at first, then reality of the coming battle came to them when they got wind of the tactical situation. This wasn’t going to be a slaughter, like Grimly Wood, or even a rout, like the Battle of the Lantern. There were almost ten thousand goblins out there, nearly three times the size of my force. Luckily, my force wasn’t the only one we would be depending upon.

I called a staff meeting after a cold supper with the men, at my headquarters pavilion, which Hamlan had erected a few hundred yards from the temple grounds. It was the only tent I allowed to be pitched, since I wanted the men ready for battle before sunrise, and unpacking all of that and pitching camp would take time and energy we really didn’t have. But I did need someplace quiet to cast spells, meet with commanders, and plan out our strategy.

Ham had thoughtfully set up the small map of the area we had acquired from the Baron of Green Hill, half the size of his deerskin map, but far more accurate. Particularly since I’d been filling in troop positions from scouting reports, once the Orphan’s Band infantry had marched in, as quietly as they could. They had a good grade of scout who knew their business, and once I established just what I needed to know, the lightly-armored infantry stole out at dusk in twos and threes to take their positions. I made a point to cast a nightsight spell on them, to keep them from getting surprised by gurvani. As most of them had been the subject of such a spell at the Battle of the Lantern, they accepted it almost as commonplace.

My commanders milled around the table (actually, a large flat round shield propped up on a barrel) under my magelights and chewed their lips and grunted thoughtfully as they tried to get a grasp of the tactical situation.

“We have our men here,” I said, pointing to the wooden marker someone had hacked a moon and stars Spellmonger’s symbol in. “We’re going to split into two forces, one primarily infantry, and one all cavalry.”

“We’re not going to use the cavalry to screen the infantry?” asked Bold Asgus, with a grunt. “Orphan’s Band infantry are not going to like that. Warbirds won’t be too happy, either.”

“They’ll have other things to dwell on,” I assured him. “They won’t need a cavalry screen. Because they’re going to be our reserves.

“Look, this is how things stand now. There is the largest band, eight thousand, on the other side of the Anfal between Tudry Town and the Castle Megelin. There’s a band of a thousand south of the Great Western Road, cutting off anyone trying to get in or out from the east. They will have to be dealt with. There’s another force of a thousand north of the road, close to the city gate. Either one or both could hamper any attack from Tudry or Megelin Castle long enough to let the main horde cross the river in support.

“But that’s been the problem for weeks now. Tudry and Megelin are both within range of the horde, but neither one is willing to commit their forces – the knights at Megelin because they are hopelessly outnumbered, and the militia at Tudry because they’re slow, poorly trained, poorly armed and have no support. If either one ventures forth, then the goblins have plenty of time to defend themselves aggressively before the other force comes into play.”

I glanced around the table at my officers. “So here’s my plan: we coordinate with both forces. Tudry’s is the larger, and the slower, so they won’t be able to do more than move their men to here . . . maybe as far as here, before the main horde can cross the river and descend upon them. Now, ordinarily they’d be able to cut the Tudrymen to pieces long before the Baron’s men could arm, mount, and make their way to the battlefield. But if the Baron’s men are forewarned, then they can prepare to ride the moment the Tudrymen open their gates.”

“Won’t that still take too long?” asked Kaddel of Wenshar, skeptically. “Unless they set out almost exactly when the Tudrymen do, they won’t make it to the field in time. Even if they took the foe in the rear, at full charge, the horde could turn on them before they could do enough damage.”

“Yes, and that would seem like a desperate, hopeless maneuver, to the gurvani,” I agreed. “And ordinarily, it would be. But not this time. Because when the horde starts to cross the river, we’ll position the Expeditionary Force infantry to emerge from behind the hill, marching to here,” I said, pushing a pebble across the map, “until they can pin down the southern band watching the road. There’re a thousand of them, but you’ll have archers and infantry, and I will give you two squadrons of cavalry for scouting, screening, and support. All you have to do is tie up the southern band and keep them from hitting the Tudry militias in the flank.”

“That’s feasible,” Bold Asgus said, nodding slowly, which was high praise from the old campaigner. “Especially if they aren’t aware that we’re here.”

“We’ll have to be careful about intercepting their scouts, then. While your men are keeping the southern band busy, the northern band will move to here, most likely,” I said, pushing another pebble closer to Tudry. “They won’t go any farther, or they’ll get trapped in Tudry’s defensive works, but they could get as close as here, stop the Tudrymen from advancing, and keep them busy while the main horde crosses the river in support.

“Only we’re not going to let them. As soon as the northern band starts to move toward Tudry, we’ll time it so that the Baron of Megelin hits them in the rear, full force, lances flashing in the sun. Now, that won’t be enough to kill them, but if he strikes hard and fast and does a lot of damage, they’ll forget all about the Tudrymen while they deal with the knights.”

“And then the big horde will descend on us all and kill us,” Sir Pendolan said sourly as he sipped something strong from a silver flask. “Great plan, Spellmonger. It won’t take them that long to ford the river there. No cavalry, remember?”

“They would, if that’s all they were facing,” I agreed. The man was challenging me, which was arrogant, but that was what you got in a first-rate cavalry officer. Pendolan was always a bit of a pessimist. As annoying as that was to me now, I could understand how a landless knight and mercenary captain might cultivate a poor attitude.

“But as soon as the horde crosses to engage the knights and rescue the northern band, that’s when we charge around the hill, down the slope, and plow into them from the east, on Baron Merasan of Megelin’s flank. All of our cavalry: the Hellriders, the Green Hill knights, and Kavial’s Company, all of them. Hard. As hard as you’ve ever charged, and then you’ll fight as hard as you’ve ever fought. Then,” I continued, as I pushed the big block signifying the main horde across the river, “as our cavalry hits them here, our infantry can push north along with the city garrisons into the southern flank of the horde, where they can pin them and pour volleyed fire into their masses.”

“And that’s supposed to be enough?” Pendolan asked again. “Captain, with all due respect, the way I figure it every man will have to kill four goblins, if we’re to have any hope of defeating that horde. And what of the ford? What’s to stop them from re-crossing it and awaiting us on the other side?”

“That . . . would be perfectly fine,” I agreed, not backing down. “Indeed, that would be preferable. Not that I care spilling goblin blood, or I wish to leave a foe undefeated in the field, but this is no tournament, Sir Pendolan. Defeat and victory are not counted by how many lances strike, or even how many heads fall. In this case, our goal is not to defeat the enemy, but simply drive him away from Tudry long enough to facilitate the evacuation.”

“And then what, Captain?” Rogo Redshaft asked, curiously. Pendolan was at least listening, although the look on his flinty face told me he was not convinced.

“Once we have the goblins pinned between the cavalry and the infantry, we begin the evacuation of Tudry in earnest. Every man, woman and child who wishes to leave – and I’m guessing that will be the majority, after six weeks of low-level siege – will come down the Great Western Road, behind our infantry lines, and head toward Vorone. We keep the goblins off of them while they move, we win. If we don’t, and they’re slaughtered on the road, then we lose. Those, gentlemen, are the conditions of victory.”

“So we’re risking all of our lives to help a couple of peasants escape?” Sir Pendolan asked, as if that was as foolish as rushing back into a burning building to save a chicken. I was starting to get tired of this. I whirled, and tried to keep the frustration from my voice.

“Yes, Sir Pendolan, that is precisely what we’re doing – only it’s not ‘a couple of peasants,’ it’s near to thirty thousand men, women and children who are desperate and counting on us.”

“Counting on us to remove the threat,” he countered, stubbornly. “You think you’re going to convince them all to leave their homes and their treasures behind to flee? When there are still goblins around?” he asked, challenging me.

“Yes, Captain, I do,” I answered, coolly. “Because I’m also going to tell them that I plan on burning the city, once they are gone. Anyone who wants to stay around for that is welcome to.”

“You’re going to raze Tudry Town?” Sir Kavial gasped, incredulously.

“No, Captain, but I’m going to tell the people I’m going to raze the town,” I answered patiently. “That should get any sluggards moving, and scare away anyone who won’t stand to fight. If we can get the majority of the people down the road, then that will be enough.”

“What I don’t understand is how you’re going to coordinate all of these charges and maneuvers and such,” Redshaft said, shaking his head discouraged. “Begging your pardon, Marshal, you’ve impressed me thus far, I’ll admit. But I’ve been in more than a few scraps less complicated than this that all went to hell because some damn fool messenger broke his horse’s leg or got captured by the enemy, or someone didn’t see a signal they were supposed to. Keep it simple, I say.”

“Those were battles where the general wasn’t using his magical corps properly,” I pointed out, firmly. “That’s our key: we’re going to coordinate the attack using magic, and once we’re engaged, you’re going to have irionite-wielding warmagi among you. With our stones, we should be able fight a lot more effectively than before. And we were pretty good before.”

Sir Kavial still looked very skeptical. “Marshal Minalan,” he said, stressing the title just a little more than I was comfortable with, “with all due respect, this seems like an invitation to disaster. If anything goes wrong—”

“Of course things will go wrong!” I said, more harshly than I meant. I was getting frustrated. I tried to cool down. Kavial had been with us only since Green Hill, and while he had performed well in the Battle of the Lantern, he still wasn’t used to taking orders from a man who wasn’t at least a knight. All things considered, he’d handled the unusual nature of my command rather well.

“It’s a battle. Things will go wrong. But if you quit thinking about gloriously driving the foe from the field, or slaughtering every last goblin in Alshar, and start thinking about the goal – to prohibit the Dead God from sacrificing thirty thousand humans to feed his magical hunger – then you’ll see that regardless of what goes wrong, we can still win this battle even if every one of us is killed.”

Rogo Redshaft looked at me thoughtfully. “Thirty thousand civilians – if that many can be persuaded to move or face their doom – in exchange for five thousand trained fighting men? Is there value in that?”

“They are not potatoes. They’re people,” I emphasized.

“Men are not potatoes, Marshal, that I understand . . . but I have to question the wisdom of this, considering what you foretell is in store. If to win this battle is to prohibit their souls to the Dead God, would not razing Tudry and put the populace to the sword ourselves, and ride away before we can be assailed to fight another day? That also buys us this victory you define. But without the cost of our lives. Would that be a more prudent course of action?” he asked, almost daring me.

I looked at him like he’d just proposed – well, like he just proposed slaughtering thirty thousand people in cold blood. Then I saw the point he was making, and I nodded.

“Very well, and well-spoken, Redshaft. The conditions of victory are this, then: to allow the escape of thirty thousand subjects of Alshar, and to deny the goblins the use of the town. If, along the way, we happen to kill ten thousand of them to do it, then so be it.”

Kavial looked at the map and then looked back up at me, grimly. “Captain, how do you propose to do that?”

I looked at him and tried to impress him how serious I was. “Magic. Valor. The favor of the gods. And pure, blind, fickle luck. We have our warmagi, we have some of the finest warriors in the Wilderlands,” I said, exaggerating slightly, “we have the blessing of every human god, and . . . well, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling lucky today,” I said, shrugging. “But more importantly, Sir Kavial, I propose that we win the day by being harder, tougher, and nastier than they are, standing up while they fall down, and fighting valiantly on while they drop their clubs and flee. Is that not how every battle is eventually won?”

Kavial was either convinced or couldn’t think of a snappy come-back. How could he? I’d just challenged his valor, just as Penny had coached me. He just grunted what I took for an assent, and I continued.

“You gentlemen weren’t with us when we found the horror at Kitsal Hamlet. Perhaps you’ve heard rumors, but the truth is that those people died miserably, and their deaths were turned into a weapon of war against us. If for no other reason than to avenge those innocents, you should be enflamed to destroy that horde.”

“It’s not my passion that needs arousing, Captain,” Kavial said, a little more gently, “it is my conscience that needs soothing. I’m about to ask my men to go into battle – I want to be able to look them in the eye and tell them that they have a chance to see another day.”

“I am not planning on sacrificing anyone. I’m actually pretty hopeful about the battle. We have the element of surprise – I’ve got three magi blocking us from detection right now. You’ve all got a few hours to rest your men and horses, and then on the morrow you will either die gloriously in battle, or you will survive another day to die gloriously in battle. Either way, we have a job to do. I think it’s a good plan, but if you have a better suggestion, now is the time to make it.”

Damned if they didn’t.

Oh, they stuck to the bulk of my plan, but each one added their own refinements to it. Redshaft pointed out that using his men like infantry archers in what was going to be a large scale field battle was poor planning—instead he suggested that they be broken up into two groups flanking the heavy and light cavalry. That way they could advance ahead, stop within bowshot, loose a few volleys before the heavy cavalry hit, and then retreat to re-form as needed. I couldn’t argue with that. We had five hundred well-trained horse archers. It would be a pity not to use them the most effectively.

Bold Asgus had a lot to say about the deployment of his infantry. For example, in most battles they would have proceeded with spears and pikes, with bow and sword for close quarters. In this role Asgus wanted to emphasize the defensive by emphasizing shields – the larger the better. Sir Pendolan wanted to emphasize killing power, and suggested that every other man wield two blades and forgo a shield. Without enemy archers to worry about, they could focus on the job of grinding the goblins into sausage.

They compromised with Asgus granting every third man take two blades, and every fourth to fight with a glaive or bill. The goal, he argued, was keeping them in place, and for that the shields would be a better advantage. I couldn’t argue with that, and as long as Pendolan’s Warbirds could wade in gore he was happy. His men would be the bulk of the attack on the southern band’s flanks, and he could use rag dolls and cabbages if he thought that was best.

Sir Kaddel shrewdly pointed out that his men were the logical ones to lead the cavalry charge, and he was right. He said it arrogantly and full of bluster, but his Hellriders had the best-mounted troops among the cavalry, the ones with the most battlefield experience, and they were the logical ones to take the van. Sir Kavial looked like he was going to draw and slay Kaddel on the spot – by whatever penis-measuring scale professional mercenaries use, he clearly felt he and his men should be at the point of the lance. And I really did think they would fight, for a moment.

Then Sir Pendolan diplomatically suggested placing half of Kaviel’s Company on Kaddel’s right flank, with the other half held in reserve with the sergeants and men-at-arms, under Kavial, himself. At first Kavial looked offended at not being in the gloriously dangerous center position, and worse, condemned to command the reserves.

But then he realized that he would be in a position not just to demonstrate his bravery, which every cavalry captain wants more than the first kiss of a maiden, but to also influence the battlefield tactics that could lead to defeat or victory. He had that much mind for strategy. But I was surprised at the source: Sir Pendolan was an infantryman, after all. Was there a tale there, perhaps?

More politics. On the eve of battle, no less.

I gave Pendolan a searching look as he made his case. He was a career mercenary, and had been since he’d been knighted. But he was also a loyal Castali knight, and had been on the Farisian campaign. By suggesting that Kavial command the reserves, he wasn’t just defusing a sensitive situation, he was offering up an opportunity, I saw.

Sir Kavial had been looked over at the end of the Farisian campaign, despite his well-known excellent service there. Politics. He was an outside contender, it was said, for Lord Marshal when the armies returned to the Duchies, only Sago had outmaneuvered him. Instead of taking a lesser post under his rival (and it was offered), he had returned to his mercenary company once again to sulk. Or contemplate. Or scheme.

But here was a way in which he could distinguish himself. It was a political victory, regardless of the outcome of the battle. I was somewhat appalled that I could spot it as such, but my few days at Wilderhall and Penny’s endless lectures had given me a crash-course in politics.

While Kavial decided whether to be honored or offended, I finally decided that it didn’t matter who did what, as long as we won the battle and rescued Tudry. Evacuated Tudry.

And that gave me an idea.

Politics was everywhere, in everything, Pentandra had tried to beat into my head the last few weeks. Not only did I want Kavial roused for battle on the morrow, I also wanted him to be confident in our victory. He wanted position? I could grant him one that would raise his stature in the Duchies permanently. When Pendolan finished his proposal, I nodded sagely and placed the markers on the map. I ran through the proposed timetable, introducing each new force at the proper moment, each spell I’d planned, and what I hoped was the inevitable outcome.

When no more of them had anything more useful to add, I took a long look around at them.

It looked great – on parchment.

“We hit them hard tomorrow, twice as hard as we did under the Lantern. And afterward – and I expect that there will indeed be an afterward – we will ourselves occupy Tudry, at least as much as can be fortified.”

“Won’t the Baron of Megelin have something to say about it?” asked Bold Asgus, wryly. “That is his fief.”

“It’s a free town, by charter,” I pointed out, “and he has Castle Megelin to worry about. He doesn’t have the men to guard both, even before the battle. But in this case, I outrank-him,” I reminded him. “ I have my own mandate from his own Duke’s own duly designated representative. So after this battle, we will be occupying Tudry and holding it against the foe. Just don’t tell the peasants,” I added.

“Why do we want to do that?” asked Sir Kaddel, making a face. “Loot it, to be sure . Burn it, even. But occupy an empty city? Why?”

“Because Tudry is the largest, best-defended town in western Alshar,” I argued. “It’s on the front line of the battle. It’s at the terminus of the Great Western Road. We can always raze it later, if we need to, but if we raze it now we can’t build it back if we need it. It will never be the same again, I agree, but after this battle, gentlemen, I propose to make Tudry Town our forward base against the Dead God. And someone will be named Warden of this seat, I promise.”

That woke them up. They all knew which way the wind was blowing: from the west, and it smelled like fur and war. The man who commanded the first garrison held against the goblins would, undoubtedly, rise to the attention of the rest of the Duchies. A Ducal commission could sometimes turn into a hereditary fief, such as it had with Lord Maron, the powerful Counselor of the West.

The Lord Marshal, Count Sago, himself, had to yield to Lord Maron’s opinion in matters dealing with the Castali-Alshari frontier . . . and the office included revenues from dozens of fiefs, not to mention the prosperous estate of Westwatch. Honor and glory are all very well and good, but if you want a noble’s attention, start talking real-estate.

Alone among them Rogo Redshaft declared he wanted no such honor. He was a proud commoner from Nirod who had no higher ambition than to fight well and bring his men home to their town in north Castal, see his wife and kids again. I not only respected that, professionally, but it at once elevated Rogo as the wisest amongst my captains in my opinion. And confirmed, in my mind, why Count Sago and not Sir Kavial had been selected to be Castal’s Lord Marshal.

Because His Grace, Rard IV of Castal, is not an idiot.

Chapter Twelve:

Lunch With The Prime Minister

Wilderhall, Midsummer

Count Kindine’s residence was in the Duke’s Tower but it was on the opposite side of the elaborate structure from the Duke’s actual residence. It was also far less grand and imposing than the entrances to the Ducal section. I only passed two sentries as a page led me into the interior of the keep to His Excellency’s private study.

The day was already hot, and I’d already worked up a sweat sparring with Sago, so the cool stone interior was a welcome relief. Kindine was already at table when I arrived, three or four of his functionaries and secretaries bringing him food, parchments to sign, wine, parchments to read, and whatever else the old man required. Mostly parchments.

Kindine looked up as I was announced, but that was the extent of his notice until I was escorted to the broad table from which he was prime-ministering. Once I was seated, he finally dropped the scrap he was reading and turned his attention to me.

“Master Minalan the Spellmonger,” he stated. “Recently of Boval Vale. Now come to be the savior of the Duchy. If we are willing to meet his price.” He picked up his wine cup and leaned back into his chair. Despite his age, he had retained a pot-belly, upon which he rested his cup. “All he wants is to overturn the established order that has served us well for three hundred years.”

“When you put it like that, Your Excellency, you make it sound like a bad thing,” I quipped with a smile. “In truth, I would have preferred to remain a village spellmonger, not take up the warmagi’s trade again. The gods had other plans.”

“They often do,” he said, evenly. “Spellmonger, do you realize what your proposal would do to the Duchies?”

I nodded. “I do. Indeed, I’ve thought of little else, lately. But I submit that such a tumultuous change in our society is a minor thing, compared with the invasion from the Dead God.”

He grunted, and considered that while he drank more wine. A few drops dribbled into his snowy white beard. “You have a point. I’ve been reading dispatches since dawn. Three thousand goblins invest Broan. A band of a thousand raids the Loglands and another molests Rickluan to the south. The town of Tudry is besieged, and not expected to survive a fortnight. I’ve got a report that says there are ten thousand moving along the Great Western Road, and another that says they’re moving down the banks of the Geiner river. Still another claims a large force, as many as sixty thousand, is grinding through the northlands, between the wild tribes and the Northwardens. Sixty thousand, Spellmonger. If these reports are to be believed, all of northern Alshar is invaded.”

“Believe it, my lord,” I said, sadly. “If anything, they tell only a tithe of the tale. All could be true, and double every number and you still would not have an accurate story. The Dead God has prepared legions, my lord. And we are seeing but the first throw of his game, his pawns and skirmishers.”

“And you think he cannot be parlayed with?” he asked, hopefully.

“If he was a mortal gurvan, perhaps,” I conceded. “They are just as prone to flattery, bribery, and other elements of diplomacy as men are. But their mortal generals live in terror and submission to this undead shaman, Sharuel, my lord. He cannot be bribed. He has no earthly desires to exploit. Riches, power, women, none have meaning to him now. His only desire is destruction. Our destruction. Our . . . extinction.”

“And you say he cannot be defeated by arms, alone,” Kindine sighed, bitterly. “We are the strongest of the Five, on land, yet our mightiest armies would not avail us against him. Or so you say.”

“If my testimony is not sufficient, my lord, I would be happy to summon others who can validate it,” I said, smoothly. “There are a few thousand Bovali peasants camped in the south who would be happy to swear to everything I say. That is, assuming you don’t trust the testimony of the warmagi of my Order.”

“Obviously something is happening, or my study wouldn’t look like a way-station for weary messengers and used parchments,” the old man said, as yet-another urgent note came in. He took it and glanced at it and added it to one of several piles he had before him. Then he whispered a note to a clerk, who jotted it down on a slip of parchment and passed it back to the waiting runner, who took to his feet almost as fast as he’d arrived. “Your explanation, as damning as it is, is the best one to fit the situation. So that is the one upon which we will act. You say that this Dead God cannot be defeated by arms, yet you urge an armed response. Explain.”

“The Dead God cannot be defeated in the field, that is true,” I answered, carefully. “But his soldiery must be fought all the same. There are hundreds of thousands of people in northern Alshar in their path. Thirty thousand in Tudry alone. They must be protected from the goblins. An armed force could screen the refugees from attack, and allow a more orderly retreat.”

“A more orderly retreat?” scoffed Kindine, explosively, as he set his wine glass down with a thud. “You are talking about hundreds of thousands, Spellmonger. Hundreds of thousands of Alshari. If they are spared the goblins, then they will be at our frontiers, eating our rations, looking to us for protection—”

“And you will need every one who can hold a spear or sword, my lord,” I interrupted quietly, as a page brought me a trencher with a slab of cheese, a slice of beef, and some over-cooked, unseasoned vegetables. “This war will not be over by autumn. It will not be over in a year. Sharuel has been preparing his soldiers for a hundred years. If we don’t get the people out of the way, they become his slaves, or worse, sacrificial victims to feed his magics.”

“Why not merely shut our frontier against them?” he asked, sharply. “Turn away all who seek shelter, and let them cry to their own Duke for aid?”

“Because we are not beasts, we are men,” I said, stiffly. “Those folk may live in Alshar, but they’re humans. And we will need them, eventually. Save them now, or lose them forever. Or do you propose putting Castali garrisons around the invasion? How many Castali nobles would be willing to stand such a watch?”

“Interesting perspective,” he grunted. “The fact is, Duke Lenguin of Alshar is a pompous idiot. My Alshari counterpart, Count Venn of Darlake, rules in earnest from Falas in the south. Lenguin feels like he has to do something, however. He’s holed up in Vorone desperately trying to raise a force in a Duchy already a third overrun. Surely he would welcome such an influx of his own people?”

“They’d never make it to Vorone,” I said, shaking my head as I cut the beef with my knife. “At least not many of them. The distance is too great for them to make the journey on foot without being preyed upon by gurvani. And Vorone is looking to its own defense.”

“As should we, wisdom says,” Kindine countered. I studied him thoughtfully for a moment. Clearly, he was being resistant to my proposals on purpose. What was he after?

“My lord, perhaps I can put it another way: would you rather fight the gurvani now, on Alshari soil, or would you rather fight them next Spring, at the gates of Wilderhall?”

“I would rather not fight them at all, but as you said, the gods had other plans,” he sighed, heavily. “And you insist that their filthy shamans carry witchstones?”

“Dozens,” I agreed. “Yet despite their great power, they lack the ability to work well in concert, as Imperially-trained magi do. We proved that at Boval Castle. A score of us were able to keep the shamans at bay. Mayhap we could have held indefinitely – or at least until the food ran out – but the Dead God arrived, and forced our departure. Every one of those stones is connected to Sharuel, too. He can see from the eyes and hear from the ears of every shaman who holds a stone.”

“And you feel you can match this power, by relaxing the Bans?”

“I feel that the only hope we have of countering the Dead God lies in relaxing the Bans,” I stated again. “There is no guarantee of victory, my lord. It would be untruthful for me to say otherwise.”

“You would have us make magelords again,” he accused. “Wizards with temporal power. Magi who can inherit their father’s estates, take their titles—”

“And swear the same oaths of fealty and service any other lord would,” I countered.

“And you in charge of them all,” he said, his old, sharp eyes boring into me. “You, a stripling spellmonger, the son of a baker.”

“If not me, then who?” I asked, the same response I’d given Dunselen. “Consider, my position, my lord. There will be a war between us and the gurvani. The Dead God’s shamans will fall in battle. Warmagi will find those stones. And without my aid, they will be, eventually, under the thrall of that dread lord. Imperially-trained warmagi, bathed with power from the irionite, enslaved by our darkest foe. Would you have him command them, or me? The weapons in this war are on the table, my lord. We pick them up in our defense, or they will be used against us.”

“I see your point,” he finally said, reluctantly. “Spellmonger, I’ve run four wars for His Grace and his father in the fifty summers I’ve had this job. Two with Remere, one with Alshar, and the Farisian campaign. I had hoped to die before I had to run a fifth. Since I have no choice, I shall do as is needed. But your proposal has the possibility of destroying the Duchy as surely as any invasion.”

“History teaches that the Magi were once respected lords of men,” I pointed out. “In the Magocracy, once they ceased fighting amongst themselves, they built a great culture of sophistication and prosperity.”

“Yet they had the Archmage to keep them in line. Do you propose electing one for that purpose?”

“Let’s consider the problems one at a time, my lord,” I suggested. “Right now the issue of the gurvani is paramount. The issue of the magi is secondary. And right now you can use the one problem to mitigate the other. I’m merely giving you the opportunity to take advantage of the talents of me and my men. That is an option that you did not have before I arrived.”

“Before you arrived I had thought to retire after this winter. Yes, you have given us an option, a weapon on the table, so to speak. But it is a weapon I fear will turn on us, if we pick it up. And a weapon we cannot put back down once wielded. Not to mention the complaints we’ll get from the other Duchies. Remere will be offended, Merwin will be livid, and Vore will be simmering with discontent. There are still plenty of old Imperial families who practice your trade, Spellmonger, who would see our order overthrown and a new Empire built on its ashes.”

I knew that. My ex-girlfriend was one of those Imperials, and her father and other family members were part of a secret order that had been working on that steadily for the last three centuries. And as part of my bargain with Penny to get relief at Boval Castle, I’d had to pledge a single witchstone to their order, finally giving the insidious underground movement the power it needed to prosecute its secret war with the Duchies of Merwin and Vore and Remere.

Best not to mention that part.

“I understand, Excellency, but under the circumstances, perhaps a decision can be made to deal with the crisis without capitulating to politics for once?” I challenged. I thought he might get angry. Instead he threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“Without politics? Are you mad, Spellmonger? All such decisions are made in regard to politics! Because the politics never goes away. Even while Lord Angrial begs for troops to defend his Duchy, he’s insisting that they serve under Alshari commanders, because it would be a violation of Alshar’s sovereignty to allow Castali nobles to run armies through Alshar. And not just any nobles – he wants Lenguin’s favorites, no matter how incompetent they are.

“The emissary from Remere was here at dawn, protesting the banner call as a needless provocation. The lords of the Wilderlands are already calling for more troops from the Duchy in the north, while those in the Riverlands are resisting the banner call because it is almost harvest season. There are noble houses who will be offended if I do not give them a place of honor in the van of any army, and those who will rebel if I do. The Duchy owes money to half of the great lords and is owed taxes by the other half.”

“How did things get into such a state?” I asked, troubled. As a commoner, you always expected that the nobility had things under control. Even my broader experience rarely put me in a position to appreciate politics at that level. Be victimized by it, yes, but that rarely leads to appreciation.

He cackled again. “Things were as bad or worse when I took the post. After fifty years, despite my best efforts at governance, they are still as bad as they were my first day. And Castal is known as the richest and prosperous of the Duchies, after Merwin!” he laughed. “I expect my future replacement a century from now will be complaining of the same things. I just keep the wheel turning, now, I quit trying to repair the machinery long ago.

“Yet if the Duke agrees to your proposal, all the progress I’ve made after four wars and a lifetime of careful watch will be swept away in one blow,” he said, bitterly. “Within a year, I shall see the treasury bankrupt, the Duke embattled, the Duchy in ruins. And magelords, no doubt, to become our masters while honest lords and honorable knights are slain in waves on the battlefield. How is this not ruin, Spellmonger?” he demanded.

“Ruin, my lord?” I asked, curiously. He was putting a little too much emphasis into the negatives. On purpose. He wanted to see how flexible I was. “Change, certainly,” I admitted. “But change is thrust upon us, whether we want it or not. There are twenty-odd shards of irionite in the hands of competent, experienced magi. That isn’t going to change.”

“You don’t believe the Yet my proposal is open to some negotiation.”

“Such as?” he asked, intrigued despite himself.

“Regular lords pledge a tithe of their income to the Duchy in tribute. If magelords were to give fifteen percent . . .”

“A tax on the magi?” he asked, almost grinning. “That might smooth some ruffled feathers. And be a valuable precedent for the other Duchies, should they follow suit. There must be twice as many magi in the east as here.”

“Thrice, easily,” I agreed. It didn’t hurt that magic was still a respected profession in the east, whereas from central Remere, west, it was regarded with near-universal suspicion. “The magi would be happy to pay it, I assure you.”

“And what of these magi who wield your witchstones?” he asked. “Far more powerful than their brethren. That will have to be countered, as well.”

“If the Duke’s vassals owe one month’s service a year,” I considered, “then magelords could be required to provide one month of magical service, in addition.”

“That . . . might work. Especially if they would work at our direction.”

“It would be an opportunity for them to display their civic-mindedness,” I offered, reasonably. “Think of all the bridges and walls that could be shored up, at no expense. The charms against fire and theft.”

“There will be a great outcry amongst the petty nobility,” he warned. “If they must share borders with magelords, they will be screaming to the about the unfair competition. Many will say that magi won’t be able to administer estates properly.”

“Only the idiots. Minor matters, my lord. And we have plenty of time to deal with the practical details, at a later date. The Duchy will prosper, I foresee. Once magic was used in the service of man, to improve the lot of everyone in the Magocracy. A mage who uses it on behalf of his people will prosper. A mage who uses his power unwisely . . . well, he won’t deserve his witchstone.”

“It is my experience that no man is above abusing whatever power he has, if it serve his needs,” he remarked. “And there’s no reason to believe that magi will be any different. Oaths or not, a man will do what he wills, and the more means he has the more he wills.”

“Surely our own lord is wise and just,” I said, smoothly.

“Rard? Wise enough, perhaps. Just? As just as he needs to be. He’s better than some would be, worse than others. The land has prospered under his reign, but is that his doing? And if it didn’t, would he be to blame?”

“Matters far beyond my head,” I said, shaking it gently. “I am a simple spellmonger, after all.”

“A simple spellmonger? No, Master Minalan, you are far from ‘simple.’ Tell me, why did you come here, to Castal, when your lord owed his allegiance to the Alshari Dukes? Why here, and not in Vorone?”

Now that was a good question – and one I hadn’t thought to ask myself. “Honestly, my lord? Because Alshar is already doomed. As brave as her people and as valiant her knights, they have been beset before they knew they were at war. Duke Lenguin is mustering at Vorone, and he will have to fight the gurvani, but if the Dead God intends to take Vorone, he will. Alshar will not be able to withstand them. They are too few, too disorganized, to sparsely settled.

“But Castal . . . that is where the wealth of the Western Duchies lies,” I said. “And Castal will be next to fall. Yet Castal is also the best place to mount a defense – a real defense against the Dead God. The remnants of the Alshari will be useful, but they are a rustic folk, who are more hunters than warriors. They don’t have the discipline of the Castali cavalry.”

“And what if Duke Rard decides to reject your offer?” he asked, a glint in his ancient eye.

I shrugged like a peasant. “Then I go talk to Duke Clofalin of Remere and make him the same offer. After he sees what happens to Castal, I’m sure he’ll be in a more receptive mood,” I said, meaningfully. To my surprise, Kindine laughed, heartily.

“Oh, you play a dangerous game, clever Spellmonger!” he cackled. “Threaten our Duchy with treason to our rivals using our own fear as leverage! You are a crafty one, wizard!” He allowed himself to laugh a little longer than I felt was justified, which made me uneasy, but eventually he sighed and set his empty wine cup back down on the table.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” he said, after regarding me for a long moment. “You’re going to be summoned to see the Duke and Duchess at dinner tonight. They will ask you all the same questions I have, and probably more of their own. But you’re right, we don’t have much of a choice. Alshar is in ruins. Remere would pounce on us at the first sign of weakness, using us as a shield against the gurvani while they prepare.

“So we will take your bargain, bitterly, but we will take it. But know the final terms are not yet set, and won’t be until the Censor General has had a chance to speak with His Grace. But I’ve seen enough to know what will happen, Spellmonger, and you will get your way. Just be certain that you do not disappoint, if you do.”

“My lord, I assure you I bargain in open faith. By now you should know I’m not going to promise you I can kill the Dead God. Indeed, I’ve told you repeatedly I cannot. But if His Grace will but give me a chance, I can show him what is possible. And perhaps allow Castal adequate time to prepare.”

“I hope you understand your business, Master Minalan,” he said, darkly. “The fates of millions may hang upon you, now.”

And on that happy thought, my luncheon was over.

* * *

When I finally found my way back toward my new quarters, the castellan Harren was waiting for me with his kinsman, Hamlan. They had similar features, although Harren had the maturity of age instead of Hamlan’s youthful face. He was a boy of twenty, the son of Harren’s cousin. He had served his old master faithfully, and had a treasured scrap of parchment to attest to his service.

“So are you familiar with my trade, Hamlan?” I asked him, as I poured a glass of wine for all three of us. “I am a mage, a scholar, a warmage, and a spellmonger.”

“I have had the acquaintance of a count’s court wizard,” he admitted, “and I employed a spellmonger before on behalf of my master, but that is all I’m afraid.”

“It’s not so different than any other profession, ordinarily,” I admitted. “Even though we take great pains to disguise that fact. I use magic to provide a service for a fee. Ordinarily,” I repeated, “your duties would be that of any domestic servant for a prosperous merchant. Tend my horse. Prepare my meals. Care for my clothing and equipment. Run errands and messages. Keep my confidences, guard my valuables, whatever else servants are supposed to do. Act respectful to your betters, don’t bring trouble into my house, avoid gossip, keep an ear open . . . under ordinary circumstances, that would be the extent of your duties.”

“Milord implies that your circumstances aren’t ordinary,” he ventured.

“Exactly. I have come into a lot of power, recently. That will mean money and such things, eventually, but right now I am the most powerful mage in the Five Duchies – or one of them – and I’ve attracted a lot of attention.”

“Attention, milord?” Hamlan asked.

“People might be trying to kill me soon,” I explained.

“People, milord?”

“The nobility, the Duke, the Censor General, a disembodied magical goblin head and a few hundred thousand gurvani,” I said. “There are also secret orders of magi and a pregnant fiancée you’ll have to deal with,” I added. Best not disguise the truth.

“Milord has accumulated an impressive list of foes, if I might be so bold,” he said, grinning. “I assume that you are – will be – in danger?”

“I think it’s likely,” I admitted. “In fact, I may end up going to war in the near future. Then again, I may not. But either way, I’m going to be doing some traveling and at times it may be perilous. If you’re looking for a life of quiet reflection, this isn’t it. Do you have the courage to stay with me, and perhaps die in my service?”

“All men must die, milord,” Hamlan said, philosophically. “And I have courage enough. Moreover, I know how to draw a sword in my defense, though I’m no warrior. As for travel, I have always wanted to see the world.”

“The idea of danger doesn’t bother you?” I asked, surprised. I wouldn’t have taken that job. I think. Then again, I used to be a romantic, back before I got drafted.

“It occurs to me that in a dangerous situation, a good place to be might be by the side of the most powerful mage in the Five Duchies,” he observed. “Moreover, such a position, as hazardous as it might be – and if I understand milord correctly that the danger might indeed be fatal?”

“If I go to war, then it’s a distinct possibility.”

“Such a position could well lead to riches and fortune. Or at least infamy. And that is a consideration. That and the potentially fatal nature of my proposed service.”

“You seem to keep drifting back to the dangerous aspects of the job,” I pointed out. “I’m curious: do you fear death so much?”

He looked at me, puzzled. “Death, milord? The gods teach us that death must come to us all. It is not to be feared.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“Oh! Well, milord, if there’s a chance of fatality in the position, I think that should probably factor into my fee, don’t you think?”

I chuckled. I thought I was going to like this man. “You would be a fool not to,” I agreed. “And clearly, you’re no fool. I don’t mind a man with a sharp mind, as long as he knows his role in our affairs. But I must demand loyalty, above all else. I will not tolerate an unreliable servant.” I could barely tolerate the idea of a servant at all – an apprentice is a different matter. But since I was thrusting myself up into the nobility, I needed someone to watch my horse and fetch my supper and go grab my sword out of my quarters or find me lodgings while I was off trying to save the Duchies.

And I could afford it. Harrell produced a large, heavy bag from within a satchel and laid it out on my bed.

“Three hundred ounces of silver,” he said. “And here is a draft on my kinsman’s shop for a further four hundred, payable upon demand. Minus my fee, of course,” he added smoothly.

“Excellent,” I nodded, and took out twenty pieces of silver. “Hamlan, here’s your first month’s pay, plus a month’s bonus. I want you to start in the morning. Until then, get yourself a decent set of clothes, something befitting a . . . well, I don’t quite know my social status, but just pretend I’m a baron and garb yourself accordingly. Oh, and arrange for appropriate clothing for myself, as well. We’re near enough the same size. Get me a suit in blue, and one in dark green. Something tasteful – I don’t want to be taken for a Vorean dandy,” I snorted.

“I know just the tailor, milord,” Hamlan smiled. “Shoes, as well?”

“Riding boots,” I sighed. “Sturdy, but well-made. Harrell, will it be possible to find quarters for Hamlan nearby?”

“There is a servant’s dormitory in the River Tower, Master Minalan,” the castellan assured me. “I shall make certain that there is a place made available.”

“How should I address milord, if I might ask, milord?” Hamlan asked.

“Master Minalan, in most circumstances. Master, in others. Minalan, when we’re alone. Min when we’re drunk.” That brought a grin to his face. “I don’t need a lot of bowing and scraping. You’re not here to inflate my sense of importance. And I prefer a companionable servant to a formal one, when we’re on the road, if you understand.”

“Of course, Master Minalan,” Hamlan agreed, nodding. “It’s often been said I’m a jolly companion. I can sing, at need, and know a bit of poetry. And I’m no stranger to drink or the places that serve it. I can play at cards or at dice, if you please.”

“Any special Talents I should know about?” I asked, when I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. That brought a startled look from Harrell, and a meaningful glance between the two men. Hamlan looked a little guilty.

“My cousin has, um, a bit of a reputation,” Harrell said, delicately. “He has a propensity for . . . for knowing things before they happen.”

“What?” I asked, intrigued. “You know the future?”

“Oh, not as such, Master Minalan,” Hamlan said, shaking his head. “That is, I couldn’t tell you how many ladies you’ll love or whether you’ll find your long-lost brother. But there are times when I just . . . know things.”

“Such as?” I prompted. He looked guilty again.

“When I served my last master,” he sighed, “he became irritated with me, over time. Because I would presume to know what his lordship wanted before he asked for it. He found it . . . disconcerting. Also, it sometimes manifests at dice or cards.”

“You’re prescient,” I nodded, professionally interested. That was not unheard of. While the full ability to use magic was given to comparatively few, many people had natural abilities that gave them profound strength or insight in a particular area of magic. Water dowsers, for instance, are one of the more common ones. Others can be more subtle, such as a knack with horses or crops or outstanding personal abilities. Prescience was relatively rare, and damnably hard to test for. But there were plenty of documented cases. “That’s very interesting. Would you mind if I . . . examined you?”

He swallowed, but nodded. “Of course, Master. Will it hurt?”

“Not at all,” I said, eagerly digging out my witchstone from the bag around my neck. I held it in my palm and closed my eyes, calling upon magesight in a very specific sort of way. Instead of looking far away or at something small or seeing in the dark, I used it to look around Hamlan. At his Shroud.

We all wear a Shroud, a field of energy our bodies produce naturally. It waxes and wanes in size and manner, but it is through our Shrouds that we are able to work some forms of magic. Even ordinary people use their Shrouds to communicate feelings to each other – it is the primary medium for our empathy.

Sex magic, for instance, has a series of rituals for attenuating the Shrouds of the participants (in the east they call them auras, if you are taking notes) and it is through their combined Shrouds that the most powerful magics can be created. You can learn how to extend your Shroud, and even use it to affect other things and other people. Good warriors can use it to intimidate an opponent without making a sound or moving a muscle. For some, they can use the sensitivity of their Shrouds to tell if someone is lying, or if someone has a sickness inside them, or if one chicken is going to lay more eggs than another.

And for some people, the Shroud seems to warp the ether around them into defying probability, or allowing them to sense future events. Prescience.

Hamlan’s Shroud was bright and lively, a swirling vortex of energy with a very distinct edge to it. It’s almost impossible trying to describe how a Shroud presents itself, since every magi senses it differently. I could tell you what color I saw or how it felt or what consistency it was or how it made me feel – or even how far from the body it was extended. But you’d see it or sense it in some other way, so that’s not terribly useful.

Suffice it to say, Hamlan’s Shroud was kind of . . . slippery. Like an eel, or a greased pig, or a wet piece of ice. It was as if it didn’t want to settle down. It was constantly churning around him, and doing interesting things at various points. It was utterly fascinating to observe, but eventually one gets tired of being a specimen. When Hamlan cleared his throat I sighed and put the stone away.

“Yes, there’s defiantly something there. Quite intriguing. And possibly quite useful. Don’t worry, Hamlan, I won’t get annoyed if you hand me my hat before I know I want it. That could be quite handy, actually.”

“Well, if you still want to employ me even after you know,” the young man sighed contentedly as he rattled the silver around in his palm, “then call me Ham.”

Chapter Thirteen:

The Battle Of Tudry

Tudry Town, Late summer

I wish I could say that I got a good night’s sleep before the Battle of Tudry, but that would be a gross overstatement. I managed about two hours, after I oversaw the preparation for battle. Of course, much of what I was doing looked like sleeping to Hamlan, who made sure I ate and drank sufficiently while I was . . . generaling. My eyes were closed, my breathing was steady, and I didn’t speak much. But behind those eyelids, there was a lot going on.

It started soon after I dismissed my general staff to go prepare their men, when I felt a tingle that I was quickly coming to associate with the telepathic linking spell. I found a quiet corner and gave the communication my full attention. It was Azar, who had arrived at Castle Megelin without problems and had informed the Baron of my brilliant plan.

The result wasn’t encouraging.

Min, the old fart thinks that we should be able to handle the horde on our own, without his help. He’s sitting safely behind his walls and doesn’t want any of his men to go out.

That’s not going to work, I ‘said’. We need those men or this whole thing falls apart! How many does he have?

That’s the thing – he’s got almost three hundred knights and squires, excellent heavy cavalry all, and then another four hundred men-at-arms and sergeants. But on top of that, he’s called in two of his own vassals from smaller keeps, which adds another three hundred. So almost a thousand horse . . . if we can convince him to ride.

What seems to be staying his hand?

He doesn’t want to risk his troops, but he also doesn’t want to lose Tudry Town. To the goblins or to us – if we evacuate the city, he’ll lose a lot of revenue, and he’s not having it. At least, that’s what his court mage says. I had to show him my glass to get him to speak up, but . . .

Does he have any influence over the Baron?

Not nearly as much as Sire Leisdal, one of his vassals. Leisdal depends on trade from Tudry to fill his coffers, too, and considers losing Tudry an unacceptable loss. He’s the one telling the Baron that this is the Duke’s problem, not his.

Damn it! It’s his lands that are burning! I thought to myself for a moment – hard to do without revealing your mind to the person you’re linking to, but I was getting the hang of it. What could possibly rouse a reluctant baron to venture forth and defend his lands?

Tell him that if he doesn’t ride to support us, I’ll start giving away parcels of his lands to the men of Tudry who do. Then he can take up the issue of ownership when Duke Lenguin has time to hear such grievances – his grandchildren may still be alive by then. But in the meantime, tell him I’ll give away every square foot he’s not willing to defend, and he’ll have a peasant revolt on his hands if he’s not careful!

That might do it, Azar conceded. And if that doesn’t work, I can start throwing my weight around. They haven’t really seen what one of us can do yet, he added, smugly.

Just be careful, I warned. I don’t want to alienate them, I want to motivate them. Do what you have to do. But come dawn, I want every one of them horsed and ready to ride.

I’ll make sure of it, Captain, Azar told me, determinedly. I didn’t doubt that he would. Azar is imposing when he’s asleep – once you get him enthusiastic about something, he doesn’t stop until it’s done.

I had just enough time to wolf down half a biscuit and a few bites of cheese before I became aware of the next tingle. I sighed and sat back down – it’s just easier not to have distractions when you’re communicating like that.

Captain, I made it into Tudry, Astyral reported once I acknowledged the spell. I’ve been meeting with the local defense commander and the town council. No one likes hearing that you want them to leave. Well, that’s not entirely true – there are hundreds of refugees from further west that made it this far, and they’re desperate to leave. But everyone else, the ones with property here, are just as desperate to stay.

Then tell them that I’ll burn the town to keep it from falling into gurvani hands!

I did, Astyral said, casually. That wasn’t real popular. I had to pull my stone and put a couple of guards to sleep before they would see reason. But once I demonstrated how serious I was about this, I won over the militia commander, the one that actually runs the town’s defenses. He told me he could put four thousand infantry on the field. Mostly armed peasantry and city guards, of course, but there are a few real mercenaries around, too. Oh, and I met the other warmage in town, the sword smith? He wants to talk to you. He wants a witchstone.

Master Cormaran? I asked, recalling the stately, semi-retired old gentleman fondly. If he can help us keep the Tudry militia from folding up and blowing away at the first assault, then I’ll consider it. He’s an enchanter, too, did he tell you that?

No, admitted Astyral. But that would come in handy. I’ll tell him. Oh, and there’s tons of food here, too. The council confiscated a couple of local granaries, and the slaughterhouses have been working day and night to thin down the number of herds that were brought in before the attack. So feeding the refugees when they go won’t be a problem.

That’s good, I agreed. So you think you can persuade them to work with us on this battle plan? They are kind of essential.

I don’t know, Min. They’re pretty skittish, especially after all the Ducal bannermen left for Vorone. They’d much rather try to ride out a siege, even though they’ve seen some of the goblins’ magic by now. But I’ve nearly got the militia commander convinced. He’s the important one. If he agrees, then the rest of the council will probably back it.

If he doesn’t, then we’ll select a new militia leader. Or kidnap their daughters. Or bribe them. Do whatever it takes, Astyral, but there had better be men with spears and swords in front of the city gate at dawn, or this whole thing goes right into the chamberpot! You might want to mention that the Baron of Megelin is riding at dawn, and if he doesn’t see some support from Tudry, then he’s leaning toward revoking their charter and re-taking control of the place.

Is he?

No, I had to threaten him with a peasant revolt if he didn’t ride, but they won’t know that. Tell them the evacuation is temporary, if you have to, but they shouldn’t take anything they couldn’t carry or anything they don’t want to lose. And get them moving the moment dawn breaks. Then join the infantry and wait for that southern band to move toward you. When they do . . . break them.

Consider them broken, Captain, he promised, boldly.

I really wanted to finish eating and sleep before I did anything else, but no sooner than I had taken a bite of sausage and a swig of beer, I got yet-another tingle of awareness. This time from Mavone, at the court of Vorone.

Hey, Your Excellency! he called to me, rudely. Thought you might want to know about this. I haven’t been able to speak directly to the Duke, because he’s always ‘in council.’ The highest up the ladder I’ve been able to meet with has been the Marshal of the Wilderlands, Count Brayan. He’s pretty pissed off himself, since he rode here when the banner call went out with five hundred knights and a thousand men-at-arms, and he’s been stuck here waiting for Lenguin to do something – anything – and he’s itching for a fight.

Sounds like a good contact to have, I agreed.

Well, it would be if Lenguin would listen to him. But anyone who tells him anything except that he should sit tight and gather his forces and wait gets booted from council pretty quickly, from what I understand. Count Brayan has been cooling his heels in camp and stirring up dissention.

What about his Court Mage? What’s his name again?

Master Thinradel, Astyral supplied. Elegant gent, and an Adept of note. But Lenguin listens to him less than he does Brayan. The Duke distrusts magic, apparently, and has little use for his own Court Mage. Gossip is father’s Court Mage, old Master Vitrik, used to tease him and play cruel jokes on him on behalf of his big sister, and he never forgave him. It’s said he even grumbled about abolishing the position, but someone has to administer the Bans. I’ve managed to speak to Thinradel without quite revealing for whom I am working, but he sensed the power in my stone enough to figure it out – the man is not dumb. But he’s also not powerful in court, avoids other courtiers, and he barely speaks to the Duke.

So perhaps an ally, but not a useful one. Not even to persuade Lenguin.

Want more good news? He asked, sarcastically. As of last night Lenguin is playing host to three Censors – including the one Azar beat up. They figured out I have irionite, too, and informed Thinradel last night. He quote ‘thinks it’s scandalous’ that I’ve got a witchstone, and officially he’s torn between fascination and official outrage. Unofficially, he’s just fascinated.

What about the Censors? That was a worrisome development. I could fight the goblins or the Censorate, but not both at once.

They have been making noise about arresting me, but no one seems to be paying them much attention. They’ve been waiting to get inside His Grace’s councils, which makes it hard to chase me. Meanwhile, Lenguin sits in his study and broods and pouts and pounds his fist and blames everyone and makes elaborate plans . . . but that’s it.

Well, there might be something you can do about that . . . I began, and told him about what I’d discovered at Kitsal. . . . so you can blame some of this hesitation on sorcery. I think you could counter it, if you put a solid enough warding up around the Duke. The court mage will feel it, and probably the Censors, but to everyone else it will just make them feel a little more normal.

Good, because right now there’s a general sense of doom and despair around the whole town. And that’s a shame, because it’s hard to do a whore when she’s filled with dread. Puts a man off. I’ll pop up a few glyphs and runes and see if I can’t bring some sunshine into their lives. That might help.

Do what you can, I agreed. But you might want to mention that Minalan the Spellmonger is about to relieve Tudry, evacuate it, and send him thirty thousand new refugees to deal with.

What? Captain, have you lost your—

It needs to be done, Astyral. It will be done, in a few hours. And then afterward . . . well, if there are any of us alive afterward, Tudry will become our new base against the goblins in these parts.

If you say so, Captain, Mavone said, sounding unconvinced. But I warn you, you aren’t going to win any friends in Vorone.

After Mavone contacted me, I felt compelled to jot down a quick dispatch to Duke Rard and send it by messenger, just to make him feel included. When that was done, I was about to catch a nap when Azar contacted me and told me he had convinced the Baron to attack, though he was vague about what he’d said to motivate him. Less than ten minutes later, Astyral assured me that the Tudry militia was ready to march at first light. My own men were as ready as I could expect, and at last no one else wanted my attention, and I could close my eyes.

* * *

Dawn broke bright and sunny in the east, and our scouts reported that the horde began to wind down its nocturnal activities and rest.

But right at dawn, the gates of Tudry Town opened, and a long column of soldiers, mostly peasant militia with ringed jacks or a helmet to accompany their spears, marched defiantly out into the light.

The goblins noticed almost immediately, of course – they had sentries patrolling and scouting during the day just as we did during the night. Before the first five hundred militiamen had emerged from the gate the drums at the gurvani forward post sounded, waking the large band of a hundred or so whose job it was to keep anyone from getting into or out of Tudry without a fight.

I hoped they’d had an active night, and were as tired as I was. Even refreshing spells can only sustain you for so long, and I wanted another three hours of sleep the way I’d needed to pee at Grimly Wood. The goblins began rushing toward the first line of men, thinking it was a mere foray, until some of the few cavalry (maybe a hundred, two hundred at most) Tudry still had swept out and screened them off. The commander of the band withdrew when it was clear this was no simple attempt to run their gauntlet. He did what any decent commander would do. He sent for reinforcements.

That was precisely what I wanted. I climbed to the roof of the temple when Astyral, who was in the van of the militiamen, informed me of their progress. I wanted to see how this was unfolding, and the roof of the temple afforded me the best vantage point over the valley.

To my right I could see the walled mass of Tudry Town, perched on its hill overlooking the fork where the Anfal and the Moran rivers joined. I summoned magesight and brought the gates closer to my vision, and I could see the column slowly moving forward, and the gurvani band retreating away. The next closest, largest band in a position to reinforce them was the thousand-strong unit whose task it was to blockade the Great Western Road. As the Tudrymen moved north, the goblin messengers ran across country a lot faster than I would have imagined. The war band in the south was already on the move before they got there, however. They’d spotted the gates opening, too.

The southern band crossed the road with impressive speed, but they were an unruly mob, not an army. Clearly the days of holding the road had given them more self-confidence than sense as they charged toward the Tudrymen.

That’s when the Orphan’s Band and the Warbirds struck, moving quickly into place to flank the southern band, their few squadrons of horsemen chasing down the goblin stragglers. The rear of the mob slowed and then halted to face this new, unanticipated foe, and suddenly the goblin commander was faced with an enemy on two fronts. To face the Tudrymen meant exposing their backs to the mercenaries, and turning to face the Orphans would do the same.

A wise commander would have chosen a third option, withdrawing quickly from engaging either force and retreating beyond the river to rejoin the main horde. The southern band lacked a wise commander.

He ordered his band to attack the Orphans, head-on, with the sun in their eyes. That was perfect – Bold Asgus knew his trade, in the field as well as in camp, and he could hold that band in place and whittle it down with his more disciplined men. Meanwhile cavalry and some lighter infantry could harass the band from the rear. Either way, it kept them from descending on the column of civilians that dared the road, now that it was somewhat clear.

By that time, word had reached the main horde that the Tudrymen were attempting to break out. Clearly the gurvani commander had been waiting for this for weeks, and he roused his troops to pursue and attack as quickly as they could. By the time the southern band was learning what well-trained infantry and archers could do in battle, the first elements of the main horde were splashing their way across the ford to support – or rescue – the southern band. The northern band, the one that was interdicting communication between Tudry and Castle Megelin, was also moving in to support the southern band.

That’s when the horns of the reluctant Baron of Megelin sounded, and nine hundred heavy cavalry took the field from the northern road. I had coordinated meticulously with Azar, who was among them on his big black horse, to make certain the die was cast at the proper moment. And as soon as the northern band moved south toward the Tudrymen, the proper moment arrived.

It was fascinating, watching from the roof of the temple with magesight. Ordinarily you don’t get to see the intricacies of a heavy cavalry charge up close, unless you’re either in one or one is being led against you, and in both cases you’re usually too busy to appreciate the phenomenon in the abstract.

From my vantage point, with my spells in place, it was as if I was standing but fifty feet away, not more than a mile. I got to see the determined, weary look on the faces of the goblins from the northern band – whose standard, I saw, was a black lopsided axe they favored over their clubs for all-out battle on a field of red.

Their commanders looked eager for the fight – after all, they had been ranging outside of the city walls for weeks, now, picking off stragglers and travelers and refugees. That had to be almost as boring as garrison duty. I’m sure the prospect of an actual scrap had the enemy commander (a tall gurvan wearing a captured iron half-helm) salivating.

And then the horns sounded, and the ground began to shake, and I got to watch their expressions change from determination to confusion then to realization, as half of them turned to the northeast to where a large cloud of dust was rising. They couldn’t see the Megelini cavalry, at that point, but they certainly could hear it. And they could see the size of the dust plume. To a human soldier, that would have been enough to tell him what was coming. The gurvani, without cavalry, didn’t have much of an idea at all.

The band slowed, and part of it stopped while the other part kept moving toward the militia. That stretched it out uncomfortably into a disorganized mob, not even a rapacious horde. It also gave the horsemen a much, much broader target. Had they stayed together and in good order, they might have had a chance.

When the horns sounded close enough for me to hear them, the first line of cavalry was riding over the ridge at a trot, picking up speed. And nearly a thousand horses, stretched out in a line half a mile wide and three deep, was a fairly imposing sight, even to me. To a goblin afoot, it must have looked like thundering doom.

Too late, the leader of the northern band realized his danger. He tried to get the horde more organized to receive the charge, but discipline was sadly lacking, and only a third of his troops obeyed and began coalescing around him. I could see him screaming orders at his frightened-looking subordinates, as they tried in vain to find some defense against the approaching horsemen. By the time they were two hundred yards away, maybe one gurvan in ten was prepared. Not that it did them any good.

The Megelini line slowed when it hit the hundred-yard point, and while a few gurvani bowmen tried to snipe at them, it gave the stragglers time to catch up and the line to be dressed. It also gave Rogo Redshaft’s brave horse archers a chance to ride up behind the line, dismount, and prepare to volley. In an impressively short time the first wave of arrows filled the air, and before the screams of the wounded goblins died a second was on its way. It was amusing, in a macabre sort of way, to watch the goblins who had obediently massed against a cavalry charge look up to see that cloud of feathers, wood and steel descending upon them. A few raised bucklers against them. It didn’t help.

By the second volley, the northern band’s center was decimated, and the stragglers who had gone on toward the Tudrymen had begun to return. About half of them had made it back to their chief in time to see the horse archers re-mount and withdraw behind the hill . . . while the Megelini knights were lowering their lances.

The looks of fear and terror and resignation on the goblins’ faces were priceless, twice as funny because I knew kind of how they felt. Like when I was in Boval Castle, and half a million of the bastards had surrounded it on every side. You can’t see a way out, you know anything you try to do to avoid your fate is likely to get you killed, and there’s nothing to do but wait for the universe to finish using you as a bugger boy.

It took almost two hundred heartbeats for the heavily-armored chargers to cross the commons meadow. I could feel the vibration in the center of my chest as four thousand hooves hit the turf, and began to pick up speed. During that time a good number of goblins, over a hundred, had already retreated at a run back toward the ford, rather than face the herd of death and steel. I watched in grim appreciation as the first lances hit the first skirmishers, ran them through or stomped them to a pulp, and plowed on. A moment later, they hit the main body of the band, and all was chaos.

Heavy cavalry at a full gallop, three ranks deep, do a lot of damage. The destriers slowed as they crashed into the poorly-dressed front line of the horde and then waded through mangled goblin bodies three high, the ranks behind them moving forward where they could. It only took a few moments before the knights dropped their lances and drew swords, maces, axes, and hammers, and began pounding every goblin within reach. And as all good warhorses do, the chargers reared and kicked and bit at the foe. As bad as it is to be on the ground afraid of being bit and kicked as a man, it had to be worse for the shorter goblins. With the morning sun behind the cavalry, I could only imagine how hellish it must be to the gurvani.

For another five minutes the battle was a loud, bloody tangle of steel and fur. Several knights went down as their chargers stumbled or a lucky arrow caught them, or in some cases the rider was overwhelmed by a swarm of gurvani. A few used nets or ropes to bring down the knights and horses, but as effective a tactic as it was, it just put a much better-armored human in their midst with a sword and shield and fury in his heart.

As I watched, the northern band got chewed away by the Megelini until the last surviving third began a full-run retreat toward the ford. There were stragglers, groups of one, two, as many as five or six in some cases, who had avoid a death on the battlefield and were of a mind to flee back across the river. My instructions were to let them go – but of course a few young hot-heads who hadn’t sated their blood-lust followed. Luckily, Azar was there to keep order. I could hear the cheers of the Tudry militia, almost a mile away, as he got contacted me by stone soon after the retreat began.

Captain, we hold the field, he reported proudly. I’m still getting casualty reports, but it looks as if we’ve slain more than two thirds and lost only a score or so ourselves.

It looked magnificent, I told him. Now regroup, police the field, post some pickets, and bring your men back to the north, up to the top of that little ridge.

The Baron of Megelin isn’t going to like that, Azar warned me. Your threat to give away his lands got to Baron Merasan, I think. He made quite a speech about refusing to yield a single inch of Megelini land to the foe. Leaving the field is going to feel like a retreat.

It’s not a retreat, it’s a repositioning, I pointed out. Remind him that it’s a lot easier to charge down a hill than up one. Besides, the point of this exercise was to get the goblins to re-take the field, in force. Remember?

His Excellency excels as a leader of men, Azar said, diplomatically, but he lacks the vision for grand strategy.

I understand. Do your best, but remind him that if all goes well, he’ll be repeating that glorious charge down the rise again this afternoon. He needs to rest his horses and tend his wounded, and prepare for the battle to come.

Yes, I can work with that, Azar agreed. Oh, and Cap? There was a stone on the field. I’ve got it.

Keep it secure until I see you, and don’t touch it. Or the big ugly skull in the pretty green ball is going to learn all of our plans, the state of Imperial magic, and the girl you last rogered.

Last one’s easy, Azar chuckled over the link. Your sister.

Which one? Never mind, they’re all safely married off, now. Although you might tempt them with all of those unsightly muscles. Anyway, don’t touch the stone.

I’m not an idiot, Captain.

I let him go persuade the stubborn baron to forego his victory celebration and pull back while I used my stone to contact Astyral, inside the town.

Over two thousand refugees already headed down the road, Captain, he told me proudly. The wagons are going now. I’ve suggested they send a few armed guards every few hundred places.

Good thinking. We haven’t seen them any farther east than Grimly Wood yet, but I’ll bet you they have squads for miles down the Great Western Road. Any serious trouble?

I had to use some flashy magic a couple of times to convince people I was serious, he admitted. And some of them are having second thoughts about leaving, now that you’ve eliminated the goblins from the walls. But the wiser heads are listening and pushing the rest along. So what time do you think the main horde will try to re-take the ford?

Late afternoon, maybe. They’ll spend some time setting up, and then try to hit us just before dusk, so that they can keep fighting into the night when they have the advantage. It’s what I would do. But they might do it before then, too. Thirty thousand heads has got to be an alluring temptation to the Dead God.

I climbed down off of the roof and shared the news with the priests and priestesses while Hamlan brought me some breakfast. Lunch. Food. Fresh apples from the orchard, a warm piece of steamed hardtack, and three boiled hen’s eggs, which I washed down with a half-dozen swallows of wine. Then I headed down the back side of the hill where twenty-five hundred of my men were waiting patiently for something to fight.

“It won’t be long now,” I assured the captains, after briefing them on the outcome of the first moves of the battle.

They were milling around the front of the column with that mixture of excitement and boredom that plagues every soldier on the eve of battle. And trying to keep that many horses both calm enough to be inconspicuous and ready for battle was difficult.

“I’m sure the chief over there is going to have to sacrifice his nuts to Ishi if he doesn’t secure Tudry for his masters. And we just made that very difficult to do, unless he brings his whole force to bear against the Megelini. As it is, he’s risking getting wedged between the knights and the militia. The smart thing is to smash the knights first, then turn his attention to the infantry.”

“You credit these beasts with that much intelligence?” asked Kaddel, skeptically.

“ ‘These beasts’ built siege engines at Boval Castle, and constructed sapping mines,” I reminded him. “Don’t think for a moment that they’re ignorant animals just because they don’t wear tunic and stockings and dance a pavane. Sire Koucey, the Lord of Boval Vale thought that way once, and it cost him his fief, his life, and very nearly his folk. Now he’s the Dead God’s bugger boy,” I added.

Sir Pendolan made a face. “Yet they use stone clubs and sticks for javelins, and their armor is laughable.”

“Did use stone clubs,” Kaddel corrected. “Many we slew at the Lantern had swords of iron or steel.”

“You’ll be seeing more of those, I fear, as they capture weapons and turn our own tools against us. There’s iron aplenty in the Mindens, and they are adept at working with it.” I thought of Gurkarl, the only prisoner of war we’d bothered to capture so far. The gurvan had learned to speak the common tongue during an apprenticeship with a human smith in the Mindens. He was an accomplished blacksmith among his own people. That was back when the black-furred creatures were known as mountain folk more than goblins. Gurkarl could do anything a competent human smith could do.

“As long as they die as well as beasts, that will be enough,” Sir Kavial said, resolutely. I’d learned in the past few days just how prone the brooding knight was to such dramatic statements. I started to say something to that when I got a tingling in my spine. “Bide,” I said, raising a finger and closing my eyes. Yes?

Captain, I thought you should know, we’re seeing the first band cross the ford now. About a hundred, but our scouts report that there is a significantly larger force directly behind them, Azar reported.

The whole horde?

Most likely, he agreed. I’m doing my best to make the Megelini look like tempting bait. They can’t stop congratulating themselves on their glorious victory. But we’re roughly in position at the top of the rise. I figure we have an hour before they get across.

All right. Thanks. Any glass among the bodies?

Not that I can tell. I think Baldy’s getting stingy with his shamans. But the main horde has a gracious plenty. Wenek scried them out, and there’s at least nine stones in that lot.

Nine? That’s – wait a minute, did you say Wenek? Isn’t he on a mission miles from here?

Why not? He had some quiet time, and after he briefed me about his progress, I asked him to. He had better luck than I did breaking through their defenses – I swear that man has a gift for divination.

Uh . . . thanks. Keep me informed. I’ll ride out to your rescue the moment you need me.

If I need you, he sneered, good-naturedly. I am Azar, after all.

Yes, he was.

I spread the word that we could stand down for forty-five minutes or so, giving the men a chance to dismount, stretch their legs, take care of any last-minute equipment issues, sharpen their swords, take a bite, or take a piss as needed. I did the last as soon as I could. I was wearing the same armor I had at Grimly Wood, and didn’t want to repeat the experience.

I had just gotten mounted when Azar sent to me again. Captain, activity! Once they saw they had the ford uncontested, they’re running what looks like everything they’ve got through it! If it’s not the whole horde, than they didn’t keep back more than a tithe.

Where are they now?

Shit! They’re pushing past the ford. They’ll be in bowshot in maybe ten minutes. Within range of a charge not long after. Those buggers can run fast in open country!

I called my troops to order, passing along last-minute instructions to the captains before taking my place . . . in the van? Isn’t that where all great generals lead from? At the point of the spear?

Maybe in the cavalry. I was from the magical corps. I stuck with Rogo’s archers. The Nirodi were fast, deadly, and well-disciplined, and what I would be doing would be more effective if I didn’t have to fight for my life while I was doing it. That put us just behind the Hellriders, on the southern flank, when Kaddel gave the signal, his horn was blown two short notes and then one long, sustained on, and the column started forward.

I really wish I could have been on the other side at that point, just so I could see the faces of the opposing leaders as they saw less than a thousand horsemen become five times that many, as we added our numbers to the Megelini, the blinding sun climbing high overhead. I’m sure the language they used was colorful.

We went at a walk, at first, and I watched with interest as Kaddel’s sergeants told off each new rank of cavalry to the left, right, or forward. Stubborn or not, Kaddel’s people knew their business. Kaddel himself was commanding the northern flank, where the Megelini were already stationed and ready, while Pendolan led the Warbirds in the center and one of Kaviel’s lieutenants, Sir Vorgal, led the left flank.

I took leave of the Nirodi for the moment and rode north behind our lines until I encountered Azar, who was riding south.

The big man looked magnificent on his well-panoplied black stallion, their armor perfectly matched blackened steel, very intimidating. Azar’s one concession to unit insignia was the yellow sash with our order’s sigil on it, running from one shoulder to the other. The helm he wore was waxed leather reinforced with iron and bronze, a cage of steel protecting his eyes. His famed mageblade, Thunder, was strapped across his back, a giant, two-handed version of a standard blade – one of which was tied to his saddle. He had a couple of wands here and there, and his belt bulged with other nasty surprises. I’d fought beside Azar before – he’s an adept battlefield warmage.

“Look at them quiver,” he said, gloatingly, as we looked down the gentle slope at the truly huge mass of black that was half-way across the river. “I bet they shit themselves when we appeared from behind the hill.”

“No, the fur just stinks when it gets wet,” I quipped. “But I’m sure we are an imposing sight. Now, I’ll just try to forget about the fact that we’re still outnumbered. Although I’m feeling better about the battle, now.”

“Wenek said this was the biggest band in a hundred miles,” he said, cocking his head. “We take this one, and half of our job will be done. It’s just mopping-up after that.”

We both looked at each other, mindful of the specter of the Dead God lurking in the West, waiting to come forth and destroy us all. We both broke out into a gale of bitter, near-hysterical laughter.

“So how are we going to play this?” he asked, when we had stopped laughing.

“If you want to get in the middle of it, go ahead,” I urged. “I know how you like to play rough.”

He shrugged – magnificently. Hey, if anyone can shrug magnificently, it’s Azar. “I was in a cavalry charge this morning. It was wonderful -- bloody, gory, death at every hand. I didn’t even use much magic, just slashed away,” he said, affectionately touching Thunder over his shoulder. “This time, I think I want to do something more . . . dramatic.”

“You have a suggestion?”

“Water elemental from the ford?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t do water, well. More of a fire guy. And that ford isn’t robust enough to attract any natural elementals. We don’t have time to put one together.”

He agreed, reluctantly. “Well, how about Tagarat’s Orb?”

I considered. That actually might work.

Back during the Mage Wars, before the Archmage established his authority over the unruly magi who had divided up the Magocracy, a Wenshari warmage (yes, he had to be Wenshari – they make good warmagi) came up with a simple spell that was unmatched for its destructive power. It’s a simple air elemental spell, wherein the mage conjures a sphere of magical force as large as he can – think a soap bubble, where the “soap” is the symbolically-stated intention of the caster made manifest as an impenetrable field of air molecules held rigid by his enhanced will – a sphere of siconedica, in other words – and then either fills it with air, or removes all of the air from it. A sphere of properly-manifested siconedica is strong enough to hold a near perfect vacuum, and can stand many times the pressure of the atmosphere. When the conjuration is complete, he sends the nearly-invisible orb over the heads of the enemy and simply . . . pops the bubble.

The powerful pressure built up within the sphere is released (or, in the case of the Negative Orb, the sphere implodes with catastrophically) in a destructive wave of force either pushing out or pulling in. Simple. Neat. Elegant. With a witchstone, you could do the whole conjuration in a few moments, and build power nearly indefinitely until you were ready to use it against your foe.

Of course, it’s almost literally the oldest trick in the book, and easily countered, if you know the spell. If it’s a Negative Orb, then the counter-spell involves pumping air through the bubble to reduce its potency all together, and if it’s a Positive Orb, you deflate it through a controlled evacuation through the skin of the bubble. At worst, you’ll deflect the Orb as the pressure equalizes and it moves out of the way. At best, you’ll make the opposing warmage expend a lot of energy maintaining and controlling a powerful spell that executes more like a fart than a thunderclap. That’s why no one used them, outside of practice. Countering the Orb was a lot like dodging soap bubbles.

Only two things made it feasible in this instance: first, the goblin shamans were probably not familiar with the Orb, at least not as we knew it, and either wouldn’t recognize it for what it was or know what kind of counter-spell to employ. That gave us a decided advantage.

And the other thing . . . we had irionite. When you cast an Orb without it, it’s a ten-minute process just to establish the siconedica field, and then another ten to twenty minutes to charge it, and then however long it takes for the warmage to position it. That takes a lot of energy and concentration. But not with irionite. I could create a far larger Orb with it, I knew, and charging it would take seconds, not minutes.

I grinned. “Why the hell not? They’ll learn how to counter it soon enough – might as well get some use out of it while we can!”

Azar grinned back and began his preparations as I contacted Astyral and let him know what we were doing. He thought it was a great idea – he was just going to throw rocks at them – and he got busy on an Orb of his own.

“Positive or Negative?” he asked, as the sphere shimmered into existence between his hands.

I shrugged. “Why not one of both? Implode them first, and then explode them. I’ll take the Negative.”

I began to make my own Orb, a sphere I sketched in my mind nearly three feet across. Drawing on power from my stone, I made it solid and real in seconds. You could even see it with the unaided eye, a big round patch of sky that shimmered as the sunlight refracted through the surface and back out again. In a surprisingly short time I was ready to charge it, and in a surprisingly short time I was pleased to note that I had achieved a near-perfect vacuum within. Then I expanded the sphere to five, six, seven feet across, pouring more power into stabilizing the surface of the thing. That’s what eventually limited me – not my ability to force every molecule of air out of the thing, but my ability to keep it together without killing us all. At seven feet, I figured I was safe enough. I’d experiment later with scale.

“You ready?” Azar asked, a moment later, his own Orb shimmering over his head. I could feel the turbulence inside as the air pressure screamed to get out. Making a vacuum is easy – after a while, there’s nothing left to take out. Making a Positive Orb, on the other hand, involves a greater and greater expenditure of power to force more into the space. Indeed, the outside of the Orb began to warm noticeably, from the pressure within, while mine had begun to mist a little from the condensation forming in the cool air around it.

I nodded. We weren’t paying attention, but the entire line of cavalry began to move ahead of us. I pushed my orb into the air, over their heads, and a few moments later Azar’s followed shakily behind it.

It took a lot of focus, but thankfully we weren’t disturbed while the two globes floated through the air, creating an odd-looking trail in the sky. By the time it was over the goblin lines our knights had begun their charge. I pushed the sphere toward the back, toward the ford, away from our chargers, and just . . . let go.

We could feel the change in air pressure from where we were, and a sudden, stiff breeze flowed west. More importantly, a loud boom sounded in the distance, followed by a skewed cloud of dust and water droplets shooting skyward. A moment later, there was an even louder boom as Azar’s Orb exploded just a few yards away from mine.

I don’t know exactly how much damage we did, of course – we were almost a mile away from the detonations. But I learned later that hundreds of goblins were thrown into the air or pushed to the ground, including several shamans and their bodyguards. The strike at the rear made those in the front ranks think they were being attacked from that direction, which helped throw their front lines in chaos only moments before the glorious cavalry charge plunged into them at a gallop.

Laughing boldly, Azar clapped me on the leg and started toward where the horse archers were preparing to ride. Rogo’s orders were to proceed south along the rear of the line until they found a break in it, then launch a few volleys before retreating back toward the Tudry militia. We nudged our mounts into a trot to catch up, and soon we were in the front line of the Nirodi, with Redshaft himself.

“Captain Spellmonger,” he said, saluting. “I take it those noises were your doing?”

“Indeed,” Azar nodded. “And we’ll do it again just as soon as we can get into a safe position.”

“Follow us, then,” he gestured. “We’re going to get as close to their line as we dare. It looks like we’re doing well,” he added, nodding toward the center of the line where the Warbirds were going through goblins like goose grease.

It occurred to me that a man such as Azar – a great mage, a great warmage, a great warrior – could potentially become drunk with power and try to launch this sort of destructive spell at, say, a crowded spring festival and kill everyone there. With irionite perhaps you could build an Orb powerful enough to destroy a castle and everyone within.

But Azar wasn’t a bad man, and I wouldn’t let him get drunk with power. I’d take his stone first, if I could. Then I realized I might not be able to, not on my own. Oh, maybe, if I got lucky and he made a mistake. But if I ever did need to take his stone from him, I’d need help. Perhaps the whole nameless Order. But I would try. I wouldn’t let that kind of power be used to persecute or oppress.

That wasn’t based on anything more altruistic than not wanting to abet persecution and oppression, perhaps, but it was a good enough reason for me. I had a pretty good conscience. Not perfect, but pretty good. I surrounded myself with good people, and tried to get them to keep an eye on me while I kept an eye on them.

They weren’t perfect either, but I think that was part of the emerging system. You don’t expect your friends to be perfect, but you do expect them to try not to be evil. And these warmagi, they would die trying, after what they’d experienced in Boval, I knew. I didn’t need regulations and laws and more rules than my own judgment. You couldn’t, not when dealing with power like that. Anything more formal than that, and the possibilities for abuse rise dramatically.

This way, there was no law, no Censorate, no governing body, no politics – there was just Minalan the Spellmonger. And while that might not be sufficient assurance for your average Ducal Prime Minister, out here in the stink of battle, it seemed more than adequate.

Chapter Fourteen:

A Game Of Rushes

Wilderhall

Midsummer

The expected summons to attend Their Graces didn’t come that night, so I supped in the Hall of Rapids with a baron, two knights and an emissary from one of the Duke’s southern vassals,. The hall has a series of water fountains cascading merrily across the room, with glass lanterns and mirrors reflecting the light wildly through the water. And dinner was excellent: river-caught flatfish broiled with onions and lemon with a delicious creamed boarberry trifle for the sweet course. Two bottles of excellent red and I retired nearly blissful.

I learned why I’d not heard from Duke Rard early the next morning, when Hamlan appeared with my breakfast and a mug of weak beer and the news that was buzzing all around Wilderhall.

“A dispatch in the night, Master,” he explained excitedly while I was getting dressed. “The grooms were talking about it this morning. You can always get the best gossip from grooms,” he added, authoritatively. “Duke Lenguin has called a Coronet Council in a month. In Castal. Without Duke Rard’s leave.”

“Isn’t that his right?” I asked as I pulled my clothes on. I hoped Ham had some progress on that front – I was going to start to smell if I wore my borrowed finery another day.

“The question is, Master, whether or not Duke Lenguin will be alive in a month. He leads the defense of Vorone, instead of listening to cooler heads who urge him to retire to his strongholds in the south and abandon the Wilderlands to the goblins.”

“The Duke has a duty to defend the Duchy,” I recited, “even if he doesn’t really have the capacity.” By all accounts, Duke Lenguin was no warrior, no general, and not much of an administrator. That didn’t mean he didn’t make pretensions of all three, of course. I’d heard that his real Talent was in horse race handicapping, but that’s what you get listening to campfire gossip.

“It’s said he’s recalling his troops from Tudry Town. That he leaves its defense to the militia, and prepares a Grand Army of Alshar to defend Vorone.”

“Idiot!” I spat, shaking my head in disgust. There were a hundred reasons why that was a tragically bad idea. And the Ducal Court had to realize that, too. I’m no master strategist, but you don’t have to be to realize abandoning an easily-defendable fortress town for a poorly-defendable resort town was a poor move. Duke Rard and Count Sago must have been up into the twilight hours, trying to figure out what Lenguin was thinking. “Is there any more news from the stables?”

“A gracious plenty, Master,” he answered with a hint of a smirk. “Refugees are reaching Cleston. A trickle, for now, women and children from the villages around Vorone – those with the sense to flee. Word from the south that the armies are beginning to gather, but slowly and reluctantly. And word from Wenshar borne by a black and white clad rider, sealed in an ebony tube.”

“That’s what kept His Grace from summoning me,” I sighed, understanding. “He got his response from the Censor General. Since no one has tried to put me in the dungeons yet, I can only assume that either the Censor General has seen my superior reasoning for what it is and graciously given up three hundred years of law and tradition – which I find doubtful – or the Duke has kept his own counsel on this, and not capitulated to the demand to arrest me that was undoubtedly in that tube.”

“Shall I try to discover the exact nature of the message, Master?” Ham asked, helpfully. “It probably wouldn’t take much silver—”

“I’ll find out all too soon what the Censor said,” I told him, grimly. “But I can guess. The usual action taken in a case like this is immediate imprisonment and eventual execution.”

“Well, although it’s been a short tenure at my position, Master, it has been an enjoyable one,” Hamlan said cheerfully. “And now that you have broken your fast and heard the news, may I present a request from His Excellency, Count Angrial, emissary of Alshar, to join him at the White Bridge Tavern in town this morning for a game of Rushes.”

“ ‘A game of Rushes?’ Is he mad?”

“No, Master,” Hamlan said, simply. “He is a diplomat. Might I offer an opinion?”

I stared at him – that was bold, for a servant, but he hadn’t proven to be stupid yet. “Go ahead.”

“Count Angrial is desperate for some action on the part of Castal. Specifically military action. What he wants is for every knight in Castal to go ride to his Duke’s defense, like he was some distressed maiden. What he’s found here instead is Duke Rard behaving with caution – far more caution than His Excellency would like to see. He heard your bold proposal – excuse me, Master, but everyone in Wilderhall has heard it by know – and he thinks you may be a man of action, or at least have the Duke’s ear in this matter.”

“You think he hopes to bend me to his cause?”

“Master, he is desperate. But he is being watched. There are many in the Duchy who do not want to get embroiled in the affairs of Alshar, and would see a meeting in the castle as an affront. He cannot approach you openly here, for that would be seen as a blatant attempt to curry your favor. This way you can have a chance meeting in a tavern, play a game of rushes, and enjoy a cup of wine. Perfectly innocent.”

I looked at him thoughtfully. “You seem rather well-informed, for a manservant.”

“Always in my Master’s service,” he agreed.

“Just be discreet. And let me know who tries to get you to spy on me.”

“Of course, Master. I’d never turn up a chance to double my bribe.”

I smiled, despite myself. “Just so. All right, have my horse saddled. I feel like a ride through the city.”

“As you wish, Master,” Ham said, giving me a cheeky bow before departing.

* * *

A century ago, Wilderhall was originally a fortress erected to protect the southern baronies of Castal from the hill clans and petty lords of the Wilderlands, as well as counter the influence of the powerful Wenshari lords in the east of the region. It had started as a humble palisade, but after fifty years of raids and incursions from the north and the east, one of Duke Rard’s ancestors had enough, and began building the impressive fortification that I was sleeping in.

Wilderhall became the base from which the Castali Dukes had conquered the Wilderlands and brought the clans to their knees in fealty. The city which had grown up around the fortress became a center for trade between the Wilderlands and the Riverlands, and even Wenshar in northern Remere. While the ports at the mouth of the great river and the fertile lands on its banks brought the Duchy great prosperity, in the north Wilderhall brought it both security and commerce.

The city was a mixture of southern-style stonework mixed with the rough-hewn timbers and steep peaked roofs of the Wilderlands. When Rard’s great-grandfather, Rard II, visited the castle as a youth he fell in love with the place, particularly the rich hunting in the forests and the busty young noblewoman who became his Duchess. Upon his ascension to the Coronet, he declared Wilderhall the summer palace, and removed a part of his ministries there. After that, the Duke and Duchess traditionally spent a third of the year here by tradition, while their winter palace far to the south festered in wretched humidity.

Wilderhall Town had therefore enjoyed the benefit of royal society, which meant a lot of courtiers trying to impress each other and the Duke with their extravagant lifestyle. There were mansions and palaces even richer than the castle within its walls, and country estates of important nobility who found it more convenient to be near the corridors of power, but not within them. And because of the opulence and the wealth it attracted, the town was also incredibly well-maintained and clean. That encouraged inns and taverns to spring up nearly everywhere, places fit for the purses of the wealthy and powerful.

Among the inns in Wilderhall, the most impressive is the White Bridge Inn. It’s actually an inn, it’s actually located on a bridge, and it’s actually white. The local granite is that color, and the entire span sparkles in the sunshine. The bridge is massive, wide enough for three carts to pass unimpeded, and almost half a mile long. Its longest span is wide enough to permit the largest river barges to go under. And to defend the town, there are towers constructed at either end – and one in the middle.

It’s around this central tower that the White Bridge Inn was constructed. Originally built to serve the needs of travelers who arrived after the town gates were locked – and the small garrison of soldiers stationed at the bridge – the White Bridge Inn was built into the western side of the span, hanging out over the widest part of the river. The rooms each have a porthole offering a magnificent view (and a convenient place to empty a chamberpot) and the lowest level is a large taproom.

At night it can get pretty bawdy, I was told, with live music and jongleurs and pretty maidens dancing. But during the day, it was a favored spot for the wealthy and powerful to gather and play at dice or cards or rushes. If money changed hands during these games, it was considered a gentleman’s prerogative, and nothing to concern the Duke’s tax collectors with.

I rode to the inn and handed off Traveler’s reigns to a boy with a penny for fodder, and I wondered just how he’d react to being suspended over a river while he ate. Then I descended to the common room, where the breeze from over the river was channeled to keep the place delightfully cool.

Count Angrial was waiting, feigning patience as he fiddled with the rushes board and nursing a silver goblet of wine. He rose almost instantly when he saw me, and wasted no time in inviting me over to his board for a friendly game.

“I was extremely impressed with how you handled yourself at the council, Master Minalan,” Angrial said, just a hint of obsequiousness in his voice. “It takes a bold man to walk up to the most powerful man in the Duchy and tell him what he should do.” He paused a moment and regarded me. “And have him listen.”

“As to that, Lord Angrial, I could not say. His Grace has yet to consider my proposal.”

“Oh, he considers it,” Angrial murmured as he set up the pieces. “In defiance of three hundred years of law and tradition, he considers it.”

“And what is your opinion on the matter?” I asked. No, it probably wasn’t the smoothest way to solicit that information, but then again I’m a lousy diplomat. “Should the Bans be relaxed?”

He shrugged as he held out his hand with a piece in it and allowed me to guess – black, as I’d guessed, but a Ship, not a Tower. He had the right of first placement, but I was forced to make the first move. “Under the circumstances, it would seem that keeping them would do little to protect ourselves from the goblins. Even if your tale of a magical floating goblin head were true – and there are many who doubt it – there is no doubt that the goblins used magic to aid their attacks on our lands. If this green stone is to blame, then whatever it takes to overcome them is not too high a price to pay.”

“And is that His Grace Lenguin’s opinion as well?” I asked, as he placed a Well on his center back court. I placed a Lamp on mine, in the west corner. “If Alshar were to agree to my proposal as well as Castal, then we warmagi could concentrate on the war without having to worry about the Censorate popping out of our drawers every time we wanted to try something new.” He placed a Lamp next to his Well, and I added the second Lamp to the east corner.

“Bringing the Ships out early?” he snorted. I know – beginner’s move. “His Grace is raising a force with all speed, Master Minalan. But considering the size of the task ahead of him . . .”

“He has no idea the size of the task ahead of him,” I said, placing a Tower in my backfield. He placed a similar Tower next to his Well. So I placed a Temple and then he placed a Wheel. “There are hundreds of thousands of them, my lord. And he’s stirred them up with religion and bad magic. There are . . . encouraging signs that he may not be immortal,” I said, carefully. “But when he has fortified Boval Vale as he desires, you can count on looking back at the rape of Alshar as a relatively pleasant period.”

“You jest, Master Minalan,” he said. He placed a Wheel, I placed a Tree and then he placed a Temple. “If that’s true, then we are ill-prepared for it. The knights of Alshar are valiant, but—

“But they know best how to fight each other, not gurvani. And certainly not against gurvani sorcery,” I finished. “Last placement,” I reminded him. He looked at the box and looked at the board for a good long time before he pulled a Tree out and placed it in his forefield. I studied the board a moment longer, and then added a Forge to my Tower in the center.

“The first move is yours, Master Minalan,” he said, formally. I nodded and cast the die. A one. I shrugged and placed a Dryad next to my Tree. He nodded.

“Interesting play. No, our own warmagi aren’t a match for their magic. And since this threat is to our very heartlands, if you and your allies can bring us some relief, I can’t see how the Duke could not take that into consideration.” He threw a one, and added a Nymph to the Well. No surprises there.

“An agreement beforehand would be a more tangible sign of his favor,” I pointed out, throwing a two. I added a Monk to the Temple. “A written agreement,” I added.

Angrial chuckled and threw a two. One of his Towers grew a Knight. “That would seem to be putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? What if you fail? Then we’ve relaxed the Bans for nothing.”

My turn to chuckle. “If we fail, the Bans won’t matter. Alshar will be conquered and Castal next. As I told the Prime Minister yesterday, by that time the Duke of Remere will likely be in a much more generous mood than his peers were.” I threw a four, and placed a Ship near my easternmost Lamp.

“Oh, you are bold, Master Spellmonger,” he said, throwing a three and placing a Warrior next to his Wheel. “Would that be enough to secure your aid? A Ducal declaration to relax the Bans on Magic in Alshar?”

“It would be a start,” I agreed, throwing another two. I gave my Tower a Knight. “But I would need more than that. Leave to make war in Alshar, for one,” I said, as he threw a one and gained a Spear at his Tower. “A special commission from the Duke would be enough for that, I suppose. Leave to conscript men and horses into service at need, draw on stores at the Duke’s expense, and take shelter at his banner castles,” I added casually. I threw a one and chose another Dryad. That raised an eyebrow.

“It sounds as if you want complete autonomy,” he observed, throwing a two and cursing. He added another Knight to the Tower. “That would be unprecedented. Particularly for a Castali. And a commoner.”

“I’ve served Alshari lords as well as Castali. I’m a Spellmonger. A warmage. A mercenary. The Bans prohibit me from swearing fealty and becoming a vassal. I don’t care your country, as long as your coin is good.” I threw a four and my Forge gained a Mage. Nice touch. Angrial threw a three and his Lamp got a Ship. “If you want me to be effective, then give me the tools I need.”

“Last round,” he said, studying the board. I threw my last throw – a three – and considered my positioning. I finally placed a Lord at my Tower. Angrial threw a four and his Temple gained an Ogre. Ouch.

“There are risks in what you ask,” he said, thoughtfully. “Of course, the risks in not doing what you ask are also looming. And every day the tide grows nearer to Vorone.”

“Take all the time you need, Count,” I said, expansively. I moved my Dryad into play. He countered with a Knight. “But Duke Rard is sure to come to some decision, soon. While I have no idea what it is, if he should prove more willing to side with the Censor General than me, well, I’ll be looking for a new home. That could be further east – much further – or it could be in Alshar. A commission and orders would give me a reason to not go east.” I moved my Monk to support my Dryad.

He moved his Ogre into the center of the board, threatening each one of my pieces. “And if Duke Rard agrees to your proposal and sends you against the goblins?”

“Then I would feel much better about it if I likewise had Duke Lenguin’s leave to wage war in his country.” I moved my Mage across the board. It’s not a very strong piece, but it has a lot of mobility. His Ogre ate one of my Dryads. He rolled and got a one. Another Spearman for his Tower. I withdrew the Monk. “If I go to war, it should be against goblins, not humans.”

“I see your point,” he sighed, and moved his Ogre toward my Tower. I moved my Knight to counter, and he moved his Ogre into proximity of the Knight. Instead of attacking him, however, I moved my Mage across the board again and took his Spearman at his own Tower. That earned me a throw – a three – which added a Sea Pod to my eastern Lamp.

That earned a raised eyebrow. “You certainly play an unconventional game, Master Minalan. I am indeed empowered on behalf of my lord to make whatever arrangements I see fit to secure the defense of his realm, in his name and with his authority. I could, therefore, give you such a commission, and even provisions. Conscription authority may prove more difficult, however,” he added, as his Ogre ate my other Dryad. Which was fine. That was why there were there. He threw a one, adding another Spearman to his Tower to counter my Mage.

“You say ‘could’,” I observed, moving the Mage from the Tower to the Well, and destroying his Nymph. I threw a two, and added a Skiff to my western Lamp. Angrial’s brow furrowed, as he began to realize the shape of my strategy. It put him in a difficult position – he could go after my Tower, the traditional strongpoint and focus of the game, or he could turn toward one of my Lamps. But not both. Not with just his Ogre. He considered, and then moved his Knight into play. “Which means you are considering it. Under the circumstances, my lord, what could it possibly hurt? If I’m strung up by the Censor General for violating the Bans, Duke Lenguin has lost nothing. If I go to war and die in battle, Duke Lenguin has lost nothing. But if I go to war and mitigate the gurvani invasion – I cannot say I can end it, but perhaps keep the heart of Alshar from being plundered – well, then, Duke Lenguin has preserved some of his realm without much in the way of expense.”

I countered by having my Mage pick off his fresh Spearman back at his Tower, and rolled a two. A second Skiff went to my western Lamp. “And if his nobles should protest?”

I chuckled, shaking my head, as his Ogre destroyed my Knight. He threw a two and added another Knight to his own Tower. “My lord Angrial, might I suggest that they will have far more pressing matters to consider before my impudence will take a priority at court. Most of your nobility is unsophisticated about magic. If they see it as something that’s aiding them in keeping their lands, instead of something to be feared, I cannot imagine them making more than a token protest over the relaxation of the Bans.” Instead of attacking his remaining Knight at his Tower, I moved my Mage back to destroy his Well. Angrial looked concerned as I threw a three and a four. I had another Ship I placed at my eastern Lamp, and added another Mage to my Temple. If I destroyed two more placements, I’d win the game.

He moved his solitary Ship out in response. “You may be right about that – magic is far more of a concern for the Eastern Duchies. The Bans have only a token enforcement in Alshar, anyway,” he said, convincing himself. I moved my Mage to attack his Knight on the field – a piece of unfortunate symbolism, I realized in hindsight – and rolled a two. Another Sea Pod for my western Lamp.

“That’s one reason why I set up in western Alshar,” I agreed. “I’ve seen the way they do things in Remere. I prefer Alshar’s more relaxed attitude.” He moved his Ogre against my Lord, and the throw went to him. He rolled another two and brought yet-another Knight into play at his Tower. I was starting to see a pattern here – despite the wealth of other pieces available, Angrial seemed to like the strong, offensive pieces like Knights and Ogres.

“I doubt if the Alshari Censor would share your attitude,” he said, as his Ogre destroyed my Tower. He threw a two and a three, which manifested as another Knight and a Priest. I used my offensive Mage to destroy the Priest the next turn, and rolled a four. I added a Leviathan to my eastern Lamp, this time. “Nor the Censor General in Wenshar. From what I understand, General Hartarian is incredibly committed to enforcing the Bans. And he has some influence at court – not a lot, but some.”

“So what is this Censor doing to shield your Duchy from the gurvani?” I asked, as his Ogre moved toward my western Lamp. It was almost time to move. “Has he raised any armies? Blasted the goblins? Improved the defense of your fortifications?” I inquired. I moved my Ship to intervene. He took my Ship next round, threw a one, and added a Spearman to his tower. Utterly conventional thinking.

“In fact, he has not,” admitted Angrial, as his Ogre stomped on toward my weaker Lamp and took my Skiff. He put a Dryad at his Tree, and I countered by using my offensive Mage to destroy his Lamp, much to his surprise. I elected to take a second turn, instead of recruiting another piece, and I used it to moved my second, defensive mage to his Tree, where I took the fresh Dryad. I rolled a three and added another ship to my western Lamp, making life difficult for his Ogre. “Nor has the Alshari Censor, Master Saleppo. Mostly, he sits in his office and regulates the few large practitioners in the southern cities. Levies fines and conducts examinations. Two years ago he used his powers to condemn a hedgewitch to death for practicing black magic.”

Black Magic. It’s a catch-all term for any spell used to harm outside of very specific ways, and one used almost exclusively outside of my profession. The fact is, magic isn’t any more good or evil than fire or steel, as every mageling quickly learns, but if you’re caught using it, then the Censors have the right to demand the King’s Justice against you. Of course, just what constitutes “black magic” is widely open to interpretation – the interpretation of the Censors. Usually such charges led to a simple fine, or at worse a suspension of your certification. It was rare that they demand the death penalty in such cases. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

Angrial noted it at once. “Oh, it wasn’t vindictive – the woman was using magic to lure young men to her hut, seduced them, and then afterwards she’d kill and eat them,” he said, matter-of-factly. All right, I had to concede that magic used to further cannibalism and rape was a reasonable use of the Censor’s power. “The Duke was all too happy to send her to the Headsman. But that was the only thing of note that Master Saleppo has done in his nine year tenure at Bensharamer,” he said, referencing the “official” capital of Alshar, almost a thousand miles south of Vorone. That’s where the Duke’s summer palace was – and the bulk of his revenue. Bensharamer had been an important port city since Imperial times, and was where the push to conquer Alshar had started. That was also where most of the Duchy’s high officials lived, including the Ducal Censor.

“Then why are you worried about what he might say?” I asked, innocently. “Either he is assisting the Duchy or he’s not. My advice, my lord, is to figure out which of those is more important to your Duke and proceed accordingly.”

“Again, a good argument for your position, Master Minalan,” Angrial agreed, a little reluctantly. “But what will the other Duchies say when we throw out the Bans? Wars have started over less.”

“One shouldn’t care what one’s neighbors will say when one’s house is on fire,” I observed. I pushed my Sea Pod into play from my eastern Lamp. He countered by bringing his other Ogre out into play. I moved my Ship to support my Sea Pod. He brought his first Ogre against my western Lamp, and destroyed a Skiff. Then he rolled a two, and had yet-another Knight on his Tower. “The way I see it, my lord, the Duke will be lucky to hear such complaints. Because it will mean that something has stemmed the tide from Boval and prevented Vorone from being sacked. Of all the Duchies that might take issue with Alshar lifting the Bans, only Castal is close enough to offer war, and in the face of the Dead God they are unlikely to get pissy about something like that when they, themselves, are seriously considering it. Remere? Merwin? Vore? None of them are likely to make more than a token protest, nor are they in a position to invade. And there are other merits, as well,” I pointed out, helpfully. Then I tackled the second Ogre with my Ship, and lost the Ship.

“Such as?” he asked, absently, as he studied the board. His second Ogre destroyed one of my Sea Pods, gaining him another Knight for his well-protected Tower.

“Such as, if Alshar is the only Duchy which has relaxed the Bans, then Alshar will become a popular haven for the most powerful magi in the world,” I promised. “Magi will come from as far as Vore to practice here without the Censorate standing over them and every spell they cast.” I pushed a Leviathan against his Ogre, and lost the contest and my Leviathan. His victory was short-lived, however, even though he gained another Lord for his Tower, because my second Mage moved in on his unprotected Tree and destroyed it. I rolled a three, and put another Ship in the East, and a one, which became a Dwarf at the Forge. His Ogre took the Ship almost immediately, and he threw a four, which gave him yet-another Ogre at his Temple as a defense.

“Impressive,” I nodded. It appeared I was losing the game.

“Thank you,” he nodded back. “I see your point about the magi coming to Alshar,” he said, reluctantly. “But if we drop the Bans, won’t they be unruly and unregulated?”

“Hardly,” I dismissed. “I don’t think magic should be un-regulated,” I countered, “just that it shouldn’t be as heavily regulated, in light of current circumstances. You need to be able to control your magi, of course. Which is all the better reason to come to an agreement with me. I think Alshar is going to see an influx of magi, anyway, now that it’s known that there is Irionite available. Unless you want a lot of highly-trained magi acquiring tainted Irionite and eventually becoming pawns of the Dead God in your midst, you’re going to want my help. I’m the only one who can break that bond, and once-broken I know more about attuning your witchstone than anyone save Pentandra, one of my colleagues in the Order. That’s a crisis on top of the crisis you already have,” I reminded him, pushing my eastern Leviathan toward his Ogre.

Instead of taking the bait, he took my Monk instead, and put another Priest at his Temple. I guess he thought it was innovative thinking. I pretended a frown, then pushed my Leviathan into striking distance of his Ogre. Clearly he was planning a bloodbath. Might as well give him one.

“Could not the Duke’s men enforce regulation on the magi?” he asked, moving his Ogre once-again toward my eastern Lamp.

“Not if they wanted to live. You have to understand, Irionite is powerful. Imagine being a five-year-old boy, just learning how to ride a horse. You’ve learned how to curry your pony, feed him, water him, even shoe him . . . and then someone puts you on a warhorse and slaps it on the butt. That’s what using Irionite in magic is like. If the Duke’s men tried to enforce any regulations on the magi, they’d learn just how hazardous it is.” I moved my Leviathan against his Ogre, and let him attack it. I won the roll this time, and elected to take a second turn. I pushed my Leviathan toward the second Ogre.

“So it takes magi to police magi,” he observed, sagely.

“Yes,” I answered, as his western Ogre reversed directions and turned to face the pursuing Leviathan. “That’s the only way. Each of the Censors is an Imperially-trained magi. That’s how they study the spells that they are regulating. Of course, traditionally the Censorate has been the repository for the utterly mediocre, or the nobility too proud to see magic as a trade and want greater authority.”

“Couldn’t the Court Wizard police them?” he countered.

“He could try,” I admitted. “But without Irionite . . .”

“You seem to have thought of everything, Master Minalan,” he said, amused, as his Ogre destroyed my Leviathan. The three he rolled turned into another Lord at his already well-defended Tower. “Unfortunately, superior forces often shatter the plans of the wise.”

“And the foolish,” I countered, bringing my Mage back to his Well, which I destroyed. “I win.”

It took him a moment to realize it: Lamp, Tree, Well. I had destroyed three of his placements, while he had only taken one of mine, despite all the pieces he still had on the board. When he was certain that he had been beaten fairly, he chuckled and settled back in his chair.

“That was a most interesting game, Master Minalan,” he conceded. “You got me so enthusiastic about slaughtering your pieces that I didn’t notice my placements gone until it was too late. Well done. And sneaky.”

I bowed from the waist, amused. “Misdirection has oft been the trademark of the magi, my lord. Thank you for the game.”

“Thank you,” he nodded in return. “I’ll keep that in mind as our business progresses. And thank you for your candid opinion, and for coming to visit me out here, away from most prying eyes. I think that I can provide you with letters to secure most of what you request – the commission, the permission to draw stores, maybe even conscription. I will have to defer judgment on the Bans until His Grace has an opportunity to rule on it. I shall dispatch a message to him in Vorone at once, begging that he consider the matter. I cannot promise that he will – but I’d like to think that he listens to my advice.”

“I look forward to hearing word,” I said, standing. “You may find me in quarters back at the River Tower. And I just employed a new servant, this morning, if you have need of me. He can get a message to me, if I’m otherwise detained.”

“Why would you be otherwise detained?” he asked, curiously.

“The Censor General is on his way from Wenshar,” I sighed. “And when he gets here, he is – quite literally – going to want my head.”

Chapter Fifteen:

Politics After The Battle Of Tudry

Tudry Town, Late Summer

I had to give the goblin commander some credit, whoever he was. I was learning, first hand, what it was like to be a commander with a carefully orchestrated battle plan exposed to the unpleasant, unpredictable reality that is a real battlefield – a battlefield where any notion that you have real control over the plan, the troops, the foe, or the situation is laughable illusion. After leading two pitched battles, dozens of skirmishes, and a siege, I was just starting to learn that lesson myself. But the goblin general rebounded quickly and effectively.

When the cavalry retreated at the sound of their horns, leaving half of his troops dead on the field, he didn’t retreat. That kind of devastating loss might lead to chaos among the survivors, but he kept his forces together, for the most part. They had lost at least six or seven gurvani for every knight who fell, and their morale had to be low, but they reformed in ragged ranks, chanting and shouting defiantly, instead of running. When running was the smart thing to do.

Azar and I had followed Rogo’s horse archers to within bowshot of the fray, across broken fields and meadows. Along the way we encountered stray bands of goblins who had gotten separated, and gladly taught them a lesson in archery.

The Nirodi were best on their feet, but they knew how to shoot from the saddle, too.

As we approached a small rise overlooking a creek, a tributary to the Anfal, I felt a tingle and opened myself to speaking mind-to-mind to Astyral.

We’ve gotten five thousand out so far, Captain, and nothing more serious than a lame ox and a broken axel. No goblins, to speak of, beyond a few snipers and scouts. Folks are singing, actually, glad to be heading out. So try to keep them all from being killed along the road, will you?

You may tell them that the brave knights of Castal and Megelin have already slain half the horde. But there are more in the neighborhood, and they shouldn’t tarry. Get them headed to Vorone. Any trouble with the militia?

Oh, some who want to be going east with their families, and some who want to be at the battlefield, killing goblins, but most are content to watch from here. The Orphan’s Band met up with us, incidentally, after they got through with that southern band. They’re being very helpful screening the refugees.

Keep me posted . . . but if I don’t answer for some reason, bide. I’m probably fighting for my life.

I shall take that into account.

“The evacuation goes well,” I said aloud to Azar and Rogo, as we brought the horses to a stop atop the rise. “All is quiet on the road. Most of the smaller bands have gone into hiding, or moved on, I think.”

“And I don’t think those fellows are going to be much trouble, for much longer,” grunted Azar. “They’d have to go past this spot to get to the civilians.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rogo said, shading his eyes with his hand while viewing the field below. “They still have plenty of fight left in them.” The rise wasn’t significant, just twenty feet or so above the creek bed below, but it was wide and there were trees that shielded our movements from easy detection. Plus, it was shady, and it was starting to get hot in my armor. I brought Traveler to a stop, and Hamlan appeared – I hadn’t known he was near – and took the reins for me without prompting. Handy, that precognitive Talent.

I summoned magesight and adjusted it until I could see the remnants of the horde clearly. They were a mess, the field littered with black bodies, sprinkled with armored knights, and studded with the corpses of mounts fallen in battle.

But behind the carnage, the goblin commander had brought the horde to a rally, just this side of the ford. I expected him to make a run for it, rather than face another cavalry charge. He didn’t.

Instead, he did the first tactically smart thing he could under the circumstances. First, he’d pulled his surviving troops out of range from our bows, at least for the moment. And since another charge was inevitable, he had his troops pile up the bodies of the dead and nearly dead to make a grisly obstacle that had to be leapt over, and then he built a line behind them with some of his stouter soldiers armed with bucklers and captured shields. It was one of the crappiest shield walls I’d ever seen, but when I saw a few spears and lances bristling from it, I recognized that the enemy’s leadership wasn’t completely stupid.

Pity, that.

“Rogo, do you think we can get close enough to hit them a few times before the charge? They’re set up to receive one, almost, but I’d like to soften them up a bit, too.”

The rangy man nodded, peering out at the goblins. “Aye, Captain, my thought as well. We ride, dismount just within bowshot, loose three or four volleys, and then withdraw just before the charge. Then we can ride in support of the militia, who can come in and clean up the survivors.”

“That might be getting ahead of ourselves,” I murmured. “But let’s stick with that until we can’t, any longer. And you’ll have some magical support. I’d like to knock that shield wall down, if I can. Azar, would you like Negative this time?”

“Of course, Captain,” he grinned, and I took the reins back from a very nervous Hamlan as I started to form another Orb.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get the opportunity to see if I could best Azar’s Orb, because as we rode down from the rise, we were ambushed.

Now, the attack was doomed to fail from the start, because five hundred-odd Nirodi bowmen aren’t about to let their captain get hit without responding. But for four or five frantic minutes, suddenly there seemed to be goblins everywhere at once.

I didn’t panic, of course, because I realized that this was nothing more than a desperate sacrifice of troops to keep us from using are archery advantage. But it was effective in that.

It began with a high-pitched shriek that I’d come to be familiar with as a gurvani war-cry – imagine a six-year old accidently picked up a hot iron, and you’ll have an inkling of what it sounds like. But it also came with four of the riders around me suddenly falling from their horses. I expected to see arrows, but I didn’t.

But then I was too busy to see anything, because there were two goblins in front of Traveler with short swords, and my horse wasn’t happy about it. He reared, which nearly interrupted my spell with disastrous consequences, and I cursed, and then I threw my half-completed Orb in the direction I thought had the most goblins, and drew Slasher.

Traveler came down decisively on our attackers, and while he was stomping their bones into jelly under his hooves I got the rare opportunity to watch Azar at work. I mean, I’ve seen him kill enough gurvani to . . . well, I’ve seen him kill a lot of gurvani. But this was Azar in his element, and for about five seconds between opponents, I watched as he went into action.

He threw his Orb, too, in a different direction, though his didn’t erupt with the pleasing report mine did. Still, it was a distraction, and once he’d ditched it he drew Thunder from his back with his right hand, and slid down the neck of his horse using the other to guide him from the pommel. But as he dismounted, his regular mageblade (Lightning, naturally) found its way into his left hand, and in two steps he was out of range of his steed and in the thick of battle.

And I mean the thick of it. The band that attacked us was only a hundred or a hundred and fifty strong, and they had lain where they were, undetected, throughout the battle. So when they came swarming up the rise, they erupted right in front of us at the head of the column. So when Azar slid down to face off the foe, there were at least ten or twelve gurvani close enough to him to offer to light his pipe.

These weren’t simple tribal gurvan, either. These were warriors, trained to battle and armed with plenty of captured cutlery. Many had helmets and armor, captured or goblin-made, and they fought more like men than animals. There was a minimum of warlike displays, as they moved on us in a loose formation, and apart from some war-cries there was little of the grunting, growling, and shouting in gurvani I’d come to expect from them.

But they may as well have been toddlers, as far as Azar was concerned. With one titanic sweep of his great blade he lopped the head off of one and buried it into the neck of a second. With his smaller, pointed blade he poked three gurvani in rapid succession, in the belly, in the throat, and he took the last one in the eye. Two threw themselves at him disregarding his great blade, and a mace was crashing toward his knee for a few heart-stopping seconds. Then Azar shifted his weight, pivoted to put his back to the living enemies, and caught the blade with the forte of his small blade.

But he wasn’t finished – after parrying the mace, he brought the blade of his sword up under his arm, pointed his left palm at a group of three, said something, and they all burned to a horrible crisp before my eyes. Then he continued the pivot, using the weight of the great sword to pull him around, and he planted his right boot squarely on the chest of one of the others savagely swinging at him – this one with a small, wicked-looking hatchet – and pinned him to the ground decisively enough so that I heard his ribcage crunch. As he completed his turn, he was now facing the sole gurvan who he’d parried less than a second before, in full guard position, his great sword held low and his mageblade held high.

There was a big goofy grin on his face. In a span of five seconds the gurvan was less impressed. The gurvan held his mace loosely in both hands, starring up at the towering warrior in black armor, his blades stained with his comrades’ blood, and the goblin was justifiably terrified.

But then I didn’t get to see how Azar dispatched him, because suddenly something wrapped itself tightly about my chest, binding my arms to my body and nearly throwing me from my mount. It was a sudden attack, and one that went through my defensive spells, and I reacted reflexively as if it was a magical attack by launching one of my hung spells, a nasty all-purpose counterspell.

This had the unfortunate effect of disabling whatever Azar had been casting, and did nothing to ease the constriction in my chest – had those bastards figured out how to get through our shields so quickly?

Then I looked down and saw that it wasn’t a spell that bound me, but three or more little lead weights, the size of sling stones, tied at the ends of rope with the other ends tied together. I could see at once how it could manage to neutralize some of the advantages a horseman had. Ingenious. I couldn’t bring Slasher to bear, the way my elbows were pinned against my sides, and it would take me a few moments to conjure a helpful spell. Only the gurvani weren’t going to give me a few moments.

As I struggled to stay mounted and armed and deal with my predicament, three gurvani appeared in front of me, and two leapt up the back of the third to try to force me from the saddle. One bore a jagged dagger that had started life as a kitchen knife, the other held a sword and wore a helmet. The helmet clanged into my head, making me lose focus for a moment, and then I was sitting atop Traveler, helpless, while the goblins began to try to stab me.

They would have done far more damage if I hadn’t been armored, but as it was I got a couple of nasty cuts in my arm and shoulder. I tried to lean over enough to shake the one with the butcher knife off me, but he clung to me like a lovelorn village girl.

Then he suddenly let go, his eyes wide. As he dropped away, I saw Hamlan with a bloody sword in his hand standing behind him.

“Just a moment, Master!” he said, as the other one tried to make up for the loss of his mate by slamming his sword against my shoulder again and again, seeking for the gap between my armor and my helmet. Instead of trying to fight the beast, however, Hamlan did the smart thing and turned his sword on the rope. Suddenly I could move my arms, and with a gesture the gurvan attacking me was flying backwards through the air with a confused expression on his face.

“Thank you!” I shouted tersely in Ham’s direction – and then noticed that the third goblin was attacking my manservant. I was about to blast him where he stood when a Nirodi shaft erupted from his neck and he went down. “Good work, Ham! Now get your ass back on your horse!”

“He’s shy a couple of legs,” he admitted, breathlessly, turning to see if any other goblins were about. “Some great brute with an axe took him off at the knees.”

“Sorry,” I grunted, as I surveyed the field. There were only a few scattered remnants of the ambush, now – the Nirodi had wasted no time sniping at our attackers, and they were quite adept. They had managed to hurt one man, unhorse three others, but apart from delaying us a few minutes, the maneuver did little damage.

Of course, those few minutes caused us to be late to the party, unfortunately. Rogo did his best to make up time as his men galloped across the fields, but the cavalry was already preparing for a second charge when they launched their first volley. They only got off two before the rumble of hooves warned them off. If they had managed even two more, perhaps it would have changed things.

While we had been busy with our ambush, the goblin chieftain had brought several logs from the rear, some so fresh they still bore branches and leaves. His troops cast them down behind the bulwark of bodies they’d erected, and some genius had hurriedly set spears and stakes within the debris to complicate things further. It wasn’t a real redoubt, and it wouldn’t stop Pendolan’s advance, but it was going to make a cavalry charge a lot bloodier for our side.

And I had no way to reach them in time. Azar, my magical liaison, was next to me, re-growing an Orb between his hands. He saw the implications of the goblins’ tactics as soon as I did, and he let the spell collapse.

“That isn’t good, Min,” he murmured. “That could hurt someone.”

“Any ideas?” I asked, thinking of nothing that could remove the obstacles or stop the charge – which was already starting.

“Hope they see it?” he suggested, as the Nirodi archers let fly their second volley.

“I don’t think that’s going to work. Kaddel can be pretty stubborn. And note he’s put the Megelini in the van, at the point of the spear, ahead of the Hellriders. He’s using the locals to go first, soak up any damage before his men get there.” Stubborn, but not stupid.

“What if we just pulled the logs up? Simple telekinesis?”

“We could try – but there’s at least ten logs. How many do you think you could hold aloft at one time? Maybe in a year, when we’ve learned how to use the stones better, but I could manage one, maybe two. I’d burn them, somehow, but they’re still green.”

“Shit, Min,” Azar swore, as the Nirodi began to re-mount and the charged began in earnest. “They’re starting to cast something from the horde. We’re out of time.”

He was right. Maybe there was something I could have done, some spell I hadn’t thought of, but right then and there I couldn’t. Blame it on a lack of sleep, adrenaline, my incompetence, or anything else, but I couldn’t think of a damn thing to do about that barrier. All we could do was watch in fascination as the banner-bearer holding the standard of Megelin proudly in the first rank leaped the bank of bodies, his steed stumbled on a log, and his horse went down, impaled on a spear. More followed, and as the front ranks slowed to clear the debris, the rear ranks plowed into them.

Compared to this morning’s almost elegant charge, this was like a drunken folk dance.

The Megelini did their best to push through, but they lost a lot of horses doing it, and those who had fallen were quickly rushed by goblins. Kavial’s Company and the Hellriders, on the other hand, used the hole opened by the Megelini sacrifice and crashed into the crude shield-wall, executing a decent short-range charge that plowed through the front ranks and messed up all that lovely organization the gurvani just discovered.

But there was more – just as I was starting to breathe a little easier, the little bastards brought magic back into play.

There aren’t a whole lot of things you can do to a mounted knight on a barded warhorse to stop him or even slow him down, much less harm him on his majestic walking castle. The wood of his shield, the steel of his armor and a stout helm keep him safe from all but a few dangers: being pulled off his mount by hooks, stumbling, losing his horse, a stray lucky arrow . . . and now those sling-stone things the gurvani had used against us in the ambush. An armored knight can withstand rain, wind, cold, and even a fair amount of heat, if he drinks enough water.

But he’s essentially encased in a suit of metal, and so is his horse. The goblins had figured that out, and while their shamans were pretty dim about a lot of sophisticated magic, they were quite conversant with basic elemental magic. For example, if you can get a current of wind to speed up enough by pouring power into it, and had it run across another stream of air going in another direction in just the right way, and an imbalance occurs as the negative and positive properties of the air become estranged and separate.

You can see the same basic effect when you rub a glass rod through a dry piece of fur (I know, why would one possibly want to do such a thing?): the rod assumes the negative aspects of the fur, and the hairs will raise as if unbidden to meet it in proximity, because of the Law of Attraction Of Oppositional Forces. First year magic academy stuff.

But if you do it on a large enough scale – say, with a couple of shamans using irionite to power the spell – the effect is much, much grander.

The goblins had brought down lighting against our steel-clad defenders.

Azar and I were both expecting . . . something, I suppose. You could feel the seething of power on the field, emanating from the horde, but we were so distracted by the rapidly unfolding events that we had no time to determine what they were doing and, perhaps, prepare a counterspell. So I guess we shouldn’t have been surprised that it happened, but we were. While we watched the charge crash into the black furry line, power erupted from the back of the goblin army, lashing out against the knights like an angry storm.

The angry lance of energy forked out in a chaotic dance, leaping from warrior to warrior, carried by the conductivity of their armor. Horses screamed and men froze in mid-swing. Some limbs exploded instantly, some charred, iron-clad corpses tumbled to the ground, and some men just fell dead from the saddle. Plenty of others were wounded by the bolt of energy, but still able to fight on.

It was an impressive piece of magic, no doubt about it. And it was something we should have anticipated and been able to counter. I cursed myself for an idiot while we watched hundreds of men and horses die under the terrible blue-white lightning. We were too far away to hear the noise – and the thunderclap that accompanied it drowned out a lot of it – but we saw the devastating effect the spell had on our troops. And the loud thunderclap terrorized the horses with its shock wave.

“Ishi protect us!” Azar said in horror. That was impressive, too – Azar rarely appealed to the divine, unless there was some obscene angle to the oath. But his eyes were sincere in his prayer. “Damn them! Who taught the little peckers about electricity?”

“The sky?” I pointed out the obvious. “Forget that – the damage is done. If they try it again they’ll hit as many of their people as ours.” That was true – and it was unlikely they could get a second discharge ready that quickly, too. It takes a little time to accumulate that much negative potential. There were other spells being used, but magesight told me that the big one they had used to bring the lightning was expended.

“I don’t think that matters to them,” he said, pointing out the obvious. I couldn’t disagree – the goblin commander had been using up little black furry lives like he had an endless supply. The fact that he might not be wrong disturbed me on several levels.

“That’s going to keep the horses in a panic for a while, probably too long for them to regroup before they get stomped on. We’re going to need infantry for this,” I sighed. “You do what you can to mess up the goblins’ day, I’m going to call Astyral to bring his forces forward.” Azar nodded, and turned his attention to back to the battle, words forming on his lips as he began another spell.

Astyral! I shouted through the link. The cavalry is faltering and needs support! Tell the militia commander that this is his hour to shine!

Ishi’s holy tits, Min! What the hell was that noise?

Lightning, I explained. We took heavy casualties, too. Someone realized that we walk around in battle dressed in a highly conductive material.

Shit! Are you doing something about that? These guys aren’t going to be thrilled about walking into a wall of sorcery!

Azar’s on it, I promised. I’ll have the horse archers form up on your flank for support when you get to the bottom of the hill, but don’t take too long or they’ll miss all the fun.

Kaddel’s southern flank had borne the brunt of the electrical assault, and his forces were wheeling around toward the northern end of the line, away from us and the spell. Azar was sending spell after spell into the horde, although at this range it was hard to tell just what effect it was having.

It seemed to take forever for the infantry to arrive. They had to cross almost a half-mile of lightly broken terrain to get here, of course, so I should have been more understanding, but I was watching the Hellriders and Kaviel’s Company and what was left of the Megelini start taking a lot more casualties as the goblins bore down on them at close range. That’s the thing about cavalry – they’re unstoppable when moving, but once they get bogged down, they become more and more vulnerable.

And then the goblin commander demonstrated even more intelligence, which I found disappointing. While his front lines were battling the suddenly-disorganized cavalry and keeping them from pushing through, the goblin commander ordered a couple of thousand from his reserves to break away past the southern flank and run toward the Great Western Road. That’s where the column of civilian refugees was. I guess it was just too juicy a target to ignore.

“Oh, crap!” I moaned. There wasn’t much I could do about it, not from here. The break-out group was running along the creek bed, a quarter of a mile below, and the Nirodi were already beginning to reposition themselves to support the infantry in the opposite direction. The city militia had left a small rearguard to protect their way back behind its walls, but apart from a few squads of light cavalry, they didn’t have a force that could get there in time with enough strength to protect them.

I could try to bring the Nirodi archers to bear, but I could see that we still wouldn’t be able to do more than attack their rear after they’d achieved the road and started slaughtering people. Five hundred against more than two thousand just wasn’t going to be effective anyway, I knew, even from the rear. But I had to do something. Otherwise they’d go after the refugees unopposed. Sure, it split what was left of the horde effectively in half – but if those two thousand actually hit the defenseless refugees, then this whole battle would be for naught.

Azar looked from the goblin force back over his shoulder, where the first lines of the infantry and militia were starting to appear near the creek. He’d reached the same conclusion as I had: despite all of our efforts, we could slay every goblin and still lose the engagement, if their tactic succeeded. “We aren’t going to be in time,” he said, resigned. “The goblins are running like the Dead God was after them. Nothing to do about it now.”

I felt my heart sink as the black column raced along the meadows below us. A few Nirodi were taking long bowshots at them, but there wasn’t much else we could do from our position. I could just imagine the chaos now: a whole line of gurvani descending on the column of refugees, slashing, beating, killing, and capturing. The guards and homemade weapons the peasants and townspeople had wouldn’t be worth a damn.

“Well, maybe some of them will get through,” I said, a blind hope in my despair. I was just about to talk Rogo into a full on suicidal charge into their rear, a charge the Nirodi weren’t equipped to make, when suddenly one of my commanders used his head and took some initiative. We heard horns again signaling a cavalry charge – only not from the site of the battle, where the Hellriders and the Kaviel’s Company were still grinding away. The triumphant sound of the horns was coming from the east, from the temple, and that’s when I realized what was happening.

Sir Kavial had decided to commit the reserves – at the perfect place and time.

It was my third cavalry charge of the day, so you’d think I’d be a little jaded by now. But the first two were execute against a foe who knew they were coming and were prepared for it. The third had Sir Kaviel’s fifteen hundred troopers riding down the distant slope of the hill toward the black river of hatred below. It was like a waterfall of horseflesh and steel, and once again the rumble shook the ground around us and filled our ears.

“Yes!” Azar shouted, pumping his fist in the air. “Gods be praised, yes! The old sot did something right, for all of his bluster!” I found myself agreeing with him – I had figured Kavial would send his men to support the other cavalry, since cavalry officers tend to see the battlefield in terms of horses and it was clear that the lightning strike had disrupted the main cavalry force. I mean, it was natural to fight in support of the main battle, especially if it’s happening down the hill right in front of you.

But Kavial had kept his eye on the situation as a whole, and waited until spending his troops would do the most good. Had he failed, then hundreds, thousands of Alshari refugees would have paid the price.

It was just a bonus that I got to watch my third cavalry charge of the day.

Kaviel’s Company thundered over and down the gentle slope of the Temple hill, losing only a bit of their formation along the way down. Their sudden appearance made the break-out group of goblins falter, and then redouble their efforts to reach the road. To no avail. Horses run fast when they’re pointed downhill, and Kaviel’s men crashed into and through them like a wave over a sand castle. They were still outnumbered – it was just five hundred cavalry – but with that momentum behind them each horse who made it to the bottom was able to take out several goblins in the initial charge. Far more devastating than what the Nirodi could have accomplished against a foe on the move.

“Do you think that will be enough?” Azar asked, with a keen professional interest.

“They’ll have a hard time recovering from that charge,” I nodded, admirably, as I watched the goblin line bulge and then shatter under the onslaught of knights in shining armor. “He probably has enough outriders to chase down stragglers. If Kavial can eliminate two-thirds of their numbers, then they’re a nuisance, not a real danger.”

“Unless they have shamans,” he reminded me.

“Yes,” I admitted with a sigh, “unless they have shamans. Why don’t you go make sure they don’t? Or anybody else? With you defending the line, I’ll feel a lot better about taking on what’s left of the horde with Astyral. Take twenty archers with you,” I suggested.

Azar nodded and shot me a wolfish grin as he drew his greatsword from over his shoulder and kicked his mount. “Maybe we can get there while there are still some left!” he said, eagerly, and trotted his great sable steed out to speak to Rogo about an escort.

I shook my head. There went a man who enjoyed his work.

* * *

I’d be lying if I said the rest of the battle went off without a hitch. Indeed, there were several hitches, as I linked up with Astyral and Redshaft’s archers supported the militia as they stomped down the hill toward an incredibly weakened horde to mop up.

In any case, the goblins who fought against us measured in the hundreds, not the thousands, even after the disastrous second cavalry charge, and they still had plenty of fight left.

But so did we. Those cavalry unaffected by lightning, and whose horses didn’t bolt in terror, were able to slaughter goblins with the same gay abandon as the first charge. And those knights whose horses did bolt away uncontrollably from the direction of the lightning often ended up doing more damage to the enemy than that. A terrified, out-of-control warhorse moving at full speed isn’t something you want to be in front of. Especially when you’re a seventy pound, four-foot tall goblin.

But there was plenty of stiff resistance still there, and at least a couple of living shamans who weren’t afraid to go out in style. A second lightning bolt, far weaker than the first, slew over a dozen Orphans in the front line moments before it crashed against the goblins. Magical fire sprang up a few times, helped by some incendiary pouches they carried. Of course, that often did more damage to the furred gurvani than it did to the mail-clad men. But at that point the survivors were desperate and were acting accordingly.

The Nirodi archers caught up to the rear of the infantry just minutes before they got within bowshot, and it took them only moments to dismount and form themselves up for volleying. I dismounted from Traveler and handed the reigns over to Hamlan, who seemed perfectly happy moving my mount off to a safe distance behind the lines, instead of charging bravely into them. A mark of a good manservant.

I found Astyral about three ranks back, marching behind the heaviest-armored and best defended part of the Orphan’s Band while he hung spells and got himself ready for the coming battle. He had donned a tastefully silvered breastplate with matching shoulder pauldrons for the occasion, a conical metal helmet with cheek and noseguards, and dark blue waxed leather covering his extremities. He bore a weapons harness similar to mine, crisscrossed over the breast, with daggers, pouches, and sleeves for wants and other surprises built into it. His mageblade remained at his hip while he prepared his magical arsenal, and I fell into step next to him and began my own.

“Pretty day for a battle,” he muttered, when we were both able to talk again. We were about three dozen yards away from the horde at that point, and huge volleys of arrows were flying overhead to land amongst the writhing, snarling black mass ahead. The knights had mostly withdrawn to try to regroup back up the hill, but there were still several very active knots of combat. Not all of them escaped getting peppered by the archers, either.

I glanced at the sky. “Looks like a front is headed in from the west,” I remarked, nodding off to the dark clouds in the distance.

Astyral looked at me, strangely. Then something occurred to him. “That’s right, this is the first time you’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?” I asked, suddenly conscious that we were having a casual discussion mere moments away from mayhem.

“That’s the Shadow. ‘The Umbra,’ Taren named it – he ranged there recently with Rustallo. That’s the visible sphere of the Dead God’s influence. Within that sphere, his power is nearly absolute. Outside of that sphere . . . it’s still pretty godsdamned impressive,” he said, shaking his head. “If we survive today, we should go take a walk and see it up close.”

“You said ‘if’ we survive today,” I observed. “That doesn’t speak to an awful lot of confidence in your leadership.”

“I’m confident as hell in my leadership,” he objected. “It’s the whims of the bloody gods I’m not confident in. All it takes is one stray arrow, one lucky goblin, one spell that slips through my defenses . . .”

“I see what you mean,” I nodded, reluctantly.

“But you’re right about the weather,” he continued, as we got close enough to the front to start making out individual goblins. “It’s a side-effect of the thing, apparently, is it attracts clouds and rain. You can see the clouds moving across the face of it, sometimes, in an endless spiral clockwise around the perimeter. The whole region around it – Taren calls it ‘the Penumbra’ – is dark, gloomy, and infested with goblins. Sun barely shines at all. But it’s the village commons on festival day compared to what the Umbra is like, from what the refugees have said.”

“Sounds like it’s worth the trip. Provided the inns are well-vouched for and the food is well prepared.”

“One thing at a time, Captain,” the Gilmoran mage grinned as he drew his mageblade in his left hand and a heavily-runed warwand in the other. “First, let’s clean up the neighborhood.”

“I can’t argue with your priorities,” I chuckled, drawing Slasher and a thick little melaif-wood warwand I’d been looking forward to trying in battle. By pointing it and uttering the command word – along with visualizing the runic combination necessary to activate it – a blast of heat hot enough to bake bread to a charred crisp in an instant enveloped whoever happened to be standing in the way. It was hot enough to set flammable items ablaze, and the burns it inflicted should be pretty nasty, if my experiments with raw pork were any indication. We’d see how effective a weapon it was. I took one last deep breath and looked around, adjusting my close-fitting helmet so it wouldn’t inadvertently flop into my eyes at a bad moment. “Ready?”

Astyral nodded. “Charge!” I ordered, mere seconds after the militia commander gave the same order to his men. We ran to catch up, then realized we were actually more effective if we hung back.

Why? The vanguard of the infantry attack was made up of the interlocking shields of the Orphan’s band, each shieldman bearing a short but heavy sword or axe. Behind them was a rank of mailed warriors with a mix of spears or halberds who could either support the shield wall with the haft of their weapons, or jab out over and around the broad shields of their comrades. This made a nearly impenetrable wall, before which the goblins really didn’t have much chance.

But that didn’t mean they didn’t try, and that didn’t mean they didn’t occasionally get lucky. When a gap opened in a line, or if the tide of battle went over them, there were plenty of goblins who managed to get behind the lines. And in a few cases, I could have sworn that an Orphan

I learned later that it was standard doctrine in an infantry battle such as this, particularly against the goblins. Bold Asgus, the storied commander of the Band, reasoned that more men die resisting a concerted effort to break a shield wall than they did when they actually allowed a few of the most ardent attackers to penetrate their lines.

They even drilled with a particular tactic known as the Door of Doom, in which a sheild man, when facing a determined and aggressive enemy, will advise his mates and then take a quick but well-defended step to the side. That opened a gap that allowed the little bastard to just walk gamely through the line. Then the sheildman quickly returns to his place, leaving a solitary goblin behind him . . .

. . . facing a very skilled swordsman armed with a deadly blade in each hand. “If they want to get through that badly, in that case let ‘em,” was his theory. “We have men to take care of them. One goblin at a time is easy – and if you let the ones with a hard-on to break through, their less-enthusiastic fellows will be deprived of the leadership necessary to continue the momentum for a real breakthrough.” Sure, the Door of Doom seems contra-intuitive to the whole idea of the classic impenetrable shield-wall, but the utility of the tactic was quickly demonstrated. Every couple of minutes, a screaming goblin would emerge from the violent chaos in front of us, stumble to his feet . . . and get absolutely pounded by the eager swordsman.

Or, in this case, the eager magi.

It was almost fun, killing them like that. The advantage was so great that it was about as difficult as wringing a chicken’s neck – often by the time the goblins fought their way past the shield wall, they were already wounded and bleeding. You wait for one to pop out, you take a step forward while his head is down, and when he looks up you clock him between the eyes with your mageblade, or approach from the side and neatly behead him. Or just impale him in the back or breast or through the throat with the point Once you got past the pure perversity of the act, it beat the hell out of facing, say, an entire ambush group.

And we didn’t just pick off stragglers, either. Both Astyral and I had a lot of fun lobbing destructive spells over the heads of our men and into the rapidly-diminishing pool of foes ahead. Some executed spectacularly – like the fireshower of destructive sparks that fountained half a bowshot away from us, in the midst of their dregs, and chewed up dozens of gurvani.

Some of them were less showy but more insidious, like the simple charm I’d enchanted a rock with which, once deployed, caused all those near where it landed to go into a berserk killing rage, slaying all around them, friend and foe. Three of those and the rear of the enemy horde became another bloody front. They were almost surrounded at that point, in part by their own maniacal troops.

And some of them were just plain mean. Astyral had one I’d never seen before, but couldn’t wait to copy: a spell that severely affected the subject’s sense of balance. And when I say severely, I mean they couldn’t take a step without collapsing to the ground, unable to walk properly.

When we were finally able to get a breather, we hung back and glanced around at the tangle of bodies and the field full of blood. It was gruesome, but it also gave a soldier a sense of satisfaction. And it was easier, somehow, when the foe was nonhuman. I don’t know what it says about me, or even about us as a race, but it was truthful.

“Here,” Astyral said, handing me a pretty silver flask. “Brandy from Icaire. It will help kill the smell and the taste of bile in your throat.”

“Thanks,” I nodded, sipping gratefully. “I wonder what the Dead God will try next, after this? Honestly, this is just a drop in his ocean. Why didn’t he send more troops to take this town? He certainly had them to spare.”

“And siege equipment – they showed almost none of the artifice they displayed at the Bovali siege,” he observed in his clipped Gilmoran accent.

“That’s a good point,” I sighed. “I would have said that they didn’t have time to build it or the force necessary to drag it all the way here. It’s possible they’re using it elsewhere. Or maybe these goblins were just too stupid to be trusted with it.”

“Mayhap,” he conceded, taking back the flask. “But I cannot help but think that this neglect on the Dead God’s part is merely a throw in some great game that we have no idea of understanding. Some great contest of rushes between the Gods of Men and Gurvani, where we are but pieces on the board – important pieces. Powerful pieces. But pieces nonetheless.”

I thought back to the last game of rushes I’d played. “You know, Astyral, it’s my experience that that is always the case in a man’s life – and not every hand that moves him across a board is that of a god.”

Hey, I thought it sounded profound.

Chapter Sixteen:

Invited To Tea With The Duchess

Wilderhall, Midsummer

The Censor General has typically been a Wenshari mage.

Wenshar, if you weren’t already aware, is in the far northern part of the Duchy of Remere, adjacent to – but separated from – the Wilderlands of Castal and Alshar, just south of the majestic Kuline Range.

As a region, its history goes back to the Magocracy, when it was used by the Archmage as a region for exiling political prisoners, errant lordlings, debtors, and magi unwilling to abide by the Archmage’s authority. Technically it was outside of those borders the Magocracy and the Alon had agreed upon for human settlement, back in the mists of time. But it had been sparsely settled since before the Inundation by human squatters who didn’t mind the rustic conditions or the free land. So in some way, Wenshar has been around for a long time.

Practically, however, you can trace the establishment of Wenshar back to the pre-Conquest exile of a particular group of powerful enemies of the Archmage (I forget which one) who were defeated but unbowed. Faced with a choice between exile and execution, they chose the former, and relocated to the (at the time) desolate wasteland beyond the last Imperial stronghold in present-day Remere.

Unknown to the Magocracy at the time, after you passed the dry, deserted region along the border, the rest of Wenshar becomes one of the prettiest and most fertile lands in all the Five Duchies. And thanks to its history, it has produced more than its fair share of powerful men, both magi and warriors alike.

Wenshar was therefore from its beginnings a repository for both strong magical Talent and a strong tendency to rebel. It didn’t really matter against whom or what, but if there was an established order in conflict with the Wenshari, you could bet that they’d rebel against it. From the perspective of the Magocracy, it was a desolate, rocky wasteland suitable only for rebels and rejects. To the people who became the Wenshari, it was a lush, fertile land beyond the control of the Archmage.

When my Narasi barbarian ancestors invaded, Wenshar got a bumper-crop of refugees from the Magocracy who sought safety. Since the Wenshari weren’t under the control of the Empire (and they’d been battling the mountain tribes of the Kuline Mountains and Wilderland, as well as Imperial soldiers, for years) the Wenshari were in an excellent position to resist, they were able to mount a decent defense, and they weren’t hampered by all the restrictions that the Archmage had saddled our profession with by them. With the remnants of the Magocracy bleating around their feet, they faced off against the horse-lords of the steppes, and prepared for a long and bloody confrontation.

It’s unclear exactly why, but when the first Duke of Remere led his forces into Wenshar for the first time, he stopped burning villages and pillaging towns soon after he crossed the Festinarda river. According to the Wenshari, he was seriously intimidated by both the doughty warriors and the much-better prepared magi of the land – magi who didn’t have any compunctions about using their art on barbarians.

According to the few literate Narasi who reported on the campaign for posterity, the Duke fought bravely but his shamans were no match for the powerful Wenshari magi. The first Duke of Remere wasn’t defeated, but he wasn’t victorious, either, and ended up retreating to the old borders to figure out how to beat this implacable foe.

Two years of skirmishing and negotiations followed the attempt to invade. Ironically, Wenshar, place of exile and outlawry, became a beacon of hope for all those who wanted to preserve the Magocracy and reclaim the Empire.

And that may be what sealed their doom. The Wenshari had always been looked down upon by the rest of the Empire, since they were descendants of outlaws and traitors and rebels. Worse, they polluted the pure Imperial bloodlines by intermarrying whomever they felt like, instead of relying on the carefully-arranged marriages that were part of Imperial high culture. They married commoners, cousins, hill tribesmen, even the strange and exotic Valley People from north of the mountains.

So when a flood of whining Imperials showed up from the east and demanded refuge and protection, the Wenshari got their revenge. Though they publicly supported the remnants of the Magocracy at their capital at Madigar, privately they were far more scornful of the effete and helpless survivors than they were of the stinking barbarians who conquered them.

As a result, after secretly negotiating for a couple of years, the Duke of Remere granted the Count of Wenshar almost complete autonomy from the rest of the realm provided they bent their knee and swore fealty and paid a token tribute to Remera. The first Count of Wenshar took a look at which way the wind was blowing, and he took a knee.

That outraged many of his Imperial supporters, and enthused his more-warlike Wenshari lords – upon whom he depended to defend his rule. There were a lot of results for this, including the collapse of any serious attempt to restore the Magocracy. It had one result that was particularly important for me – a family of magi left the western Wenshari land of Manuforthen and went south and west in search for better pastures.

Some of them settled in Poom Hamlet, in the wilderness that was Castal (back then) and tried to make a living, only whispering about their past amongst their barbaric, rustic neighbors. And one of those Wenshari magi seduced my great-great grandmother, a Narasi maiden in the newly-settled region. A child resulted (my great-grandfather) which is why I probably inherited the Talent for magic I have today. But I digress.

There was another consequence of the Wenshari Capitulation. One of the conditions that the Wenshari insisted upon with the Duchy was oversight of magic in the new Kingdom (it was still a Kingdom at the time). Since the Archmage and his court were all dead or underground at that time, and the Narasi didn’t have anyone they could trust to keep an eye on the scheming Imperials, they agreed to allow the legitimized rebels tremendous oversight. Thereafter, the magi from Wenshar were made Ducal Court Magi and Censors to advise the new lords of the realm.

While not every Censor General since has come from Wenshari stock, enough have so that it’s more unusual to read about a non-Wenshari Censor General than a Wenshari one. And considering that the Censorate has its headquarters at Madigar, in Wenshar it’s not unusual for Wenshari views about magic and enforcement to be prevalent in Ducal policy.

The current Censor General, Hartarian of Gaaz, was originally from Vore, but he had lived amongst the Wenshari so long (and married a Wenshari bride) that the distinguished old gentleman considered himself a Wenshari as much as a Voran. But his rigorous attention to duty also made him a Censor before he was either.

He graduated from Alar Academy with honors, and he went immediately into the Censorate and was posted to Merwin. A decade later he had been transferred to Wenshar after a scandal that needed to be cleaned up (not his, but the previous Remeran Censor), and before his twentieth year of service, he had been elected Censor General by his peers and confirmed by the Coronet Council.

It was Hartarian who had lobbied so adamantly about striking the Farisi, five years ago. When word came that the Mad Mage, Orril Pratt, had stumbled across a centimeter-sized sliver of Irionite – and was subsequently using it to disrupt shipping near Farise – he had stirred up outrage and indignation from the magical quarter, enough to help push the Duchies into war with the renegade province. Possession of Irionite wasn’t officially a crime under the Bans, but not far from it. The fact that Farise was politically outside of the control of the Duchies apparently didn’t matter – Orril Pratt was violating the spirit of the Bans, and he had to be brought down, so said Hartarian.

Since the Duchies had a very hard time conquering Farise without irionite, and the Mad Mage had shown them all what even a little bit could do, Hartarian had looked like a prescient genius after the conquest. He was held in high esteem throughout the courts of the Five Duchies, as well as being respected among more traditional magi for his contributions to the science and his even-handed approach toward administration.

And that was going to be a problem.

If the Censor General had been a weak-willed functionary, like his predecessor, then I would have been able to eloquently argue my case and likely prevailed on the strength of my argument and the weakness of the defense against it. But General Hartarian wasn’t weak-willed, he wasn’t a functionary, he was a powerful mage in his own right with a reputation for zeal in pursuit of his duties that had become legendary in his lifetime. He had transformed the Censorate into a robust, Duchies-wide regulatory and enforcement organization that had struck fear into unlicensed hedgemagi and Academy masters alike.

So counting on General Hartarian to just accept that his office was not just unnecessary, but potentially damaging to the war effort, was foolish. He wasn’t the type to give up on tradition or his institution lightly.

I heard the news that the Censor General had arrived when I returned to the River Tower from my odd game with Count Angrial. My servant – whom I still hadn’t gotten used to – was waiting attentively for me in my quarters, full of news and garments.

Ham had managed to procure two sets of courtly garb from a seamstress in town – she had made them for a wealthy client who had died of the flux last spring, and she was eager to get rid of them. They were a fair fit, perhaps a little short in places and a little long in others, but I’d had worse-fitting clothes. I looked good, that was the important thing. One was a set of leggings and embroidered tunic in dark green, the other was a kind of dusky plum color. Neither one was a particularly favorable color on me, but I wasn’t trying to win a tourney pageant, either. The green one came with a jaunty cloth cap which suited me, though, so I changed into that while Ham delivered the news of the day.

“The Censor General came in a few hours ago,” he told me as I pulled off my tired old clothes. “He and a party of nine. All ahorse – there were no wagons. The stable lads thought he had been in a great rush to get here, as his horses were lathered. He was escorted by Master Dunselen to the Priests Tower.”

“I was hoping for another day, to rally my supporters,” I sighed, “but none of the gods seem to be listening. Nine escorts, you said?”

“Aye, Master,” he nodded, as I pulled on the leggings. They were a little tighter on me than I prefer, but that was the style now. “Five were common swordsmen in the pay of the Censorate. The other four were magi, from what I could tell. Two bore swords.”

“Probably Order of Shirlen,” I said, my heart sinking. “They’re the warmagi sworn to uphold the Censorate’s decrees. They’re very, very good at what they do, too.” They were chartered soon after the Censorate was established, and had been originally been made up of renegade Wenshari warmagi who were all too eager to police their former masters in the Magocracy. There were twenty five of them, five for each Duchy and five at the Censor General’s personal command.

“Well, they weren’t the first Censors to come in today,” Ham drawled as he picked up an apple from the basket on my table and started chomping. “Excuse me, Master, I had no lunch.”

“That’s fine, go on,” I dismissed, pulling the rich green tunic over my head. A little loose in the shoulders, I decided, but the flared sleeves looked kind of dashing. Black crewel trim at the neck, sleeves, and hem, all in a tightly-spiraling Castali design.

“There were two from the West, so the stable lads say,” he said, his mouth half-full. “Come to report on the invasion, I expect.” He said it as casually as if they had arrived bearing crop reports. “And there were at least three dispatches come in today, too, from Vorone. Couldn’t find out exactly what was in them, but I did talk to one of the messengers. Paid him a silver, and he told me that Tudry has been all but cut off from the rest of the Duchy. Ringed by goblins, he said. Magic using goblins, he said. They were throwing fire and such, by his report. And His Grace Lenguin doesn’t seem to want to do anything about it but raise more men.”

“Wonderful,” I said, sarcastically. “He outnumbers their host at Tudry. He could ride on them in two days and defeat them. But he sits in Vorone and quivers in his boots and yells for the rest of the world to come rescue Alshar,” I said, bitterly. I pulled the cap on after combing my hair briefly with my fingers, “How do I look?”

“Smart enough to meet a Duchess, Master,” Ham assured me after he swallowed. “Which is fortunate, for Her Grace has invited you to her gardens in an hour.”

“She what? When did this happen?” I demanded.

“Only moments before you arrived, Master. A young page – a girl – in her livery brought the message. She will await you in the River Gardens.”

“Blast it to nine hells and back,” I swore. “I was going to . . . oh, never mind,” I said, discouraged. “How far away are the River Gardens?”

“Not too far, Master. Ten minutes by foot – they’re adjacent to the Duke’s Tower, overlooking the river. They’re the Duchess’ own creation, it’s said. She’s particularly fond of her roses, her yellow ones. The red ones were sent by the Duchess of Remere, whom she hates, it’s said.”

“And the stable boys know this as well?” I asked, wryly.

“Where do you think they get the manure for the flowers, Master?” he asked, as if it was obvious. “She usually takes an hour or two in the afternoon for her walks. Usually it’s in seclusion with her ladies-in-waiting, but she will sometimes invite some person of importance and prominence to accompany her, if she’s so inclined.”

“Well, she’ll just have to settle for me today, then,” I quipped. “Anything else?”

“No, Master.”

“Then come get me in half an hour,” I ordered. “I’ll want you to attend me on this outing. See if you can overhear half as well as the stable boys, and we might learn something valuable.”

“Aye, Master,” he agreed. “I’ll go change into something more appropriate,” he said, giving me a cursory bow and leaving, closing the door behind him.

I sighed, closed my eyes, and sat on the bed. I took my stone out and let it rest in the palm of my left hand while I called up the sigils that Penny had said would connect me to her, mind-to-mind.

Min? she asked, hesitantly, through the link. Is that you?

For now. The Censor General just showed up with a brace of warmagi and a party of guards. So I might be dead tomorrow.

That would really mess up the plans I’ve been making, she chided.

I can empathize, I smirked to her. I haven’t been summoned to court to face General Hartarian yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Tomorrow, maybe, after he’s had a chance to argue with the Duke.

How do you think things are looking? Have you persuaded anyone yet?

Maybe, I admitted. I’ve gotten some supportive comments, but it’s still too early to tell. And I’m sure there are a hundred political considerations I’m not taking into account. I’m not a courtier, Pen. And now I have to argue with the Censor General.

You’re persuasive and charismatic, she countered. And you’ve looked the Dead God in the eye. General Hartarian can’t be as bad as that.

I had a squad of warmagi with me at the time, I pointed out. That gave me a little false confidence. He brought two of the Order of Shirlen, Penny.

So? You withstood a siege of a hundred thousand goblins and dueled their shamans into the ground.

The warmagi of the Order are good, Pen. The best.

No, you’re the best. And you have irionite. And a squad of warmagi similarly armed to stand at your back.

They’re all on missions in Alshar, I thought back at her, discouragingly.

No, they aren’t, she disagreed. I thought you might have problems with the Censorate, and I thought you might need a little support. So I contacted Taren and Rustallo, who were in western Castal. They should be arriving any time.

What? How did you get—

You told me to contact everyone and teach them my telepathy spell, remember? I’ve gotten through to over half of the Order. Until I can teach you all their individual call sigils, you can relay messages through me.

What if you’re unavailable?

I’m always available, she insisted. I mean, right now I’m in my bedchamber for my afternoon nap, and the new houseboy, who has the most sensual lips I’ve ever seen, is pleasuring me. Not as well as I’d like, but he has Talent, if not technique. Kind of like you when—

Penny! I scolded. You’re getting yourself serviced when I’m about to spit in the eye of the Censorate?

This is how I raise power, remember? This isn’t just for fun. I’m trying to help Daddy attune to his stone, and I need all the extra reserves I can get.

I trust your judgment, I thought, half-heartedly. Can you find out how far away from me Taren and Rustallo are?

Bide, she commanded, and was silent for a while.

I used the time to reflect on Penny’s seriously skewed sense of priority. I mean, I’m as lusty as the next fellow, and I had been under a lot of stress, and I’d trade it all and a witchstone for the chance to slide into bed next to Alya and have my way with her . . . but I had a job to do before I could enjoy that kind of comfort. I supposed I could always go down to the city and find a brothel – there were some really nice ones in Wilderhall – but how can you have the weight of the world on your shoulders and still relax enough to get your—

Min? she finally returned. They’re about sixty miles outside of Wilderhall, in Barkwood Barony. But they’re flying toward you and expect to arrive tonight.

What? I asked, alarmed. How the hell are they able to do that? Sixty miles is two, maybe three days ride—

Taren’s a warmagi, remember? An advanced student? He’s enchanting the horses with one of those endurance spells you hack-and-slashers use all the time.

Um . . . all right, I thought, grudgingly.

There was no reason why the warmagi enchantments couldn’t work with your horse, if you cast the spell right, I conceded to myself. Of course, the poor animals would pay a stiff penalty for it later, perhaps even killing them, but if the mage was careful he should be able to shepherd his mount through the spell without endangering it.

And if anyone could do it, Taren could. He was, indeed, an advanced student in War Magic, so good in fact that he’d been able to skip the Farisan Campaign that most of the rest of us had suffered through. I couldn’t fault the War College, however. Despite his lanky build and his average stature, his spells were as tight and potent as any warmagic I’d seen. And he was an outstanding thaumaturge, as well.

Rustallo, on the other hand, was a cocky young bravo who had also missed the Farisian Campaign because he was stuck two years behind me at the Inarion Academy. Rustallo was a little haphazard in his warmagic, but he was determined and he was courageous. He was also very, very loyal to me, personally. That counted for a lot.

Of course, both of them had witchstones. That counted for a whole lot more.

Is there anything else? She asked. I’d like to get back to focusing, because this poor boy’s tongue is about to fall off and you of all people should appreciate just how delicate raising power like this is.

I do, I confessed. I also want to commend you on your ability to maintain multiple focus points at the same time. You’re a credit to your instructors. I was only being half-sarcastic. It really was impressive to be able to do anything of consequence – much less serious spellwork – while your naughty bits are being treated properly.

Flattery. He’s cute, but not so cute I can’t focus. Who are you meeting next?

The Duchess, apparently, I thought. She’s summoned me to her garden for a meeting. Just her, though, not Duke Rard as well. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Good thing, she said, after a pause to consider. If it was a bad thing, she’d withdraw and let him deal with you. But if she’s taking an interest, enough to meet with you privately, then that means she’s favoring your position. I think. It helps that her little brother is the current Duke of Alshar.

Grendine is Duke Lenguin’s big sister? I asked, shocked.

Did you think they just grow Duchesses out on a plantation in Merwin, somewhere? she scolded. Grendine was old Duke Parguin’s eldest daughter by his first wife, who was Remeran. So she’s actually related to three Ducal Houses, two by blood and one by marriage. She would have inherited the coronet of Alshar, if you Narasi didn’t have maddeningly barbaric ideas about primogeniture.

What?

Girls don’t inherit thrones, she said in her ‘I’m talking to an idiot’ voice. They’re only good for marrying off and bearing brats.

Well, don’t blame me for that. I’ve got five sisters, and they’re each going to inherit more of my dad’s bakery than I am, I complained.

We’re talking a Duchy here, Min, not a bakery, she said with mock patience. Duchess Grendine is a serious player in court politics. She’s not just throne candy. I wouldn’t say she’s the power behind the throne, but if she doesn’t like you, it doesn’t matter if Duke Rard does, from what I understand.

Well, that’s something, I admitted. Is she enough of a power to get the Duke to throw out the Bans?

Probably not, she admitted. But she’d be great to have on your side.

My servant says she likes roses. Yellow roses.

Your what?

I had to hire a servant, I explained, patiently, knowing full well that she was going to give me a hard time about it. His name is Hamlan. It’s kind of expected, at court.

Oh, I know, she thought, giggling at me. And I’m sure that it’s eating at your peasant’s soul to order around a fellow commoner. I’m just taking delight in your discomfort.

Because that’s what a true friend does, I thought sourly.

Yes, actually, they do. So you still haven’t been contacted by Castal’s clandestine service?

If they did, they did it so secretly even I don’t know about it, I joked. It wasn’t Dunselen, Sago, or Kindine, and I doubt the Castali would use an Alshari like Angrial as their spymaster.

That is odd, she said, thoughtfully. I . . . I was sure that they would have made some kind of contact, under the circumstances.

Well, unless my new manservant is secretly a spy, they haven’t. And unless the Castali clandestine service is headquartered out of the stables, he isn’t.

You never know, she said with skeptical amusement. But you’re right, that does seem unlikely. Just be on the lookout for it to happen soon. And when it does, you want to be open to the idea of cooperating.

What happens if I don’t?

Traditionally? Assassination. You fall off a horse or slip on a stone or choke on a fishbone. Once the clandestine service reveals himself to you, you’re a liability. If you’re a big enough liability, well, that’s the whole reason they employ assassins, to reduce liability. And influence policy, she added.

Great. Another job I can’t refuse. That’s as bad as being drafted!

Min, you’re asking Castal to essentially invade another Duchy, she reminded me. Not to mention overthrowing the established order. If the clandestine service wants to use you, let them. We’re using them, after all.

It just all sounds so . . . sordid, I complained.

It is. You can handle it. Now go dazzle the Duchess with your pretty eyes and big witchstone and persuasive t-t-t-tongue, and let me go . . . attend to my . . . business . . . she said, fading out.

I let her go. Despite herself, she’d given me an idea.

Chapter Seventeen:

The Council of Tudry Town

Tudry Town, Late summer

After the Battle of Tudry Commons, wherein well over twenty thousand refugees escaped, nine thousand-odd goblins, thirteen hundred men, and a thousand horses met their doom, the cleanup – both physical and political – was considerable. There was a lot of mopping up to do.

Luckily, I brought a very good mop.

When victory on the field was complete and the last few goblins, unwilling or unable to ask for quarter, were killed, I detailed the surviving Orphans to police the bodies and search the fields for wounded while I ordered the Nirodi to patrol the perimeter for stray bands or stragglers. Why the Orphans and the Nirodi, instead of the militia? Because I didn’t want to give the Tudrymen a chance for random looting of corpses while the dead had yet to even be identified. My men knew enough to steal in moderation, and leave any obvious bits of treasure attached to the noble corpses to be returned to their kin, if any, to be counted as heirlooms.

There were a lot of those sorts of casualties. In violation of standard practice, thanks to the shamans’ use of lightning against mail-clad knights, there were actually more noble deaths (just under a thousand) than common ones (nearly four hundred). Among them, unfortunately, were the late Baron Merasan of Megelin and his son, and – unfortunately – Sir Kavial and much of his guard.

He had been riding at the very point of the spear, as they say, in that last charge, so he and his horse took the full brunt of the lightning that killed so many so quickly. The charred, burnt-out corpse burned to his armor was nearly unidentifiable, save for the company’s device on his boots. He was a bit coarse, but I admired the man. I certainly didn’t want to see him looted before I could arrange to have his body and effects returned to wherever his kin lived.

I had the Tudrymen, in contrast, march back to the city and re-secure its walls. About half of them were eager to join their families in Vorone, but the other half were just as eager to stay behind with the remnant of Tudrymen who lingered.

That was a problem – we’d been able to evacuate the bulk of the population, but there were nearly five thousand die-hards who stubbornly wanted to take their chances in a suddenly-roomy town, instead of a very uncertain future as a penniless refugee. I didn’t have the manpower to force an evacuation, and the truth was if we planned on maintaining Tudry, we’d need some sort of support staff. So apart from sending in some Hellriders on a mission to root out lawless looters – with a noose, if necessary – I mostly left the natives alone. If they didn’t know the dangers of living in the shadow of the Dead God yet, then they weren’t likely to have the wits to flee.

And some just wanted to turn a profit, of course.

By nightfall, I found myself riding through the deserted streets of Tudrytown, Hamlan dogging my heels. We were in New Town, the less-affluent section, but the sky was growing darker by the moment and I ached from too long without sleep and in the midst of magic. I wanted a bed more than anything else, at that point. The castle on the hill I was headed toward seemed an awful long way up the hill, I recalled, and I hadn’t even gotten to the gate into Old Town, yet. I was still clomping down Wall Street. That’s when I spotted a familiar building: the inn I’d stayed in at the beginning of the summer, when I was here hiring mercenaries for Boval Vale.

Even though I knew that far grander accommodations awaited the commander of the force now ruling Tudry up in Old Town, the fact was if I didn’t find a place to sleep soon, I’d fall out of the saddle. I remember the place was comfortable, if a bit shabby. I called a halt, and Hamlan dismounted when I did.

“We’re going to stay here,” I said, tiredly, pounding on the broad wooden door with my fist. “Open, in the name of the . . . Spellmonger!” I called, authoritatively. I could feel that there was someone inside, and sure enough, in just a few moments a cautious-looking innkeeper holding a lantern in one hand and a stout cudgel in the other opened it.

It only took a few moments to convince him that we’d won the day, he and his kin were safe, for now, that I was in charge of the occupation of Tudry, that I was falling asleep on my feet and if he wanted to maintain good relations with the new administration, then he’d instantly show me to his most posh quarters and allow me to sleep there until Ham woke me up. A fistful of silver helped encourage his hospitality.

Then I told Hamlan to bear a message to the castle in Old Town while I slept, because, honestly, I was too beat to perform the simple telepathic spell to contact Astyral, who I’d made my lieutenant. He agreed, conferred with the innkeeper about my needs, and then disappeared.

And I slept. I slept like I had never slept before, not in Farise, not in Boval, never have I been so insensate as I was in that enormous featherbed (a great improvement in my room over my last visit). I slept through the night, into the next morning, and did not even think about rising until noon the following day.

I awoke in my room in the empty inn near noon, to the sight of a pretty girl quietly bringing in a tray with oatmeal, bacon, and bread, along with a mug of weak beer. I sat up, realizing what time it was with a glance out of the window.

“Has there been anyone looking for me?” I asked, realizing that I must be missed by now. By someone.

“Your man has been fielding the messages all morning, milord,” the girl said, setting the tray down. “I heard him say he would wake you up if there was anything requiring your attention, but to let you sleep as long as you could.”

“I could get used to having a manservant,” I remarked to myself, and not for the first time.

She smiled prettily. She looked familiar – and she looked at me as if she knew me. Then it occurred to me that she did . . . intimately.

“You’re the girl I rogered, a few months back,” I said, snapping my fingers. She beamed at the recognition. “I’ve completely forgotten your name,” I confessed, guiltily.

“Marlet, milord,” she said, giving me a nervous bow. “I’m the niece of your host, Master Brindalan.”

“His niece? I thought you were his daughter,” I admitted, as I took a sip of the beer. It was no better than I remembered it. The bacon was good, though. “What happened to the other girl?”

“Oh, Amsella? She’s just a serving maid, a village girl come to work in the city. She left with most of the others, away to Vorone.” She seemed awfully bouncy – she nearly quivered. She wasn’t a bad looking girl at all, dark hair and bright green eyes. And her shift did little to hide her bust. She twisted back and forth like she was twelve years old. “They say that you and your men saved us all,” she said.

I considered. “Well, we did our best against the goblins. We let the people escape. So yeah, I suppose we did. Those that didn’t get killed along the way.”

“But they say that you, you’re a powerful warmage, and you lead the others.”

“That’s true,” I agreed, tearing a hunk off of the bread. The bread was . . . well, it was hard, black, and would have made my father weep. Let us never speak of it again.

But while I chewed, I couldn’t help but notice that Marlet was taking off her clothes. I stopped chewing, and then forced myself to use the bad beer to wash the bad bread from my mouth. “Marlet, what are you doing?”

She stopped, and looked up at me, startled. “I just wanted to express my gratitude, milord. There aren’t many girls left in town – Whore Street is deserted, it’s said. If you’re agreeable . . .” she said, looking at me hesitantly.

I silently groaned. Because I had spent the previous day slinging around massive amounts of magical energy, and after exhaustion and hunger, that sort of thing always makes me randy, too. And Marlet was suddenly very alluring. She was too young to be jaded about such things yet, and she did seem sincerely grateful. And I was missing Alya something fierce. I was about to tell her not to get undressed when she threw back my blanket and observed that some part of me was agreeable to the idea.

“Oh, what the hell,” I sighed, as I leaned back into the pillow and watched her continue to get undressed. “I’m not married yet . . . and I could be dead tomorrow.” She was naked in an instant, and then climbing over me, kissing me lustfully. “I take it your . . . uncle . . . is going to want some . . . special considerations . . . after this?” I panted between kisses.

“He’s just grateful you didn’t burn the town, or let the goblins in. And he’s used to taking the trade of mercenaries. And me? I’m just grateful to be alive, after watching that battle yesterday. It was powerful fierce,” she said, gravely.

I couldn’t disagree. And I was pretty grateful to be alive, too.

* * *

The castle of Tudry was the former seat of the Baron of Megelin, about a hundred years ago, and it was as ugly as the rest of the town. It was a grand baronial castle, of course, but the dictates of commerce, not defense, had long ago transformed it from a true military fortification into an administrative center. The City Watch was headquartered there, a hundred and fifty men dedicated to patrolling the city. The City Guard was also headquartered there, three hundred men who formed the core of the city’s militia. The Lord Mayor had his office there, although his residence was a far more opulent townhome just outside of the gates. Or at least it used to be opulent – there had been some looting while the city evacuated.

But the castle itself was ugly. Built around a large, square, squat donjon, with two flanking circular towers (a late addition, I could tell) and a secondary keep and storehouse behind it, the thick stone castle was stout as the stone it was made from – but it was ugly. And since it loomed over the rest of the deserted city, that made it all look uglier.

But it was safe, and that counted for a lot right now. The majority of the militia had returned to their posts in the city, or left to join their families in Vorone. The leader of the City Militia was now nominally in charge of the whole place. And he had sent three messages to me before I got downstairs to confer with Ham.

“His Lordship wants to speak with you badly,” Ham reiterated, as I thumbed through the notes he’d scrawled. Handy having a servant who could read and write. Not many could. “And he’s not the only one. There’s a meeting up at the castle in an hour, Master, which is why I had you awakened. All of the commanders will be there.”

“And so will I,” I agreed, although another six hours of sleep, followed by another tumble would have been divine. “Anything else of import?”

Ham glanced around. “A note from Mother arrived, Master,” he said, quietly. It bore her seal. Her special seal,” he emphasized.

That got my attention. You don’t ignore a note from Mother. He handed over the folded envelope without hesitation, and then made certain I wasn’t being observed while I read it. I broke the yellow wax seal and read the neatly penned letter.

My Son,

it read,

I am so proud of you for what you have accomplished so far. You have done very well by the Family, and we couldn’t be more pleased. Your sister wrote me recently and told me about the estate you sent her to for holiday. Her host is apparently not very agreeable, but luckily we have plenty of family around in case she gets uncomfortable.

You should be on the lookout for a couple of your cousins who live in Tudry. They would not have abandoned the town without letting me know, and it may be helpful for you to have family to count on, should you make it by that town. But be careful. I hear it can be dangerous, even in the good parts. You might want to find your own accommodations, however: it is rumored that the local castle may be infested with rats. I hate to trouble you further, knowing how busy you are, but if you could check in on your younger brother, Volerin, if you get a chance. It’s possible he would like to see a familiar face, being so far away from family for so long.

Once again, you have brought significant honor and prestige to the family, and we’re all very pleased. We are all counting on you, I’m sure you know. And it would be lovely if you could bring me a new hat before the Solstice. You know how much your Father and I would like that.

Love, Your Mother

“Trouble, Master?” Ham asked, curiously. “Is Mother well?”

It was a coded message, of course, from Castal’s adept spymaster. I’d been recruited into the organization at Wilderhall, and had done so only reluctantly, because I wasn’t really given a choice. Anyone who didn’t know the code could hardly guess what it was about, or even to whom it was addressed, but I read it clear as day.

“She’s in a fine mood,” I sighed, as I ignited the note with a spark of magic and watched it burn to ashes in my hand. “But she thinks we – well, I – might be in danger, here. She must have sent this after she heard about the Battle of the Lantern. She wants me to look in on some . . . family.”

“I believe we have a couple of cousins in town,” Ham nodded, sagely. “Shall I seek them out?”

“That might be wise,” I agreed. “And apparently we have a brother, too. Named Volerin. He hasn’t written home in a while,” I said, quietly.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” he nodded. “And my ears. And as many other ears and eyes as silver can buy.”

“Good. I think I’m going to keep my quarters here, while I’m in town. There are rats at the castle. And this place will do for now.”

“Understood, Master. I shall have your things brought here, and make arrangements for your horse with the host. Anything else?”

I considered. “Just keep my chambers secure,” I decided, “and have them ready for tonight. I could still sleep for half a day and not feel guilty about it.”

I was about to ask him for my staff and hat – both had been in my baggage, which was in his charge – but he handed them to me before the words were out of my mouth. He added my leather folio, which I merely said thanks, ignored his smug-looking expression, and was about to order him to have Traveler brought around.

“I took the liberty of having your mount saddled, Master,” he said, before I could ask. “He awaits you outside.”

“Thank you,” I said with a sigh. Okay, precognition and pure thoughtful consideration were assets in a manservant, I told myself, but I could also see how they might get frustrating.

Tudry was nearly deserted, of course, more than seven-eighths of its population fled. That made the streets a lot easier to get through, of course, but as I rode by the market that served Old Town, I could tell that losing most of the city’s supply infrastructure overnight was going to get problematic. There were still plenty of mouths to feed, and while there were likely significant stores already in place, if we were going to keep any decent sized force here, we’d need more.

I was hailed for a password at the gate to Old Town and the castle, proper, by two armored City Militiamen bearing halberds. I didn’t know the passwords, of course, so they had to send for their superior, who only let me pass after I demonstrated that his commander had summoned me. He was apparently not as familiar with my heroic stature as Marlet had been.

After that it was easy to ride to the castle gate, which I was gratified to see was well-manned by attentive guards. The last time I had been to this part of town, there had been a single unarmored watchman with a cudgel and a dagger, purely there to keep the poor away from the rich. Of course most of the rich, it seemed, had fled the city already.

After turning my horse over to a livery boy, I found my way into the antechamber off of the great hall where a council meeting was going on. There were at least thirty men in there, discussing and arguing and shouting and posturing for each other. I could see most of my commanders amongst them: Rogo Redshaft, Bold Asgus, Sir Kavial and Kaddel of the Hellriders. The Baron of Green Hill was also there, with several of his men, and a lord who apparently represented the Baron of Fesdarlen, to the south. The Mayor, the captains of the City Watch and Guards were there, as were several burghers who hadn’t been willing to abandon their town, even in the face of disaster.

They were fighting about the spoils, when I walked in. Particularly just who would command Tudry and who would take over Castle Megelin, to the north – and their attendant revenue streams. The Barons of Green Hill and Fesdarlen both had claims to them, thanks to a couple of common ancestors, and they both thought that it was only proper that the Mayor submit to their respective lords. Meanwhile, the Burghers’ council was demanding independence from overlordship with the death of the Baron of Megelin and his only heir. My captains were trying to keep the two sides apart, while the City Watch captain was trying to figure out which side he was on (that is, which one could bribe him the most). With everyone trying to talk to everyone else – or over everyone else – there wasn’t a lot of consensus happening.

I spotted Astyral in one corner, watching the spectacle with a bemused expression on his face, while Azar was scowling stoically. I decided a few moment’s intelligence might be worthwhile before I waded in, so I summoned the glyph and initiated a link with Astyral.

So who’s winning? I asked, once the contact was established.

The Dead God, at the moment, he said wryly. He’s the one who will take this territory. And I don’t want to be the bearer of bad and obvious tidings to the assembled nobility, but my guess is that their rents and revenues are not going to be what they expect. If someone is harvesting a crop in northern Alshar, I haven’t heard about it.

So tell me about the players? I asked without preamble. Gilmorans have a well-deserved reputation for being skilled at etiquette, politeness, and diplomacy – as well as sensual excess. Astyral was almost as adept as Mavone in terms of observing and understanding the dynamics between people, and possibly more insightful in some ways.

The fat old Burgher is Master Uncramp, head of the guilds – he’s genuinely invested in the town as a whole, and doesn’t want to see it die. I think he’ll take any deal that has the best shot at doing the job. Baron of Green Hill you’ve met. He’s greedy, and wants whatever he can get his hands on. Thinks the goblins are a ‘temporary problem.’

So is life. How about the man in green with the imperial mustache?

That’s Lord Tondine, senior vassal and emissary of the Baron of Fesdarlen. He’s a little more cautious, a little more realistic, but he wants as much of Megelin as he can carve off – preferably the whole piece. He’s smart enough to know that he won’t get it, but he’s not going to back off unless Green Hill does.

Traditional rivalries are like that, I admitted. And the City Watch and Guard?

They’re riding high on a hero’s welcome, and are feeling suddenly important now that just about everyone else is gone. And they did spend all day yesterday killing goblins. So they’re feeling their oats. The Watch is led by Sir Istabal, there, and the Guard is led by Captain Volerin.

Volerin. The brother Mother told me about. So he hadn’t checked in with his secret master in a while? I could see he’d been busy . . . but you don’t ignore Mother like that. Not if you valued your life.

And the Mayor?

Lord Gesaran. He just wants someone to take charge and take responsibility for the mess. Take charge and take over, because he’s smart enough to know he’s just not equipped to handle this. He’s a manager, not a war leader. And he’s clinging to the letter of the law on his precious charter like his life depended upon it.

I see. Thanks. I thought for a few moments, as Lord Tondine was expounding on the virtues of the ancestors of Fesdarlen, then I contacted Azar the same way.

Which one should get it, Azar? I asked him over the link. He looked up at me with a sudden, but small smile.

Give me two minutes and I’ll pile their screaming heads at your feet, he promised.

I wish. No, we’re going to have to use a political, not a military solution here. Just be ready to back me up. I’m about to put the fear of Sharuel into these gentlemen, and I want to be able to present a strong and able alternative to any of these. One that equally dissatisfies everyone. Penny says that’s usually the kind of policy that works best.

That’s a magic of which I want no part, the warrior mage grunted, out loud. You just keep telling me who to kill.

I left him with a mental chuckle. I thought he was joking.

I waited until the Green Hill knights had made their tired rebuttal to the Fesdarlen noble, including a highly glamorized account of their actions in the two recent battles, and then I interrupted. But not by politely clearing my throat.

I did it with a flashy little spell that sent a shower of sparks fountaining from the center of the table. None of the sparks was flammable – different kind of spell – but it was spectacular, and instantly quieted everyone in the room. Then I cleared my throat and stepped forth, as the illusion died away.

“Gentlemen,” I said, quietly enough so that they had to be quiet to hear me. “Now that I have your attention, I think I can provide some answers to your questions.”

“What questions?” the Baron of Green Hill asked, boldly. “It is clear that my house, by right, has the sole legitimate claim—”

“Stuff it,” I growled. I was never fond of that man. “There are ten thousand stinking goblin corpses outside the walls and plenty more where they came from. These lands have no peasants, no miners, no woodsmen. It’s not a viable property any more.

“But take a good look. Feel free to ride through Tudry Commons, and out into the deserted villages and hamlets. See the burned cots and gutted huts. See the crops rotting in the field and the unlucky strung from the trees by their guts. Take a really good look, my lords, because if you don’t get your priorities straight, each of your lands will look like this, with your own lifeless head to stare out at your ruined domains for all of eternity stuck on the point of some stake.”

That smacked them in the face a bit, as it was designed to. “The fact is, Megelin is no longer a viable fief. It’s not going to produce anything, any more than Stut, Horane, Glandon, Denar, Locare, Ganz, or Boval Vale itself will produce. The land is blighted. And yours will follow. If you don’t get your shit together, and fast.”

“You have no right—” Lord Tondine said, shrilly. The Baron of Green Hill cut him off.

“Watch your tongue around Marshal Spellmonger, Sir,” he said, warningly. “He can fry you to cinders with a look, if you aren’t respectful.”

“True, but unhelpful,” I observed. “All of you just shut up for a moment,” I said, crossly.

A conversation Penny and I had returned to me, one of the many we had on the ride across southern Alshar after we escaped Boval. I was still worried about being a good leader, when Penny informed me that the key to leadership in just about any capacity was establishing your authority and your competency so naturally that there’s never any doubt in anyone’s mind just who is in charge.

As a commoner, I’d been slow to grasp that subtlety. But the more I considered myself a warmage, not a mere spellmonger, the more I’d come to appreciate it. If you act like you’re in charge, then people are just naturally going to assume you are in charge.

“The fact is,” I said, with a heavy sigh, “neither of the baronies has a claim on this land, because I am placing it under the direct protection of the Duchy. Furthermore, you are both to return to your castles and begin preparations to remove your women and children east, if you haven’t done so already. And then prepare your castles for an extended war. I’m declaring an end to your infernal feud that has made my life difficult not once, but twice in one summer. The temple of Huin is now attached to Tudry, under the protection of the Duke, as are all its lands. You don’t have that to fight over any more.”

I turned to face shocked faces on the other side of me. “Furthermore, Tudry town has also reverted back to the Duke, and its charter is null and void. There will be no more revenues from this town, because there will be no more regular trade here. This is now a military outpost of the Duchy.

“So, for that matter, is Castle Megelin,” I continued, watching jaws drop all around the table. “All women and children shall be evacuated east, and the castle shall be put under the guardianship of the Coronet.”

When I stopped long enough to take a breath there were a dozen irate voices screaming for attention. I dropped a spell that dampened all sounds down on the room, and for a few wild moments I witnessed them panic at the sudden and unexpected change. Then they realized what had happened, who was responsible, and they all eventually settled down in their chairs. I waited until everyone’s mouth was closed before I lifted the spell.

“Thank you. One at a time. Baron Magonas of Green Hill, you have seniority here. You have a question?”

“By what authority do you think you can just hand over productive estates without so much as an appeal before the Ducal court?”

I slapped my leather portfolio on the table and untied it, and then removed the scroll I’d been given. “Here is my authority,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Signed by Lord Angrial, Ducal Counselor, who granted it to me in the name of, and with all authority of, His Grace Lenguin of Alshar. And as I am designated a Special Marshal of the Realm, that indeed gives me the power to dictate terms. And under the circumstances, I’m taking over Tudry.” I paused a moment to let that uncomfortable thought seep into their fat heads.

“That’s right, I’m taking over Tudry, and Megelin too, in the Duke’s name until the emergency is abated. This whole region is now the front line in a war that may go on generations. And you’re worried who gets to collect rent on the spot? Rent from whom? You plan on demanding tribute to gurvani?”

I glared at them menacingly. “Some of you may think that this is a temporary inconvenience, these hundreds of thousands of goblins who are marching across the land. It’s not. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, and it’s going to get a lot bloodier. So yes, I’m placing Tudry and Megelin under the Duke’s protection. For Castle Megelin, since I am certain this is going to be a key fortification for us, I am placing it under the command of Warmage Azar,” I said, nodding to my startled colleague. “He is one of the most powerful warmagi living today. With him will go the Hellriders, commanded by Kaddel, and the Kaviel’s Company, who will have to get a new name, commanded by Sir Makan of Wenshar.” Sir Makan was a dour-looking knight in battered but well-made armor whom Kaviel’s Company – the seven hundred who survived, anyway – had elected as their captain.

“A mage?” scoffed the Lord from Fesdarlen. “That violates the Bans, to give a mage lands. A violation of law and custom.”

“The Bans aren’t as . . . straightforward as you might think,” I sneered back. “That was proven at Castal, in case you haven’t heard yet. And under these circumstances, I’m placing him in military command. I’m not giving him anything. His job is to guard and maintain the fortification against the foe. Hopefully, Azar has proven himself in battle for your satisfaction. But most importantly, he doesn’t come from either one of your rustic baronies. That way neither side can say I tried to favor one over the other, later.”

“But what about Tudry?” the Mayor said, his voice almost a whine.

“As a military outpost, Tudry must have a military commander. Master Astyral will serve in that capacity, for the time being. I charge him with fortifying and strengthening this place against future incursions and sieges. And also to transform it into a staging ground for our defenses . . . and, gods willing, perhaps someday an offense.”

“Preposterous!” insisted Master Unkrim, the fat old burgher. “No magi may rule – that’s the essence of the Bans!”

“I think you might find enforcement lax, under the circumstances,” I observed, coldly. “If you want to file a complaint with the Court Mage, or even the Censor General, be my guest. But I don’t think you’ll be satisfied with the answer.”

I turned to the rest of them. “We’re at war, gentlemen. And I expect all of you – each and every one of you – to consider yourselves actively serving in the defense of the realm from this moment on. Your lands will be forfeit if you decline. Perhaps you can find someone with a vacant estate someplace in the east who needs you, but if you aren’t prepared to help, then I don’t want you here. You follow my orders, or you go.”

“You think you can wave a scrap of parchment under our noses and we’ll bend over and grab our ankles for you, Spellmonger?” Lord Tondine asked, imperiously.

“Yes, actually,” Azar said, casually – which sounded more threatening than shouting would have. “I believe he can.”

“Now hold on there, Spellmonger,” the Baron of Green Hill said, adamantly, “you’re a fine war leader, I’ll admit, and you know your craft well enough. But these are mightier concerns than befit your head. Let the nobility—”

“There. Is. No. Alternative,” I said, flatly as I could, slapping the table after each word. “This isn’t a matter of inheritance or rights or anything but our survival.” I turned toward the map of the local area that had been spread out over the table from yesterday’s strategies.

“We know the baronies west of here have fallen, their people killed, captured, or escaped. We know the baronies east of here are intact. That makes Tudry and Megelin – and the rest of you, for that matter – on the front lines. And we’re going to lose ground a lot faster than we make it. Eventually, we’ll have to provision and strengthen each castle around the border of the . . . the Penumbra lands,” I said, recalling what good ol’ Taren had labeled them. “And they will have to employ irionite-bearing warmagi in order to maintain a credible defense.”

“But we cannot be ruled by magi!” insisted one of the Castle Megelin knights, forcefully, as if the idea was perverse.

“Azar has military command, under my orders,” I informed him. “Select a lord amongst yourselves to administer civil control. If there are any left to control. As far as Tudry is concerned, while Master Astyral is an outstanding warmage, he isn’t familiar with local conditions.”

“I will not have some common mage ordering me about,” the Lord Mayor said, resolutely. “The Bans—”

“Who do you think you’re calling ‘common’?” Astyral said, offended. There was a dangerous look in his eye. Astyral has a lot of professional pride.

“And if I hear one more word about the Bans,” warned Azar, “I’m going to get angry. When I get angry, I lose control. When I lose control . . .” he said, pausing dramatically, and smiling, faintly, “. . . empires topple.” That made the Lord Mayor blanche.

You have to admire his sense of style.

“As I was saying,” I said, with especial emphasis, “Master Astyral isn’t familiar with local conditions, such as they are. As far as civil administration goes, the current regime may continue, unless you want to leave. But I warn you, if you stay, this is not going to be the Tudry of your memory. Those days are gone. That town is gone, and it is unlikely ever to return. Tudry will be a military camp, under military rule. And the military commander I appoint is Master Astyral.”

“I, for one, refuse to accept such a thing,” insisted the Lord Mayor. I was starting to not like him. “Tudry has a charter—”

“—which I just suspended,” I reminded him. He ignored me.

“Tudry has a tradition of independent civil authority—”

“—which I just ended,” I pointed out.

“Tudry is not going to be the plaything of wizards and goblins!” he demanded, pounding his fist impotently on the table. “It’s a vital, proud, and prosperous town—”

“It was a vital, proud, and prosperous town,” I corrected. “Even when it was vital, proud, and prosperous it was ugly as a veteran on Whore Street. And it will be a hardened fortress to act as a bulwark against the coming hordes. And warmagi will be an essential part of that.”

“I don’t know who you think you are, you Castali usurper,” Lord Gesaran said, with a sneer. “But I am connected to some very powerful people. You may think you have control here, but you do not, I assure you. I have served this town more than half of my life, and I am not going to see it bargained away as some spellmonger’s spoils. Not when I’ve worked so hard. If the Duke wants to take a hand here, that’s his right – but there is no possibility the proud people of Tudry are going to kneel before a spellmonger when danger is at their door – they’ll come to their proper leaders. It’s a violation of our charter, it’s an usurpation of Ducal authority and traditional rules of inheritance, it violates the Bans on Magic, and it will invite the Censorate down on—”

Suddenly, Lord Gesaran burst into an intense spout of flame that consumed him utterly, the single terrified scream on his lips ending as his lungs burned away. Everyone in the room panicked and called for water or a blanket, but it was too late. The Lord Mayor was dead, as dead as the hundreds who were still being brought in by wagons from the field.

“Dear gods,” the Baron Magonas of Green Hill whispered, staring at the corpse who had been arguing just moments before.

“I warned him,” growled Azar, sheathing a warwand in its holster. “He mentioned the Bans again, and I warned him. You all heard me. I can’t be held responsible for that – if I tell a man I’ll kill him if he does something, I have to back it up, don’t I?” he asked the appalled faces around him, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Then he looked back at me. “I’m sorry, Captain. I believe you were saying something?”

“I . . . yes, I was,” I said, firmly. Azar had just burned a man to ashes right in front of me, for not much more reason than he found him annoying. That shocked me in ways I didn’t expect.

But the effect was sudden and forceful. Everyone in the room looked upon us warmagi with new respect . . . and a modicum of fear.

I could accept that.

“The disposition shall go as I’ve ordered. Civil administration in Tudry, now that the Lord Mayor is . . . unavailable,” I said, glancing pointedly at the smoldering corpse at our feet, “shall go to . . . Captain Volerin, of the City Guard,” I said, as if I was choosing someone at random. “Please consult with me after this meeting, I have some specific instructions in mind,” I added, casually. He nodded blankly, staring at the burned body on the floor.

“Now, to more immediate concerns,” I said, ignoring the thing and moving on. No, I didn’t want the Lord Mayor dead . . . but if he was, and I couldn’t do anything about it, I figured to use the situation to its best advantage. “Once the battlefields are policed, the bodies will need to be burned.”

“Orphans are on it,” Bold Asgus assured me. “They got some help from the militia.”

“Next, I want patrols riding out every half-day, all over this country. Cavalry for ranging, infantry for sentries and pickets, but I want this entire region buttoned up so tight we can hear a goblin fart in a thunderstorm. I’ll want the town fully provisioned for a siege, I want the outer walls strengthened, and I want abandoned homes and shops converted to barracks for the thousands of soldiers who will be stationed here.”

“At whose expense?” one of the other knights asked, worriedly.

“At the Duchy’s,” I assured him. “So take it up with the Duke. Or the Censor General. Or go pray to the gods, for all I care. Just stop acting like a bunch of carrion birds fighting over a rotting corpse, and go do your jobs. How many days before the Dead God can bring another force to bear on us? Not as many as we’d like, I assure you.”

Chapter Eighteen

I Meet Mother And The Rest Of The Family

Wilderhall, Midsummer

I arrived at the Duke’s Tower on time, my manservant dogging my heels and making me look important by holding doors and speaking with other servants on my behalf. I felt like a complete idiot letting him do all that, but it was expected at court. Ham did a fine job, however, and within half an hour I was admitted to the Gardens.

Her Grace was seated on a stone bench in the afternoon sun in a grassy sward bounded by a sinuously winding brick wall which was at architectural odds with the rest of the castle. There were about a dozen ladies-in-waiting seated around her chatting, talking, and . . . well, waiting. One was playing a lapharp with impressive skill, filling the fragrant garden with sweet-sounding notes.

A much younger woman was sitting next to her, holding a lap desk, a quill, a sheaf of parchment, sealing wax, and all the accoutrements of a scribe. She was wearing a headshawl in the Remeran style, but she favored the Duchess enough for me to tell she was related – their daughter, Rardine. Their son, Tavard III, was squired to some southern Count, getting well-seasoned and tutored to run his realm one day. By all accounts he was as brave, handsome, and intelligent as you could ask, but few rumors spread about Rardine’s attributes, save that Their Graces were entertaining offers of marriage.

“Your Grace,” I bowed, after the herald announced me – “Master Minalan The Spellmonger.” She smiled politely and nodded to acknowledge my courtesy.

“Master Minalan, may I present Her Excellency, Countess Rardine, my daughter.”

I bowed as low as I could, offering the lass a smile. She wasn’t pretty, exactly, but she wasn’t unattractive, either. Long black hair, a remnant of her Remeran ancestry, set off a face full of freckles and pretty green eyes.

“So you are the mage who is causing all the ruckus,” Rardine said, casually. “I had no idea you were so handsome. Most magi tend to be old men or spinsters.”

“I may be either before the end of the day, Excellency,” I said, charmingly. “I live an interesting life.”

“So you do, Master Minalan,” the Duchess agreed. “Just this morning, General Hartarian arrived at Wilderhall two full days before we looked for him. He killed seven horses getting here from Wenshar.”

“The General is nothing if not prompt,” I said. “I take it he’s in good health, Your Grace?”

“So far,” Grendine said, her lips tightening into a slight smile. “He is in conference with his aides and my husband, His Grace. Discussing your . . . interesting proposal.”

“More like extortion, if you ask me,” Rardine snorted in a most unladylike way. “Has anyone even seen you use that little green pebble everyone is so upset about?”

“I used it to correct the vision of one of the castellans,” I admitted. “But I’d be delighted to offer a demonstration of its power, if Your Grace requests.”

“Would you? Something impressive? It usually takes Master Dunselen hours to do anything worthwhile – or even anything mortals can see,” Rardine said.

“With the Duchess’ permission?” I asked, and got a single nod in response. Taking a deep breath I withdrew the stone from the bag around my neck and placed it in my left palm. I held it out so that the ladies of the court could all see it, though I politely requested that they not venture to touch it. When you touch a witchstone you aren’t attuned to, the result could be bad. If you touched one and you had no magical Talent . . . well, I could only assume it would be worse.

I closed my eyes and drew power from the stone while my mind selected the symbolic elements necessary for me to accomplish my goal. That sort of spell once would have been painstakingly difficult to plan, and would have taken hours to execute, and I would never have been able to affect as much as I could with Irionite. But I raised my hand, plucked a rose from the bush to give me a pattern to work with, and made a couple of pointless but impressive hand gestures and snapped.

And every rose in the River Garden turned bright yellow.

There were gasps and exclamations from the ladies, and the harpist stopped playing to stare. I opened my eyes, and enjoyed the wonder in everyone’s eyes. Then I put my stone away.

“Was that a sufficient demonstration, Your Grace?”

“That was quite adequate, Master Minalan,” she smiled, more genuinely this time. “Will this spell keep?”

“I’m afraid your garden will produce nothing but yellow roses until I break the spell,” I said. “I do hope Your Grace likes yellow as much as red.”

“Far more, actually,” she said, approvingly. “That was impressive, Master Minalan. But you cannot defeat the goblin horde with roses, now can you?”

“I never said I could defeat them, at all, Your Grace,” I corrected, gently. “I said I could fight them, and win. But I cannot defeat them. Not yet. Not now.”

“Still, if you can stem the tide . . .”

“That is my greatest intention, Your Grace. Provided that my conditions are met.”

She surveyed me carefully, and her eyes narrowed in the slightest. “A Duchess with more time to reflect might question such a mercenary attitude from one who believes so fervently in the necessity of the cause.”

I prayed for eloquence. I know, there should be some sort of powerful spell to make you eloquent under pressure, but I hadn’t found one yet. I never thought I might need one. So prayer was my next-best bet, and I issued a silent plea to Herus, the Narasi god of travelers, thieves, and politicians, to guide my tongue.

“Your Grace, I believe so fervently in the cause that I refuse to pursue any course of action that does not offer the greatest protection to the greatest number, and advance the hope – and it is only a hope at this point, I’m afraid – of us eventually finding some weakness in the Dead God’s defenses. I seek to preserve as much of the Five Duchies’ strength as possible against the future struggle – a struggle I know in my heart must and will come. I have made that my mission – not for personal glory or honor or riches, or for the honor of the Duchy of Castal or any other, but simply because I know of no one else in all the lands who might even stand to combat the forces arrayed against us, much less prevail against them.

“I feel so strongly in this that I am willing to contest the will of any or all of the five Dukes, the Censor General, or Duin the Destroyer, Himself, in order to pursue what I feel is the best course of action.”

I hoped Herus heard me. I’m not devout for any god, but if there was ever a time where a god of eloquence would come in handy, it would be now.

“I believe your sincerity, Spellmonger,” she said, coolly – the first time she had addressed me as anything but ‘Master Minalan’ since the interview began. “Indeed, your fervor would be welcome in any temple in the land. But are you not assuming quite a bit by insisting that you, and you alone, are equipped to deal with this foe?”

“If some other mage can find a way to break the bond between the irionite shards and the Dead God, then perhaps,” I conceded. “But unless it is one of my warmagi who does it, then whatever champion or general the Duchies place in charge of the war will still not have the one qualification I have.”

She looked at me expectantly. “And that is?”

“He won’t be one who has stared into the eyeless face of the foe, felt his hatred wrap around your mind, and lived to tell the tale.” Sure, it was boastful. I survived the encounter. I had a right to boast.

“But does that make you a fit and wise leader?” Rardine asked, an eyebrow cocked. “You’re fair of face and form, speak like a warrior in a courtier’s voice, and you tell a most compelling tale, Spellmonger. Your spells are potent enough,” she added, nodding toward the sea of yellow roses. “But how does that make you fit to guide us, then? When there are older, wiser, more experienced heads for whom war is a not merely a profession, but a way of life?”

“Your Excellency is wise to ask,” I conceded. “The truth is, I do not know everything about the foe, or about waging war, or about magic or witchstones. I certainly don’t know how to organize the way that will be necessary to counter the Dead God. I’m pretty good at what I do, and I’ve been pretty lucky so far, and the honest truth is that I could be talking myself into a quick and inglorious death – or worse, capture and torment by the Dead God.

“But I cannot cede this burden to any other, Your Grace,” I admitted, “though nothing would please me more. Until I am certain that the immediate threat is abated, and that we are prepared to counter this enemy in perpetuity, I won’t be able to rest long enough even to see my first child born.”

Mother and daughter exchanged a meaningful look – which I didn’t know the meaning of. Frustrating. Finally, the Duchess stood. That meant everyone else stood.

“Walk with me, Spellmonger,” she said in a mysterious tone of voice. She could be about to order me thrown into the river or hand over the coronet of Castal. I bowed and offered her my arm.

She led me down the gentle slope, past a statue of some legendary ancestor of the Duke, at a leisurely stroll. “You know, when I first came to Wilderhall, it was little more than a draughty old castle with too many hunting trophies hanging on the walls. A menagerie of death. My mother-in-law hated the place, and came up with any excuse to spend the summers south. I rather liked it. Especially the wild roses. When Rard made it his practice to relocate here in the summer, I insisted that he plant the River Garden here, within the walls, but within sight of the bridge and the river and the hills.”

“It’s lovely,” I said, sincerely. “As a boy, I always remember the Ducal barges passing up and down river to Wilderhall. I’m afraid it’s not quite as impressive as I imagined. A good deal less dragons, the flagstones aren’t made of gold, and not a giant in sight.”

She laughed, a warm, indulgent laugh, well-practiced but no less sincere. “It’s the air I like best. Master Minalan, I’m beginning to trust you, and that’s dangerous.”

“How so, Your Grace?” I asked, quietly.

“Because once I trust you, I have high expectations that you will continue to earn that trust. And when I become disappointed in those I trust, the consequences can be unpleasant. I’m sure you’ve heard it whispered that I’m the ‘real’ power behind my lord husband’s rule.”

“Your Grace, I have been in Wilderhall less than a week, and I’ve barely had time to get a mug of beer, much less indulge in idle gossip.”

“A diplomatic response,” she smiled. “And not completely honest, I’ll wager. But there is an element of truth to that rumor. My lord husband is a good man, perhaps even a great man. He is wise and just and kind and merciful. He has seen his realm in victory, and larger than his sires left it to him. His high nobles love or fear him, and there hasn’t been rebellion against him in ten years.

“And the reason that he enjoys such a high repute among commoner and noble alike is because I am a good and dutiful wife, loyal to his command.”

“I have no doubt that His Grace depends upon the stability and serene wisdom Your Grace bestows within the realm of matrimony,” I said, mentally squirming uncomfortably.

“You mistake my meaning, Minalan. I am, indeed, a good wife in the traditional sense. But I also serve as my lord husband’s ears and eyes to the realm. And, at need, his hand. I have spent my reign cultivating spies and agents among the common people, the merchant classes, the temples, the fleets, the magi, and the courts of a hundred peers across the Five Duchies. They see and hear and whisper it in an ear that sends that information to me. And when the security of the Duchy and its people is in peril, I remove the threat.” As she spoke she reached out and plucked a rose from its stem, quickly snapping the thick fiber with a decisive twist of her fingers.

I looked down at the rose and took a moment to reflect. The Duchess of Castal had just suggested that she was a spymaster. “Your Grace, may I ask how you remove the threat?”

“Well,” she said, regarding the rose, “it depends upon the threat. But do you remember hearing Count Sharant of Colmont died so tragically last winter?”

“I do remember hearing about that,” I admitted. The old gentleman had been returning from prayers at his family temple when he slipped on a patch of ice and bashed his head against the stairs. It had been seen by the nobility as the tragic loss of a great elder statesman and adept ruler. It had been seen by the commoners as a sign of the gods’ disfavor.

“Do you remember the lovely young blonde woman in the cream-colored gown near the entrance? That’s Lady Esmara. She was escorting Count Sharant at the time. When I heard that he was plotting to lead a rebellion against my lord husband, with the backing of some Remeran barons, I sent word to Lady Esmara. She dashed the old coot’s gray head against the steps, and then let him bleed for a hundred heartbeats before she ran to get the guard.”

I paled, despite myself. I did remember that woman – and she really was lovely.

“She is not the only agent of mine. The olive-skinned lady who was embroidering that pretty scarf is Lady Aralai of Drenfield. Last year she seduced a Merwini grain merchant, earned his confidence, learned the identities of the Duke of Merwin’s spies in my court, and then drove a knitting needle into his ear while he slept. The harpist is Sister Faress, of the Wilderhall temple of Ishi. She knows twenty ways to poison a man that mimic twenty naturally-occurring maladies. Lady Vrett strangled the mistress of Baron Jindal in Summerspree during the Baron’s daughter’s name-day celebration and left her corpse in his bed as a message. Dame Belanth slit the throat of an entire family . . . ”

She recited the list of murders and other crimes as if she was giving me a cookie recipe. My blood ran colder as I realized that this sweet, kind, gentle matron was not merely a power-broker, not just the power-behind-the-throne, she was a mass murderer on a holy mission, with little or no compunction about ending a life – or a village full of lives.

“Now you might think from this admission that I’m some sort of bloodthirsty tyrant, like Duke Edfar of Vore. Nothing could be further from the truth. I do not relish this role, or even enjoy it – but it is a necessary one. In my father’s time, there was an obsequious dandy in the court of Alshar who handled such ‘delicate’ matters – while plotting against my father. When my husband and I assumed our thrones, I retired the gentleman who provided the same services for Castal and I gradually took over his duties.

“In the process, I transformed the office – for office it is. Every Duchy needs information, Minalan, information upon which wise policies can be made – including the quiet elimination of threats. Who better positioned to lead such an effort than I? The Duchess is above reproach, incorruptible, and beyond the possibility of treason or scandal. And I have schooled my daughter in this subtle art as well. She will lead the effort when I am gone, or for her new husband, whomever he might be.”

“Your Grace I am . . . near speechless,” I said, finally, my mouth agape.

“Of course you are, dear boy, it’s a horrible, horrible thing for an old lady to have to do. But it’s more horrible to watch one’s sons die because of stupidity or poor intelligence. I cannot entrust that to anyone else, so I take care of it myself.”

“And this is not widely known?”

“Most of the Court is aware, of course,” she admitted. “But most of the nobility, even the peers, do not know the extent of my role.”

That was unfortunate. “So your revelation to me is a confidence, Your Grace?” I waved my hand over the rose she still bore, and when I took it away the flower was the darkest blood-red.

She smiled at the trick, and it wasn’t warm at all this time. “A confidence? If you like. To put it another way, you have just been recruited into my effort, like it or not. You will either accept my patronage – and my influence on His Grace’s decisions – or you will not. In which case, something terrible may well happen to you.”

“Your Grace, I mean no disrespect,” I said, swallowing harshly, and feeling a little vomit at the back of my throat, “but it cannot have escaped your notice that I am well-defended.”

“And it cannot have escaped your notice that no matter how powerful a mage you might be, or will be, you cannot seal yourself away in a tower and be effective. You must have human contact. And anyone you might meet could be an agent. Whether it’s poison, a duel, a tragic riding accident, a fortune of war – one way or another, if I will you to die then only the gods may spare you. I do not mean to belittle your powers, Spellmonger, but you would not be the first magi to die by my order. Even the first with Irionite. Ask Orril Pratt.”

I raised my eyebrows – clearly she was suggesting that she was partially behind the prosecution of the Farisian campaign. I didn’t want to question her power to her face, of course, but I found that far-fetched.

Still, she seemed pretty confident about it.

“So you are . . . recruiting me,” I said, slowly. “Drafting me, in essence. Again.”

A small chuckle escaped her lips. “I suppose I am. ‘Recalling you to active service’ might be a more appropriate term. But the result is the same. My daughter and I were impressed with your answers about why you wanted to fight this menace so badly, and why you were so adamant about precisely why it must be done your way. We questioned your motives, of course – one isn’t a Duchess long before you question every motive of every courtier, even your family. But when given an opportunity to relent, you stood firm and took responsibility – not for your own aggrandizement or enrichment, but on behalf of the people of the Duchies.”

I shrugged as casually as I could. “I spoke my heart, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

“Exactly,” she sighed. “I know you are common-born – nothing to be ashamed of, my boy, and indeed I find it quite refreshing. Noblemen are always so damned entitled, even when they are being magnanimous. They don’t think of their people, as much as their property, even the good ones. But you . . . you speak sense, you speak it clearly, and gods help you, you speak it very persuasively.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” I said, my throat dry.

“Don’t thank me – you’ve attracted my notice. That may well prove the death of you. But I have to ask: will you serve, willingly, honestly, and loyally? Or will you refuse my offer . . . and the obligation it comes with? Let me know now, Minalan, and be true with your words. For if I decide you’ve betrayed me, it won’t be just you who pays the price. My agents will seek out your family, your father and mother, your sisters, their husbands and children, and your intended bride and her unborn child, and send you all into death together.”

“Your Grace makes a compelling argument,” I said, diplomatically. “And I would be a fool to reject an offer so kindly made and so plainly stated. I will add a provision of my own, however: if I feel the goals of your organization conflict with my goal of preserving the Five Duchies against the Dead God, we may have words, madam. Threats or no, that has to be my highest priority, even if it is at odds with some scheme or plot of yours.”

“Fair enough,” she said, after a long pause. “I rarely bargain with my spies, but you are not an ordinary spy, are you? Very well: if we are to bargain, then let us be absolutely plain in our dealings. You work for me, when needed, and I will intercede on your behalf with my husband. Further, even if he is reluctant, I will ensure no violence will come to you from the Censor General. He wouldn’t be the first one who has been removed from office.”

It was strange – I immediately felt a sense of relief. If anyone could protect me from Hartarian’s wrath, it was this scheming, dangerous old crone. Of course, by accepting her patronage – matronage? – I was trading one dire consequence for another. Not an enviable position to be in.

“That would be most kind of you,” I nodded.

“Further, I ask that you inform me of . . . everything. Any little thing you think may be important to the security of the Duchy, I want you to pass along to me. In turn, if I may render assistance to you without revealing myself, I shall. But there is one more thing . . .”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“I require a witchstone.”

That surprised me as much or more than anything else she had said. “Your Grace?” I asked, stunned. “Am I mistaken in thinking that you are a magi, as well as a Duchess?”

She smirked at me. “No, I have no Talent. But there are those under my command who do, and it occurs to me that having a stone would be of great benefit to my efforts.”

“You are correct,” I conceded. “However . . . any stone given by my hand is a loan, not a gift. I must take an oath from the recipient, and teach them the rudiments of attunement to the stone.”

She nodded. “I will allow this . . . with the understanding that I expect a certain amount of leniency in judging its use. I can appreciate the power and potency of your irionite oath as a necessary check on the power of a mage thus equipped – indeed, I doubt I would have sided with you, without it.

“But just as I admire and support the codes of chivalry, I also know that there are times and places where the wisest course means abandoning them, at least temporarily, and doing what needs be done without honor’s consideration. The mage who takes this stone will be sworn to my service, first. They will be doing things which may offend your moral sensibilities.”

“Understood, and agreed,” I sighed. “As long as the recipient is qualified, I see no obstacle to that. And the lifting of the Bans?”

“A law long-overdue for review and reflection,” she said, with a trace of scorn. “I’ve often thought that we gave up too much in binding magi the way we have. The wonders of the Magocracy were many, and the potential of magic to improve the realms of man is great. Since I think the danger of Imperial guerrillas re-establishing the Empire is probably abated,” she said, wryly, “then the motive for the law in the first place is no longer active.”

I decided against mentioning that the Order of the Secret Tower, a three-hundred-year-old underground organization of the descendants of those same guerillas was alive and well – and now had a stone of their own. Two, if you counted Penny’s. Really, it wouldn’t have helped my case. And either she already knew about them, or she didn’t need to – that wasn’t my decision to make.

But that did quite clearly state her support, and I relaxed the tiniest little bit.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” I said, humbly.

“Besides,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard me, “right now the Bans hamper our sword arm when we need every weapon at hand to fight against this abomination. And making the magically Talented, noble and common alike, commit to magic as a profession or give it up entirely – that’s an artificial restriction that has long done more harm than good. So yes, Minalan, the Bans will be lifted. In Castal, anyway. And likely what’s left of Alshar.

“As I said, I am recruiting you into my organization,” she continued, glancing at the height of the sun in the sky. “Let me tell you a few things about it, as it may prove useful, and that will make you more useful to me.

“Firstly, my people are known as my ‘family’, and our operation is the ‘family business.’ I am known as ‘Mother,’ and wherever I am is the ‘Hearth.’ My most important agents are my ‘Daughters’ and ‘Sons.’ They tend to be my most highly-trained, highly-placed, and most highly-effective agents, and have considerable authority. If someone claims to be ‘Mother’s Daughter’ or ‘Mother’s Son,’ then obey them – or at least understand that they act on my behalf. If you suspect treachery, then merely ask them where the baby is.”

“ ‘The baby’?”

“It’s a subterfuge,” she said, reasonably, “If they answer anything but ‘she’s safe at the hearth,’ then you know they are not my true Children. Any agents below them are generally known as ‘cousins.’ And armed agents in my service – and there are more than a few – are known as my ‘stepsons’.”

“No ‘stepdaughters’?”

“There are,” she conceded, “but you do not need to know about them, yet. To continue, after myself and Rardine, the third in command is Lady Arnet.”

“Lady Arnet?” I asked, surprised. The Duke’s minister of lands and estates seemed six years older than dirt, and half-asleep at the best of times.

“Yes, the same,” she agreed. “Who would expect an innocuous old biddy of being a ruthless spymaster? She collects the information in her office, considers it, and then passes it in the direction it needs to go. She’s invaluable at the task. In fact, it is she who set me on this path, so many years ago.”

“I’ll never look at an old lady the same way again,” I promised, shaking my head in wonder.

“No, I expect you won’t,” she chuckled. “One more thing – when you have gathered some interesting information and wish to pass it to the Hearth, then—”

“Just speak to my new valet?” I asked, bluntly. That startled her. Then her eyes narrowed.

“You are wiser than you appear, Spellmonger,” she said, admiringly.

“That isn’t hard, with my face,” I quipped. “Still, Hamlan came to me just a little too easily, and primed me with just a little too much helpful information for that to have been a coincidence.”

“You are correct,” she nodded. “I had Harrell – who is one of my Sons – suggest it to you. If you had been reluctant, another way would be found.”

“Is Hamlan one of your Sons, too?”

“No, he’s merely a Cousin, although he was a Stepson for a few years. The man is handy with a dagger in the kidneys, by all accounts.”

I instantly wanted to scratch the skin over my own, and suppressed it. “He seems a jolly enough fellow, for a spy.”

“He is quite handy,” she agreed. “And far smarter than he lets on. But he will be absolutely loyal to you—“

“When he is not being absolutely loyal to you,” I finished.

“Is that a problem, Minalan?”

I shrugged again. “I don’t see why. As long as he does his duties as given, we should be able to get along admirably. If you want to spy on me, you’re going to do it anyway. And I can only assume that one of your Children would get your protection and the benefit of your influence. So I guess I’m in.”

“Then it is settled,” she said, resolutely. “You will become one of my Sons, and I will be your new Mother, and between the two of us we will overturn these Bans, fight the goblin foe, and preserve the Duchies.”

“Shall I swear an oath, Your Grace?”

She shook her gray head. “Either you will keep your word and be loyal, or you not and you will die. Once you enter my Family, the only way out is death. Oaths will only bind those who will be bound by them, whatever the priests say about the justice of the divine.”

“Fair enough,” I nodded. “Is there anything further, Your Grace?”

She considered. “Perhaps amuse my ladies with some more of your feats of magic?” she asked. “A private display would help convince them of the powers involved, as I send them about their tasks.”

I bowed. “It would be a pleasure, Your Grace,” I said.

“Then I will retire to my afternoon nap,” she sighed, and yawned. “No doubt I shall see you tonight . . . when my lord husband and General Hartarian will question you.”

“Until then, Your Grace,” I said, handing her off to one of her guardsmen. As I watched her stroll leisurely back into the castle, proper, I realized that while Sago was a ruthless warrior, and Kindine was a political power of mythic proportions, I had probably just met the most dangerous person in the castle.

In the Duchy.

Chapter Nineteen:

The Shadow Looms

Tudry Town, Late Summer

Three days after the Battle of Tudry Commons, there was a pyramid of stacked severed goblin heads just south of the Great Western Road, downwind of the town . . . mostly. I could see it from the room in one of the squat towers of the castle which I’d adopted as a temporary office. The pyramid was covered with carrion birds as thick as fleas on a stray dog, and little fights would break out between them over the choice bits with predictable regularity.

Meanwhile, here in my office, a different kind of carrion bird was trying to find the choice bits of the corpse of Megelin, and was willing to fight about it.

“I’ve told you, more than once, that you aren’t getting those two villages,” I said, evenly. “Fesdarlen has more important things to concern itself with than two empty hamlets.”

“We can find peasants to replace them,” Lord Tondine said, dismissively. “But if no one asserts authority there, then Fesdarlen will have chaos on our frontiers . . .”

“Authority over whom?” I demanded, whirling around to face the lord. “There is no one there who isn’t furry and four feet tall! And the lands aren’t going to get up and walk away. You worry about chaos on your frontier? That stench you smell is but a tithe of what awaits, as I’ve repeatedly said. Yet you and your liege persist in squabbling about who has the right to claim nonexistent rents from empty lands. Look to your own defenses, Tondine,” I warned.

“That is Lord Tondine,” the man reminded me, sourly. “Be certain you don’t forget that.” Clearly it annoyed this noble that a mere commoner was obstructing his master’s plans. It was bad enough I was a mage – but a mage and a commoner both? That offended his dignity.

“You can be certain I won’t,” I replied, darkly. That took him aback, as he realized that he had – yet again – annoyed me. “Now, shall I arrange an escort for you back to your lands?”

“There is the matter of the Temple of Huin, in our northernmost province—”

“It’s not your northernmost province, any more,” I observed. “That temple is Ducal property, now.”

“That is patently unfair,” he began, in his irritating manner, “since we have enjoyed the revenue generated—”

“Do you know what’s unfair?” I interrupted. “That twenty or thirty thousand people had to leave their homes behind in Tudry to flee for their lives, that thousands more perished in the fields outside, hundreds were brutally tortured to death, and to the west entire baronies have disappeared . . . yet you, my lord,” I said, emphasizing the title sarcastically, “are as yet unscathed by battle. Just where were you when the horde was attacking?”

“I had a duty to see to my lord’s interests—” he protested. We both knew that his cowardly ass never left the relative safety of Tudry’s walls. I slammed my fist down on the table in front of me hard enough to interrupt him.

“Your lord’s interests are secondary to the interests of your Duchy,” I muttered darkly, “and tertiary to the interests of the war. Go back to him and explain your failure while you can do so without shackles, Lord Tondine.”

The little cockerel stood defiantly. “Your legal claim to military rule here is shaky, Spellmonger,” he said, bitingly. “That parchment won’t hold up in the Ducal court, before Lenguin himself! It’s signed by a mere functionary, a cowardly lickspittle whose authority is meager, at best! I’ll have you know that my lord is a sword sword-brother of His Grace, and—”

“And when that day comes, I look forward to hearing your robust arguments. Since that day is not today, kindly show yourself the door and do me the favor of getting on your horse and getting the hell out of Tudry. I’ve wasted far more time with you than I have to spare already, and I don’t intend to waste any more. You’ve done your duty. You’ve appealed to the highest authority available. You failed. Don’t compound your failure with a summary execution.”

Tondine didn’t have a good answer for that, so he left without another word. I counted that a favor I owed him.

I had tried to avoid the hazards of being a military governor by delegating authority and responsibility to my men, Azar and Astyral in particular. The former had returned to Castle Megelin and had begun putting the fortress on a permanent war footing. The latter had managed to cobble together an administration out of the ruins of Tudry’s old government – mostly with the help of the guilds who remained – and with the assistance of the City Guard. That left me to handle only those matters too great for their prevue, like irritants such as Tondine.

Indeed, my next interview was with Captain Volerin of the Guard. It was the first time since the battle I had been able to speak with him, since then we’d both been extremely busy afterwards. Ham ushered the big mail-clad man in and then brought us two glasses of wine I was about to ask for, along with a smug smile.

“Captain,” I said, raising my glass in his direction.

“Captain,” he nodded, raising his own. “What shall we drink to?”

“How about . . . our Mother?”

That startled him – startled him far more than I’d expected, actually. He quickly glanced around the small room as if there were a dozen spies hiding under the table. Then he eyed me carefully. “If we drink to our Mother,” he said, carefully, “then perhaps you might know where the baby is?”

“She’s safe at the hearth,” I assured him. He relaxed – but he wasn’t off guard in the slightest. “Indeed, Mother is anxious that you haven’t written of late.”

Volerin nodded his big shaggy head. “I barely know how, and I’ve been a bit busy the last few weeks. I hope she will understand.”

“She’s just worried. You know how she is.”

“In any case, I don’t think you would have brought her up if you didn’t have some Family business to attend to.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “She’s asked that you help this poor Son figure out where the pitfalls are around here. Politically. I know the Family has a presence in council,” I acknowledged with a nod toward him, “but who are the other players?”

“Well, the guildmasters are always a power,” he conceded, “but their interests are fairly straightforward. There is me, and then there is Sir Istabal. He was appointed by the Baron, as was his right, and was a loyal man to him until the end. Now with His Excellency dead, he is adrift. It might not take much to lure his allegiance to the Family.

“But truthfully, the biggest obstacle is the one your man burned to death in council,” he admitted. “The Lord Mayor was a tool of . . . some interests in the south. Mercantile interests. Interests which might oppose the Family business, in some ways.”

“South?” I asked. “South Alshar, or South Castal?”

“South,” he said, simply. “They’re known by a number of different names – the Crew, the Pack, the Dark Shadow of Death, but their symbol is the wharf rat. We call them the Rat Crew, usually. What they call themselves . . . well, we aren’t sure.”

I was intrigued. “So what do they do?”

Volerin shrugged. “Whatever they want. Smuggling, thieving, raiding, looting, piracy – half of the port officials in the Duchies are on their secret pay rolls. It’s rumored that they began as a crew of shipwrecked Farisian pirates a few hundred years ago, back when the western ports weren’t more than fishing villages. They had an island or something, and some treasure, and one of their captains became the first King Rat. They took over the wharfs and the ports to the point where no whore on the coasts can drop to her knees without paying the Crew a toll. They used to be content with such enterprises . . .

“But now their dirty fingers are everywhere. They’re a bloody-handed crew, as well, cutthroats in deed as well as name. They use small, thin knives – Rat’s Whiskers, they’re called. And they don’t mind using them.”

“So how did they come to Tudry?”

“One of the Lord Rats – those are the ‘territorial governors,’ if you like – one of the Lord Rats won an interest in one of the lead mines in some unsavory way. He sent a trusted lieutenant here to oversee it, and to conquer some new territory for their criminal enterprises. Within a few years, the Lord Mayor was living in the purse of the Lord Rat.”

“And Duke Lenguin didn’t do anything about that?”

Volerin made a sour face. “His Grace, as well, is infiltrated by the Crew. His court has several of their agents there, particularly surrounding the Alshari Lord of the Coasts. Almost as many as Mother does. But when your man Azar killed the Lord Mayor, he also killed the biggest opposition to the Family Business in Tudry. I will be happy to inform Mother as much,” he added.

“Good. She’ll be pleased to hear it. I think.” Hard to tell what that woman was really pleased with. If anything. “So how do you rate Captain Astyral as a governor, Volerin?”

“Oh, he’s a fair enough one, that one,” the big man said approvingly. “Seems made for the job. Has a real eye for keeping things moving, finding good people, and seeing past all of the dung that usually piles up around a council meeting. And he’s a warrior too, no doubt about it.”

“Glad you approve. Now, if you ever need to get in touch with me about Family business, you can contact my servant, Hamlan, who showed you in. He’s a cousin of ours.”

Volerin nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, if I may, Captain, can I ask you what you see in Tudry’s future?”

“I’m assuming you’re asking for a legitimate guess, and not a scrying of the future,” I postulated. “I’d say that Tudry is going to end up as our advanced base against the Dead God. It’s only five days march away from Boval Vale, and it’s the strongest, largest defensible point in the north. I’ll have a few more warmagi arriving to help strengthen it further in a couple of days, as well as prepare for a more long-term defense. But until then, enjoy the light duty. With twenty five thousand residents fewer to patrol, your men should be at ease for a while. Until the soldiers start showing up in earnest.”

“I’ll remind them of that, next time I catch them muttering,” he chuckled. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he went back to his duty.

“Everything well, Master?” Hamlan asked, curiously.

“He’s a loyal Son,” I agreed. “He’s just been preoccupied. He warned me about the Rat Crew, too. That makes Mother’s note a little clearer. And apparently the chief rat was killed in council, so we shouldn’t have many problems with them.”

Hamlan nodded sagely. “The Family has run afoul of the Crew before. Nasty brutes,” he agreed. “I had no idea that they were this far north.”

“Make certain that Mother does, if you don’t mind,” I instructed him. “Including in Duke Lenguin’s court. That should give her something to think about.”

That seemed to disturb Hamlan more than I thought it should. I wondered what he knew about the Crew that I didn’t. I could ask him, if I wanted a lot of vague generalities and useless I made a mental note to investigate the matter further, as my last appointment of the day came in: Master Cormaran.

Cormaran was a magi – technically, he was an enchanter, but he specialized. He was from southern Alshar, but had served as a warmagi all across the Duchies before a wound made him too lame to fight. Instead of retiring to be a spellmonger or look for a teaching position or a court in need of a mage, he had turned his studies to the creation of mageblades and other enchanted weapons.

He could have made a lot more in the east, no doubt – magi in general are thin on the ground in Alshar, and warmagi even less so. But he liked Tudry and it was close by to the iron mines, and there were other reasons, too, he had hinted the last time I’d seen him. That had been at the beginning of the summer, when I was here recruiting mercenaries and needed to get my apprentice Tyndal a proper mageblade. Four short months ago, that is.

Back then he had been semi-retired even from enchanting, and was enjoying a life of leisure. He had worn a comfortable, richly-embroidered robe like a successful merchant. He was in his late fifties, and had boasted a shock of wavy gray hair and a trimmed beard. He kind of reminded me of my father.

Now he had shaved his head and face (though he retained a stripe of a mustache), and his dress made him look far more like the other warmagi I’d known: leather weapon harness festooned with warwands, custom armor, bronze vambraces, hard soled, knee-high boots, a dashing cape, and not one but two matching mageblades crossing his back. I could see the gorgeous, intricately crafted silver pommels peeking over his shoulders when he came in.

“Master Minalan,” he said, bowing formally. His voice was deep and resonant, almost melodious. I stood and returned the courtesy, and invited him to sit.

“What may I do for you today, Master Cormaran?”

“To be frank,” he sighed, “I wanted to know just what I had to do to procure a witchstone. Short of taking one myself,” he added.

“It’s not impossible,” I admitted. “I’ve done it – but the shaman was stupid and I was lucky. But if you did that, you would likely fall prey to the mind of the Dead God.”

His shoulders sagged. “So there is little hope—”

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” I said, shaking my head. “In fact, you could possibly obtain a shard of irionite by the simplest expedient possible.”

He looked at me, his head cocked in inquiry. “How?”

I shrugged. “Just ask me.” That made him smile, and then chuckle.

“Master Minalan, may I please beg a shard of irionite from you?” he asked, his voice torn between begging and condescension. I guess he thought I might be teasing him.

“Sure. I’d be happy to. I happen to have four or five that have been cleansed of the Dead God’s taint. The more warmagi that have them in hand, the better.” I sketched out the oaths involved, and explained my reasoning, and he agreed, after some reflection, with the wisdom of the precautions.

“And there is one more thing, before I administer the oath: the Censorate—”

“Yes, I’d heard a rumor of some . . . trouble in Castal, over in Wilderhall.”

“That’s a mild way of viewing it,” I agreed. “I just wanted to remind you that by accepting this stone, you make yourself a target for the Censorate. If you’re a stickler for the Bans—”

He used a sharply-uttered oath that convinced me, without a doubt, that he had spent a lot of time around soldiers. “I despise the Bans,” he said, with an effective curl of his lip. “And considering what we face now . . .”

“My argument, entirely,” I agreed. “Or it would have been, had I gotten that far. Someday I’ll tell you what really went on at that meeting – it was quite exciting. But don’t be surprised if you have someone in a checkered cloak try to arrest you, if you run into one.”

His lip curled into an even more sinister grin. “I would love to see them try,” he said, earnestly. “I’m not twenty-five anymore – I’m not even forty-five, any more – but the man who can best me with a mageblade has yet to be born.” He said it not as a brag, but with the utter confidence of a man who has no doubt that he could back up such a claim with steel. I know I believed him.

“So what do you plan on doing with the shard, once you have it?” I inquired. “You are, of course, free to use it as you will – within reason – but a man of your Talents . . .” I trailed off. An enchanter with irionite could make himself obscenely rich in a very short period of time.

“I plan to make mageblades,” he said, without pause to thought. “I’ve studied the craft for over twenty years. I know everything about it I can learn from the living. The past masters of the trade left obscure notes on their magnificent blades, but the really great ones, the ones forged in the Magocracy, were enchanted using irionite. I can’t achieve the same level of mastery without it. No one can.”

“And would you be willing to make mageblades for the war effort?”

It was his turn to shrug. “All mageblades are made for war. If this is the war they will be employed in, I’m happy to help.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and then I administered the oath and presented him with the stone. For no particular reason, I gave him the largest of the six I had. There’s no exact correlation between the size of a witchstone and its power, but in general the larger a piece, the more energy you can call upon. If this man was to be our armorer, then I wanted him to have as much power as possible.

The enchanter was enchanted with the little green shard I placed in his palm. After helping him attune to it, and giving him some advice and instruction in its use, he reluctantly put it away. “Thank you, Master Minalan. I am greatly in your debt.”

“Don’t think I won’t call on that debt,” I chuckled. “There are dark days ahead.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, with a reluctant sigh, “have you yet gone to the dark horizon that looms in the west?”

“The shadow-sphere? We’re calling it the ‘Umbra.’ And the shattered lands around it the ‘Penumbra.’ But no, I haven’t been to its horizon. I’ve been to its core, and that was quite enough.”

“Boval Vale,” he remembered, “that’s where it’s centered. I should have guessed that. About two weeks ago, I could contain my curiosity no longer. I took my mount and we made the journey across the . . . the Penumbra to see it myself.”

“Through all of those goblins?” I asked, surprised.

He shrugged, like he’d just been up to the market for a couple of onions. “I’m old, Master Minalan, but not so old I can’t still employ simple stealth magic. In any case, I made the three-day journey to a fief – former fief – just outside of the dark horizon. I stayed there for another three days, studying it.”

“And what did you find?” I asked with both interest and dread.

“Many very disturbing things,” he admitted. “For one thing, only two-thirds of the sunlight which shines upon it passes through it. It is perpetually dark and gloomy within. That also has the effect of killing a lot of the plants. Almost all importasta,” he observed, “not the natavia varieties, though.”

When humans first came to the shores of Callidore and built the grand civilization of Perwin (and then sunk it), they also brought a whole host of plants and animals with them, many of which quickly spread from the island nation or its colonies on the mainland deep into the interior, far beyond the Mindens. They were the realm of the importasta, things like dogs, cats, horses, oaks, elms, hickories, bees, wheat, rye, corn, barley, earthworms, roses, apples, potatoes, deer, rabbits, carrots, birds, even some fish.

The plants and animals which were there before we came, those were the natavia. Things like saggan, tranislouts, kirsieth, curps, the Alon, drenislaws, ularals, slaggers, flueflowers, butterstumps and fork grass. I found it very intriguing that the Umbra killed the invaders, but left the natavia. Apparently the Dead God’s genocidal tendencies extended to roses.

“But that’s not all,” he continued. “The animals that do dwell inside, natavia and importasta alike, seem to go mad. At least, those who escaped the shadow seem profoundly disturbed. Even the few humans I saw leave the Umbra were somewhat mad.”

“I’ve met the Dead God. He has that effect,” I pointed out. “I know the Umbra prohibits scrying within, or even communication by way of the Otherworld. Any other interesting characteristics?”

“Time doesn’t behave quite properly,” he said, recalling his research, “Sometimes it’s slower, sometimes faster. A similar effect has been reported in the cities of the Alka Alon.”

“I can vouch for that, too,” I agreed. “I’ve been to one. A small one.”

“As have I,” he nodded. “Further, birds and other creatures of the air avoid it – and the winds seem to revolve around it. If I had to guess, I would say that there was a substantial low pressure system within.”

I raised my eyebrows, surprised. “You’re a weather wizard, too?”

“I just studied with a Seamage in Merwin, for a few years,” he said, dismissively. “I can recognize a low-pressure system. Only this one doesn’t move. It just . . . sits there, and draws in clouds and rain and storms. I would have tried to stay and learn more, but a company of gurvani was passing nearby and I had to vacate my position.”

“That is interesting,” I agreed. “Perhaps I should take a trip out there to examine it, myself.”

“I would make it a priority,” he nodded. “I’d be glad to accompany you, to show you the way and hear your insights.”

“Perhaps I’ll take all the irionite-armed magi in Tudry with me. But you’re right, it should be a priority. I’ll make the arrangements. And thank you, Master Cormaran. I’ll be honest: I feel much more secure here in Tudry knowing you’re around.”

“Security?” he asked, wryly, as he stood. “It’s an illusion. Don’t forget that, son. The day you do . . . you’ll die.”

* * *

After my busy day helping order Tudry properly, I had Hamlan bring me a bowl of stew, and then I turned my attention to someone I’d been neglecting for a while: Penny. I had to keep her appraised of my progress. I hadn’t contacted her since immediately after the most recent battle.

I established contact after only a few moments summoning the spell – it gets easier and quicker, the more you do it.

Min? Sorry, I’m at supper, she thought to me.

Supper? It’s just past lunch time!

The time difference, remember? I’m a thousand miles east of you. We gain and lose the sun three or four hours before you do.

Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’ve had a busy day. I gave her the pertinent
details of the last few days’ activity, including the final tallies of our victory over the horde and what I’d just learned about the Umbra. So we’re probably going to go on a field trip to see if we can discover anything else useful.

Just be careful, she warned. It sounds pretty dangerous.

All of Alshar is ‘pretty dangerous,’ I countered. I’m going to take as many members of the Order as I can. Any more luck naming it?

Not yet. No one likes any of anyone else’s names, so far. But I was leaning toward the Order of Fantendara, after—

I know who she is, I said, flatly. Lady Fantendara had been an Imperial folk-hero for her skilled use of magic to escape the clutches of a couple of nasty suitors, and she freed some serfs or something like that along the way, too. I didn’t like the legends because the only spots the Narasi figured in were as caricatured rapacious bad-guys. That’s just too Imperial, I think. And while she was a protector of the weak and innocent, I admitted, the name Fantendara is unlikely to strike fear in the hearts of our foes and succor the hearts of our allies.

Fine! she sassed back. You think of something, then! I’ve been a little busy, anyway. The Remeran Censor Captain reported to the Duke last night about your . . . antics in Alshar. Even the servants were buzzing about it this morning. The bargain, the campaign, and the inevitable consequences of your potential success was discussed at length.

And . . . ? I asked, expectantly.

And the Remeran court is officially perplexed.

Perplexed? What the hell does that mean? I demanded.

It’s an old Imperial custom, she explained patiently. When the Magocracy faced a problem that was clearly a crisis, but had little power or political will to act, or if there was no clear-cut, decisive policy to follow, the Archmage issued a statement of his official confusion. Since he was, officially, the wisest man in the Empire, then if he said he was perplexed, the matter was considered tabled until more information was available or events overtook the problem.

Events? Now I’m perplexed.

Events like, say, a peasants’ revolt to overthrow an unpopular and despotic noble, who calls to the Archmage for assistance. Officially, the Magocracy was bound to back the nobility, but they also realized that sometimes a noble is such a problem that a peasant’s revolt isn’t a bad thing in the long run. By declaring the court ‘perplexed’, then the Archmage essentially placed the institution of the Empire in a neutral position while he ‘thought about it’.

I paused. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!

Its Imperial custom, she defended, and Remere still follows it. It isn’t often used for matters outside of the Duchy, but that’s what the Duke did. Be thankful. The Censorate was asking for troops to intervene in Castal and apprehend ‘certain parties known to be in violation of the Bans’. Since the court is ‘perplexed’, he won’t be getting any troops. Not even any assistance, apparently.

It looks like Mother’s fingers are in plenty of Remeran pies, I noted. That’s the only reason I can think of for Remere to not give the Censorate what they asked for.

It’s more complicated than that. Politics, again. The Censor General and his staff have always been seen as kind of an independent shadow-government in Remere – well, in the southern part, outside of Wenshar. The Censorate has even overruled Ducal edicts, upon occasion. That hasn’t enamored the court to them, and they aren’t usually eager to cooperate unless it can’t be avoided – like in Farise. So when the Censorate showed up and asked for what amounts to an invading army to go cow the miscreants in a neighboring Duchy, the Duke naturally has to ask himself what the consequences of that would be. The long term consequences.

Isn’t pissing off the Censorate a long-term consequence?

Before Irionite, perhaps, she conceded. But now . . . well, thanks to you there are two High Magi in Remere, and several more Remerans amongst our Order. And thanks to the Order of the Secret Tower, the Ducal Court Mage is now firmly on our side, provided he’s on the short list to get a shard.

‘High Magi’? I asked. I haven’t heard that term.

It’s what some of us are calling those who carry glass. A ‘High Mage’ is just someone who has irionite. It doesn’t imply any moral superiority. And it solves the issue of vocabulary, namely, what to call a mage with a witchstone.

How come I never get invited to the meetings where these things are discussed? I complained.

You’re too busy smiting the foe and saving the world. Besides, they mostly take place one-on-one, in my head. And there’s barely enough room in here for two.

Good point. All right, so what do the high magi have to do with the Duke’s perplexity?

Well, Remere has about twice as many practicing magi as Castal, and four times the number Alshar has. Easily. When news got out about what happened at Wilderland, and that there were high magi walking around openly with witchstones, that lined up most of our profession against the Censorate. Between that and the other political considerations involved, by declaring the court ‘perplexed’ then the Duke can wait out whatever happens in Alshar. Perhaps even long enough so that he can make it to the Coronet Council next month. And by that time, he’ll know, one way or another, which way to jump. Then he can drop the perplexity, make a decisive stand once the risk has receded, and proceed accordingly.

I still think it’s stupid, I muttered inside my own head.

I won’t argue. But it’s stupidity in the service of our cause. Therefore we should applaud the result, even if we dislike how it was arrived at. But the upshot is, Remere isn’t going to be intervening with Castal, any time soon.

I guess that’s a good thing, I agreed, reluctantly. Provided I survive to enjoy it.

If you survive, that means a lot of things are going to change. That’s what the Duke of Remere is counting on. He just doesn’t want to wager his Duchy on the outcome.

Well, I’m wagering my life – it’s the least he could do!

Considering that the Prime Minister’s first inclination was to raise five thousand mercenaries for the Censor Captain and ask questions later, I’d say that perplexity has worked in our favor. But don’t count the Censorate out, yet. They always have a lot more strength in the eastern Duchies, and Vore and Merwin tend to be more conservative about the Bans than even Remere. But we’re not without allies. The Secret Tower isn’t the only order agitating in our favor, either. And the Seamagi are so excited about witchstones they could burst. So you can expect an awful lot of eyes on you in Alshar, waiting breathlessly to see if you survive, and if events will unfold accordingly.

They aren’t the only ones waiting breathlessly, I observed, glumly. I’m kind of anxious about the whole question of my survival, myself. Especially if I’m going to get that close to the . . . the Umbra.

You’ve survived worse dangers, she said, encouragingly. And recently.

You mean my audience with the Duchess? I asked, wryly. You have a point, there, Penny, you have a point.

Chapter Twenty

Journey To The Umbra Lands

Western Alshar, Late Summer

A week after Tudry Town had been saved – or destroyed, depending upon your perspective – the rest of the Order’s warmagi began filtering in as per orders.

Master Astyral was still in nominal charge of the town as a military appointee, but he had delegated a lot of authority in a week, enough so that basic services were maintained and the men were paid, fed, and housed properly. We were paying for it with drafts on the Ducal Treasury (Alshar’s, not Castal’s) and people were taking them, so that was good. I don’t know how happy Lenguin would be about it, but he wasn’t here to ask. In the meantime it was kind of nice – if we needed something, Astyral just wrote another draft and people went to work. It was like free money.

Azar was now the un-official Lord of Megelin Castle, where he had taken up residence. He’d also attracted a following. He was inspiring the knights and sergeants with his constant desire to patrol the Penumbra in search of more goblins to slay. He found a fair many, too, sometimes in bands as large as a hundred or more. When he wasn’t hunting or patrolling, he was feasting and drinking in grand baronial style, and was attracting a group of young, adventurous knights into his circle.

But the rest of the warmagi of the Nameless Order were riding in – and moving in. One by one they reported their findings to me and were assigned quarters by a clerk Astyral had designated the official liaison with the Order. We’d taken over a row of abandoned houses just inside Old Town, mostly the homes of merchants or guildmasters who were now refugees in Vorone.

They weren’t always alone, either. All of us had cultivated contacts, friends and allies over the years. Some brought loyal retainers or apprentices, bodyguards and sidekicks, lovers or business partners. For some of them, who had been in the field since we’d left Boval, it was the first taste of civilization they’d had in a while, and for a few days they made the most of it with impromptu parties and drinking binges. The whole street became known as Warmage Row, or The Street of Wizards, or even Spark Street, to the other soldiers quartered in the poorer parts of town.

A couple of times things got out of hand when someone used their witchstone to play with fireworks or practice a new destructive spell, and me or Astyral or Terleman would have to go down and lecture them, and eventually made them take the really dangerous stuff over to the commons. But the houses along that row were pretty lively in the week after the battle.

I didn’t bother with one, myself. I was comfortable in the inn, and I nearly had the place to myself. I enjoyed the quiet. The food was good, at least. But the rest of them settled into Warmage Row pretty quickly. Gods knew we had the room, and the locals needed the trade.

Terleman and Rustallo were the first to arrive, then Wenek with a couple of apprentices, then Hesia and Curmor, then Taren and Reylan and Delman. With each new arrival, our position grew much stronger. And I found some worthy Talents amongst their friends, too. After interviewing and inspecting three new warmagi, I took their oaths, welcomed them to the Order, and issued them their irionite shards.

They were each valuable assets, too. Forondal of Scaford was the first, a friend of Terleman going back years. Forondal was another good all-purpose battlefield mage. The second son of a coastal baronet, Forondal had a lantern jaw and big burly shoulders so wide that he had to turn sideways to get through half of the doors in Tudry. His professional idiosyncrasy (all magi have them) was his choice of weapon. He eschewed a standard mageblade for two highly-polished steel axes that he could wield like a surgeon. Good man, if unimaginative.

The second was technically an outlaw. Bendonal the Outlaw, to be precise, a warmage who had been wandering the northern wastes ever since he ran afoul of the Censorate in Gilmora – I’m not sure what the scandal was, and Bendonal was willing to tell you several different versions, none any more truthful than the last. But he had pissed off the Censorate, who had issued a warrant for him and revoked his certification. Since he wasn’t about to give up his powers or his head, he headed for the northern wastes where the Censorate is just a rumor. Azar contacted him somehow, and he showed up unannounced to beg me for a stone.

I gave him one. I wasn’t going to be winning any friends in the Censorate, I realized, and I valued Azar’s opinion of warmagi. He said Bendonal was adept at the nastier side of warmagic, infiltration and betrayal. His specialty was getting into an enemy’s castle under a pretense and then disabling their guards and lowering their defenses. It was kind of his signature service. No wonder he had enemies – the man had a nasty streak and was a natural throat-cutter. But Azar said he was trustworthy, hated the Censorate, and didn’t mind doing whatever he had to do to get a witchstone, so I couldn’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t. Hells, we needed him.

The third was Sarakeem, a flamboyant Merwini in his thirties who looked more like a pirate than a warmage. Sarakeem arrived on his own, having ridden six hundred miles to get here when he had first heard of the possibility of irionite. He had bronze skin and dark hair, with a little mustache-and-beard on his chin but with his cheeks shaved (a style known as “an Imperial”, because so many eastern magi affect it for the same reason western magi grow long bushy beards and sometimes use lime to whiten them – because it looks impressive. Sarakeem wore very tight leather clothing over a colorful silken gambeson, complete with wide purple sash in which he kept a small collection of daggers, warwands and spell components. He also wore a long flowing red cloak that made him stand out on the field and barely concealed his very impressive muscles.

To hear him tell it, he was the master of every kind of war spell. After interviewing him and testing him for a few hours, I decided that he was pretty good with offensive spells and hand-to-hand combat, complete shyte with scrying and more subtle spells, and absolutely abysmal at defensive magics of any kind. What he was good at was archery. The bow isn’t often a weapon chosen by warmagi, but Sarakeem had a special gift for it. He used a powerful bow made of laminated seabull horn, and four or five quivers of arrows he’d enchanted to do various helpful things. But what he was best at was sniping. I watched with awe as he put nine arrows into a space smaller than my palm three hundred feet away . . . in the space of seven heartbeats.

Sarakeem was so good at the bow, as a matter of fact, that it almost made up for him being a complete tool most of the time. Most warmagi have an ego, but Sarakeem was so utterly convinced of his own greatness in nearly every facet of his life that it was aggressively annoying to be around him for any length of time. But when he picked up his bow and cut loose, he was like a one-man volley.

Some of the warmagi I put to work on important projects immediately, like having Hesia re-work the town’s warding spells, Wenek set up the scrying protocols for the surrounding area, and Delman strengthen the city walls. Others, the battle-ready warmagi like Curmor and Rustallo, I sent on short patrols to help screen us from more raids and assist refugees from the west.

Terleman, on the other hand, wanted to start putting down some more serious, long-term defenses. I’d always admired the man, and he seemed made to be a military commander. Being probably our best strategic thinker, I ceded the job of coordinating the Magical Corps to him. He immediately claimed one of the largest private homes on Warmage Row (it once belonged to a mercantile-minded noble who made his fortune by selling lead to the southern part of the Duchy) as our working headquarters and hostel. Then he turned the study upstairs into a workroom, and started building an elaborate magical diorama of the barony and environs to facilitate defensive spellwork.

That’s just the kind of methodical, detail-oriented work that Terleman excelled at, but he’s just as good at leading a storming party. He was probably the most widely-respected and liked of any of us in the Order. He seemed to thrive on the responsibility, too, and the others responded well to his leadership. That’s the kind of man you want leading your warmagi into battle. The kind that inspire heroic epics.

But he was determined to establish proper magical defenses before indulging in vainglory. As the days went by and new warmagi arrived with the samples they’d been asked to acquire, the model grew and grew until it took up most of the study. The problem was that while we had perfect samples of the town walls and the lands immediately surrounding it, there was still over half of the area which we didn’t have anything at all on. The area immediately to the west.

And I aimed to fix that, during a quick expedition to the Umbra.

Not everyone was in favor of it – far from it. But it needed to be done, and I honestly didn’t trust anyone else’s opinions as much as my own, anyway. Terleman insisted he accompany me, and I couldn’t refuse, not with Astyral doing such a good job keeping the troops organized. With things as chaotic as they were in the countryside, a small group of powerful warmagi shouldn’t have any trouble sneaking into enemy territory.

I chose seven of us to go, with an emphasis on experience and stealth more than potential damage In addition to myself and Terleman, I invited Rustallo (for muscle and fighting spirit), Taren (for thaumaturgical expertise), Master Cormaran, as a local guide and general Wise Old Man, and Reylan and Delman for support.

Neither one of the last two were particularly Talented in any one area, but they had both been in Farise and they both knew how to comport themselves in the field. I could trust them not to make stupid mistakes and they didn’t whine overmuch, and that counted for a lot.

Why not take Azar or Horka arguably the fiercest fighters among us? This was a scouting party, not a raid. Besides, I wanted them safely away from our expedition, so that they would be in a position to rescue us if we got into trouble. With the telepathy spell, calling for help was a lot easier.

We set out at dawn the eighth day after the Battle of Tudry. For the first few miles we were pretty quiet, but after we went a few hours past our westernmost picket without seeing a single black hair or yellow eye, we relaxed a bit and started talking and singing like we were on our way to a fair. Our scrying hadn’t indicated any large groups of goblins in our area, so unless there was a shaman trying to conceal at least a hundred goblins (the least amount that would seriously trouble us) for a daylight raid on a deserted road, we were pretty safe.

And it was a pretty day – too pretty to feel like you were skulking about. After weeks of camp noises and the steady clomp of feet it was relaxing to be out on my own again, and with friends. I mostly rode knee-to-knee with Master Cormaran, who spent his time alternately between the process of becoming attuned to his new witchstone, the lore and customs of the Alshari Wilderlands, and the finer points of enchantment, a field I’ve always been fascinated in.

With every step the looming shadow in the west grew larger, darker, and more opaque. Clouds traveled across it, from south to north. It was perhaps the most ominous thing I’d ever seen, outside of the Dead God himself, and it was easy to become overcome with fear just by thinking too hard about it. If I’d had to guess I’d say that there was a lot of emotional magic involved with the Umbra veil’s construction to inspire that feeling. That was one of the things we were going out to investigate.

“We’re traveling through Arrell, the very easternmost fief of the Barony of Glandon,” Cormaran explained. “This far west the castles get a lot more primitive, indeed. But the common folk are – were – plentiful, prosperous, and prone to rustic virtues. In the summer they farm or fish or fell timber, and in the winter they hunt and work in the mines. Glandon held well over fifteen thousand, counting all of its fiefs together. His Excellency of Glandon was served by no less than five vassal lords or land-holding knights. Of course, all of them likely perished when he led them against the goblins a month ago. Most of his people have already fled to Tudry – if they were lucky enough to escape at all.”

As if to illustrate his point, the road went through a thick, thorny hedge at the edge of the village. That was a common defensive structure for a village that couldn’t afford a real palisade or invest in the digging of a ditch. We proceeded silently and cautiously, until we were sure that we weren’t in danger of an ambush. Then discovered we weren’t in danger of lunch, either: the entire village had been put to the torch, although – thankfully – it appeared as if it had been done after the village was empty. We didn’t see any corpses among the ruins, at least.

We passed through Arrell quickly, forded a stream, and began the climb up the ridge that was the frontier of northernmost fief of Glandon, when we came across the first knot of refugees we’d seen since we’d set out.

They were a frightening sight, six men, ten women, nine children, all commoners, trudging quickly and nervously east, haunted expressions on their filthy faces. Most were barefoot, and poorly clothed for the increasingly cool weather, but they were alive. That counted for a lot.

Two of the men held swords, and two others had spears, but that was as much weaponry as they carried, and none wore armor. We made a point of stopping, introducing ourselves, and indicating which direction was the quickest one to safety. I took the time to use our stones to encourage some of the nastier wounds they’d suffered to heal, too, and make certain none of them had been cursed with a fever. A little shared food, a little clean water, and by mid-afternoon they were in a much better condition and improved spirits.

In gratitude, they told us a great deal about the route between Arrell and the Umbra, or “that great gods-damned sunset-drinking shadow in the west!” as they called it. They were generally terrified of it, but it was a distant menace – the goblins they had been avoiding were a more immediate threat.

They were from a fief just this side of Ganz, and had been running for three weeks now, ever since the castles of the western baronies had fallen so quickly in the first days of the war. They were all that was left of a much larger group, most of whom had been taken captive and led away tied together like chickens headed to market, someplace west. These survivors had hidden in various ways or played dead to elude the gurvani.

Their leader, a once-prosperous farmer who had seen his entire family taken, was the most helpful. In his harsh Alshari accent he told us exactly where they had seen goblins nearby, and a good deal about the state of the countryside in the aftermath of the invasion. It was a familiar tale by now. Most fortresses had been taken quickly, overwhelmed by sheer numbers in surprise attacks. But there were a few still trying to hold out against a siege, not realizing just how problematic that might be. But if they were fighting men – hells, if they were any kind of men at all – we needed to try to rescue them, somehow. Of course, they were the ones around which the goblin hordes were congregating, so getting in and out would be difficult.

While he talked, Terleman made notes on a very impressive magemap he’d been running about the entire Alshari Wilderlands. Of course, to the mystified peasants, it just looked like he was looking at something that wasn’t there and waving his fingers around. You had to have magesight to make use of the spell. Terleman stopped, after the farmer related the four keeps he thought were still under siege.

“What about Terrihall?” he asked, curiously. “That was along your route – was it taken?”

“No, milord,” the man said, scratching his head. “That’s where that . . . other wizard fella was. Not as kind or compassionate as you folk, for all he invited us to come to his keep and be safe. Truth was, he did have a few poor folk in there who couldn’t make the journey. And we saw no goblins lurking about. But we didn’t like the look of him, if you take my meaning. Hungry, like, only not for food. He had his eye on the women, he did. Didn’t trust him at all.”

“Another wizard?” I asked, surprised.

“Maybe another spellmonger, or a court wizard?” suggested Terleman. “Or a warmage who just couldn’t stay away from the action?”

“Perhaps,” I murmured. There was something disturbing about the idea, though. Any creature who stayed within sight of the Umbra – which even half a day’s ride had brought too close for comfort – well, I had to question their sanity. “We’ll ride by there on our way back, and see if there’s anything we can do to help,” I decided.

Once we helped them get underway, we then continued riding west at a brisk pace, discussing the ramifications of what we had just learned. It wasn’t encouraging, but it was good to hear that someone was still holding out, somewhere.

That night the sun went dark prematurely, as it plunged below the horizon of the Umbra. This close, it looked like it was forcing itself through a thunderhead and that didn’t help our mood much. Autumn was still officially a few weeks away but the dim light made the air seem a lot chiller than it was.

We made camp that first night in the ruins of the third burned-out hamlet we came across, thankfully bereft of corpses. The people here had pulled out in good order, taking most of their food and portable wealth with them before their homes were burned. We went unmolested that night, thanks to some really potent wards and a constant, magically-augmented watch. We were on our way again at dawn.

The next day we didn’t see another soul, human or gurvani. We barely saw a few birds, and no other living animals. The dark, cloudy mass on the horizon made us feel like we were riding toward despair. Even the insects seemed subdued as we went deeper into the Penumbra lands.

“It’s those damn despair spells,” Taren spat, disgusted. “They’ve got them strung everywhere. They have to have some sort of anchor, though, some physical element to ground them on. I just don’t see how they could do it, otherwise.”

“You think they can cast a net that wide?” asked Master Cormaran. He had proved a sturdy traveling companion, giving us youngsters the benefit of his lifetime of experience, in conflicts stretching back to The Five Barons War, where he’d first fought as a mage. Despite his aptitude – even genius – with enchantment and warspells, there was a lot of magic he didn’t know.

Practical theoretical thaumaturgy, for example – breaking down a spell into its components and tracing the base elements back to their source. That’s what I do, when I’m not slaying or playing politics or yelling at subordinates.

“The goblins stones,” I snapped, as a sudden realization overtook me. “They were all over Boval Vale, and I’ve seen at least a few around.”

“Those great big megaliths?” Terleman asked, skeptically. “I wouldn’t think they had the brains to build those, much less enchant them.”

“Don’t underestimate the gurvani,” I warned. “They are very industrious, tenacious, and every bit as intelligent as a man, for all their small stature. And those stones are relics from a more advanced time in their history. They were quite sophisticated, long ago. Don’t forget that they were the labor force of the ancient Alon society.”

“They were?” Cormaran asked, surprised.

“According to the Alka Alon,” I agreed. “They revolted about a thousand years ago, about the time that the Alka retreated from most of the affairs of Callidore into those tree cities. But before that, they did most of the grunt work for the Alka Alon. And they got most of their magical system from them. So they once possessed the knowledge to build and enchant such monoliths. Don’t mistake poverty and a lack of sophistication for a lack of intelligence. The Tree Folk did that, and fared poorly as a result. To the Tree Folk the Gurvani were short-lived, strong, and expendable. The Alka Alon treated them like serfs, or slaves. They haven’t really gotten over that, either.”

“It’s intriguing,” nodded the old warmage, fingering the silk bag around his neck in which he carried his stone. “If they were really once sophisticated enough to make such creations, then that could be how they are spreading their shroud of despair over the land. Northern Alshar is filled with those rocks, sometimes three or four in a fief. And they won’t be easy to dispel, either.” Most stone-borne enchantments weren’t. That’s why people hang enchantments on stones: they stick around.

“It would be interesting to get exact positions of each stone, to see if we could find weaknesses in the patterns,” Taren remarked.

“I’m sure it would be highly revealing,” I agreed, truthfully. “And it would be exceedingly dangerous,” I added, even more truthfully.

“But if we can see how, exactly, they are knitting this shroud of despair, we may find the means to unravel it,” he insisted.

“I agree. But that’s a strategic decision. We’re not there yet. We’re still struggling with the tactical situation.”

“I bet the spell doesn’t work on gurvani, either,” Terleman added. “I mean, it wouldn’t make sense to, would it? Nasty piece of magic, that. Insidious.”

“That’s nothing compared to that thing,” Reylan said, darkly, nodding toward the ghostly gray hemisphere that loomed in the distance. “That’s ugliness incarnate. Worrying about a bunch of bad mood magic when you’ve got the godsdamned Dark Undead Goblin Lord readying to slay us all seems like fussing about the décor in your burning house.”

“You never know when a little thing like that could prove crucial,” I said, shaking my head. “Let’s just add it to the list of things we suspect we know and move on, shall we?”

We did, although it was a struggle. Move on, that is. The closer we got to the Umbra, the harder it got to push on. We each did a few counter-charms to help, but it just blunted the edge, so to speak. Our hearts were sick with uneasiness. Our horses became more and more reluctant, too, which didn’t help.

And, of course, there were the bloody goblins.

Just a few, at first, scouts and spies and snipers – perhaps even a few deserters – but there were plenty who prowled the shadows, just out of range. Usually. Each of us took a turn at vanquishing the scouts as we saw them, each in our own special way. I took the two treetop-hiding fellows by the simple expedient of breaking the branch they were on and letting gravity take its course. Reylan used a warwand on his, while Terleman preferred to ride down the scout we flushed out of a marshy patch of the way. One smooth strike with his mageblade and the gurvan’s head neatly left his body.

By nightfall we had made it to the next fief, according to the signs at the frontier. Prenidor, a largish village which paid tribute to Sire Lurmar at Castle Lurmar, at the top of the next hill. That’s about when things started to look really bad.

Prenidor was – had been – the home of at least four hundred sturdy villagers. They had a smithy, a taphouse, three or four shops, a moderately sized bakery, a tannery, and a mill, and a darling little temple devoted to Ishi and Mara at the center. Most of them had gotten out after the first attacks, I could tell, but enough of them didn’t to make it almost as macabre as Kitsal had been.

Almost. Maybe about even. A third of the homes on the outskirts of the high street were burned, their thatch gone and only a few stray timbers were left among the scorched piles of stones. The shrine was desecrated with the dismembered corpses of women and children, and about thirty men had been killed one by one and hung from the porches and fence posts of the village by their own entrails. But there were far fewer than the number of houses would account for. The rest must have escaped.

Or at least that’s what I tried to convince myself, remembering the tales of slave lines stretching a mile long. Grist for the grisly mill. I had to think that most of these folks managed to flee with their lives, and were now merely half-starved refugees walking on blistered feet toward Vorone.

“They’re still about,” Terleman said, quietly, drawing his mageblade. ‘Sunwise’, he called it. Don’t ask me, I don’t know either.

“To the north,” Reylan murmured, drawing a wand from his harness. He got a very determined look on his lean face, his mustache twitching as he used magesight to see beyond the bounds of the village.

“And the south,” Rustallo said, a wolfish grin on his face as he drew his own blade and cantered his horse around. “Maybe we’re surrounded?” he said, almost eagerly.

“No,” Cormaran said, shortly. “There can’t be more than twenty of them. A dozen north, eight or nine to the south.” That was better than I could tell. The closer we got to shadow, the harder it became to focus.

“Occupation force?” Delman conjectured as he drew a wand in one hand and a couple of smooth metal balls in the other.

“Garrison,” conceded Taren, who merely wiped the palm of his hands on his thighs as he looked around. “And looters,” he added, with a note of disgust.

“Do you think they’ll attack?” asked Rustallo, still eager.

“I don’t think I’m going to give them the option,” I decided, and quickly cast a wicked little firework spell to the north, to what I thought was behind the cowering goblins. The thing took about six seconds to deploy, until it was directly behind the large building at the center of town with a dark doorway where a door had once stood. For good measure I threw a second, smaller spell within, just to liven up the evening.

The dozen in the north only attacked after my second spell went off, which drove them right into Terleman and Cormaran, who were only to happy to slice them to pieces from horseback. A few tried to escape, and fell to Reylan’s wand work.

The ones in the south actually lobbed the closest thing to an archery volley I’d seen the gurvani manage yet – five bows twanged more or less at the same time. None of them hit – Taren had launched a powerful defensive spell that skewed the flight of their arrows. But it was a discouraging sign of their improvement.

Rustallo leapt upon the would-be archers with a scream, and proceeded to dispatch nearly the entire group single-handed. It helped that the attack was at dusk, I suppose – the gloom hampered both species ability to see, ordinarily – but we all were using magesight, and Rustallo managed to skewer, pierce, or slice his diminutive foes to death before it got much darker.

Within moments, it was over. Cormaran had gotten a bruise on his hand when he unexpectedly hit a helmet with it, but other than that the damage was all gurvani.

“That was refreshing,” Rustallo said, satisfied as he wiped the blood off of his blade. “I’ll sleep well tonight.”

None of us answered him. I guess we were torn between condemning his callousness and agreeing with him. Looking around at the bodies of former people being used as decoration made you want to smite something.

“Stay here tonight?” Delman asked, doubtfully, as he looked around at the corpses, big and little.

“Let’s keep moving,” I decided. “I’m sure we’ll come to someplace more wholesome. Or at least less gruesome.”

And we did, as the sun finally disappeared and allowed night to wholly fall. Except in the west – the specter of the Umbra was too much to allow starlight through. It loomed by night as it did by day, drinking in the light of the gibbous moon. We found shelter in a yeoman’s home a half-mile outside of the village. The thatch had been lit but had never fully caught fire. There were signs of struggle, but apart from a single headless gurvan we found in back, there were no corpses. Terleman risked a fire in the fireplace while Cormaran saw to the wards, and then those who could tried to sleep.

Sleeping in the Penumbra was an exercise in competitive nightmares. Even with our wards and charms we could not keep the overwhelming despair and dread that filled the air at bay. It seemed to seep into our minds like evil music and caused the worst sorts of nightmares.

I wasn’t surprised that we made it through the night without attracting attention from passing goblins. I was surprised that I managed to get more than a few hours of rest. Rustallo woke us all just before dawn, and after a cold breakfast of sausage and bread we continued on, leaving the ghosts of Prenidor behind.

As we drew closer and closer to the dark horizon that morning, the weather turned nasty as we came within the band of clouds that seemed to constantly gyre about the periphery of the Umbra. It was a zone of storms and gloom, muddy and depressing. By mid-morning the sun at our backs was occluded by the cloudbank, and from that point on there was no more sun.

“That’s not going to be good for the plants, you know,” Delman commented, as we passed by an abandoned field of wheat that was under three inches of muddy water. “Nor will this drawing of clouds from their normal tracks be good for other regions where they are expected.” Delman was more familiar with that sort of thing than the rest of us.

Before he was drafted into the Farisian campaign, he had been studying Green magic – the natural magic that encourages plants to sprout, grow, flower and seed – in southern Castal. But everyone knew the dangers of magically messing around with the weather. Complex systems like air masses or water currents are notoriously difficult to control, and most of the time – not just occasionally – whatever action you took had unforeseen and often unpleasant consequences. You might make it rain in one village, for instance, but condemn another four to drought for a season.

“The rain is of little consequence if the plants never see the sun,” Terleman pointed out. “If this gloom persists indefinitely, none of the plants in the Penumbra will survive, much less within the Umbra.”

“The natavia will persist,” I observed. “They need less light than the importasta. But the crops and the hardwoods won’t survive. The Dead God is attempting to make a land as close to what it was like before humans came here. And how could humans survive without importasta?” That gave us an hour of silent, disturbing contemplation as we rode through the foothills.

About noon – not that you could tell from the sun – we finally arrived at the definite edge of the Umbra. We found a path to a meadow not far off of the road that lay just within the bounds of the murky veil. We dismounted, cast quieting charms on the horses to keep them from spooking, and began our examination.

The edge of the veil itself could only be discerned from a distance – that is, you could see the edge until you were just a few feet away, and then it just seemed to fade away. It was like walking through a fogbank (and there was plenty of mist on the other side of the horizon) only it didn’t actually impair your vision. It was proof against magesight, we quickly discovered. No matter what variation of the spell we tried, the Umbra was a simple void in the air.

Rustallo tried marking the definite edge with stones, but as he surveyed them from different angles he was never quite able to get the placement precisely enough to his satisfaction. Terleman was attempting several small cantrips both outside the veil and then slightly within, to measure the difference. Taren was unfolding an elaborate series of thaumaturgical spells he’d hung and quickly running through a number of them as he analyzed the Umbra. Reylan got out a scroll of parchment and a charcoal and began making notes as they were called to him.

Taren was a better thaumaturge than I was, so I let him proceed with the preliminary work while I contacted Pentandra to report our progress.

We’re at the very edge of the Umbra, Penny. I thought you’d like to know.

Any problems getting there?

None we couldn’t handle, I admitted. But it’s bad, Pen. The Penumbra, I mean. The whole land around this thing is getting ruined. For human habitation, anyway – I guess it’s a goblin paradise. And then once you get to the edge . . . well, we haven’t gone very far within, but from what we can tell it’s a lot worse inside.

Make sure you get some static chrondilic readings, she reminded me. And figure out what the etheric density is inside and out, and what kind of degradation it suffers in proximity. Oh! And don’t forget to do a test for astericite accumulations along the periphery – it would be very interesting to see if that thing is generating—

Yes, yes, I know, I interrupted testily. We have seven magi here, Pen. A couple of us are even good at it. We’re doing as many tests as we can think of. But we’re also in constant danger, so there’s a limit to the information we’ll be able to collect.

Just do the best you can, she told me, although I could tell she was biting her lip to keep from spouting off more orders – sorry, “suggestions”.

We will, I promised. What’s the word in your part of the world?

The word is ‘open rebellion’, which is what the Censor Captain of Remere is calling the Duke’s official perplexity. Of course, no one is much paying attention to a mere Captain, after you and the Censor General—

Hey, that wasn’t all me, don’t forget! I reminded her. A lot happened that day. I was just a catalyst. And we wouldn’t be where we are now if it hadn’t.

Just make sure you get back to Wilderhall in one piece, she cautioned. There is a lot riding on how successful you are in Alshar.

Like, perhaps, my life? I pointed out disgustedly. How come I seem to be the one taking all the risk, while you and Duke Rard and everyone else seem to be the ones getting all the benefit?

You’ll get the benefit, too, she promised. Trust me; give a good accounting of yourself in Alshar, and you’ll be the first magelord since the Wenshari Capitulation.

I glanced up at the misty wall of darkness that dominated the sky from this vantage point. You know, that doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot to me at the moment.

Patience, Min! C’mon, you’ve only been at it a few weeks. Nothing worthwhile is won cheaply, you know. Anyway, the Censor Captain is calling in favors from all over the Duchy to get a force together, although not many are responding and what he would do with it is unknown, perhaps even to him. So he’s hiring mercenaries and summoning the Order of Shirlin. I think he’s just scared about sitting there and not doing anything, or worse, not looking like he’s doing anything.

More politics, I said, dejectedly. So are the Remerans leaning toward supporting us?

I think it’s more of a matter of them not supporting the Censorate . . . right away. And that only goes for the upper nobility, the barons and counts around court in Remera. A lot of them, especially those of Imperial heritage, have never been well-disposed toward them. But they’re willing to inconvenience the Censor Captain for a while until they see what happens in Castal.

Great. Well, keep your eye on it. I’ll just be out here in the field, a tempting morsel of goblin-bait, staring the Dead God in the eye and waiting for all you politicians to decide whether or not—

Min, you’re whining again, she reproved.

I know. I’m tired. I’ve seen some . . . some horrible things, Penny. It’s like I want to scrub my eyeballs and even my memory of them in a washtub.

Well, I did say you could whine to me. Anything else?

Despair, looking into the abyss of extermination while nobles and politicians dither behind me, blood, gore, death, missing my girlfriend, anxiety, and a general uneasiness about the future . . . no, that about covers it, I decided.

Good Get back to work. It will help take your mind off of all of these ‘feelings’ you’ve been having, she ordered, and closed the connection.

“Min?” Taren was calling to me, as I came out of the light trance. “Come here. You should see this.” He had an uneasy tone to his voice that made me nervous. And he was holding up a thin glass rod about nine inches long – a sastivator.

It’s a simple but very useful tool for detecting the degree and concentration of etheric density. Simply put, that’s the measure of how easy it is to do magic in a given spot.

That confuses some people unfamiliar with the Art, but the fact is that some places are just naturally “better” for magic than others. Sometimes the reason why is easy to see, like a local temple or a pretty stream. Other times it just seems to happen, and a spot will be a “thicker” spot than others for no particularly good reason. The converse is also true: there are some spots that are just too “thin” to do even simple spells. And then there are molopars, rips in the fabric of reality, which can do some pretty drastic things in regards to etheric density.

Now, no one really knows why or how this etheric density works, we just know that it does. And the easiest way to detect and measure it is with a sastivator, which is a glass tube enclosing the refined blue sap of a Drassillion tree -- drassillix. Drassillion is important because of all the natavia plant life, it was by far the most sensitive to etheric density. In high density areas it would curdle down at one end of the instrument, and in low density areas it would be spread all across the tube.

The sastivator in Taren’s hand had the tiniest bit of blue drassillix buried in the bottom. I grunted. “Must be thick as hell right here.”

“Yes, only . . . not. Watch this.” He took two steps forward, and the drassillix nearly spurted to the other end of the tube. “If I take two more steps, it contracts again.”

“You mean . . . the etheric densities are bunched up? High and low, one right after the other?”

“It would explain why we can’t scry through that thing. If the etheric density is radically different in a short span, you aren’t going to be able to punch through that kind of regular disturbance.”

“Yeah, that does make sense. Now tell me this . . . how the hell is he doing it? You can’t hold high and low density ether together right next to each other like that! It’s a gradual gradient, not a sudden—

“Only, it’s not,” he repeated. “And they are. I don’t know how yet, but at least we’ve discovered the medium.”

“You won’t be able to cast anything through there, either,” grunted Terleman. “Maybe once you were on the other side, I guess, but from here? Good luck!”

“Makes a damn impressive defense,” Cormaran said, torn between admiration and uneasiness. “Gentlemen, how are we going to construct something comparable?”

“Get a few pounds of irionite, maybe?” Rustallo asked, discouraged. “And a spare molopar no one else is using? And then teach ourselves how to use it without destroying everyone in a Duchy?”

“The young man expresses the problem admirably,” agreed Cormaran. “This is no mere warding, nor an illusion. This is . . . this is unlike anything I’ve even imagined before! The amount of power he must be devoting to the working . . .”

“And that’s not even the disturbing part,” Taren continued, mournfully.

“It’s not?” several of us said at the same time. The tall, lanky mage shook his head.

“No, it’s not. Because that thing – the Umbra – it’s growing.”

I stared at him, my heart sinking. “It’s what?”

“Growing,” he repeated. “I’ve checked the results twice, but they’re both saying the same thing. In the hour since we’ve been here, that thing has spread almost an inch to the east.”

“An inch?” scoffed Rustallo. “That’s not so much! That’s means tomorrow it won’t have moved but half the length of my root!”

“Laugh if you want, but the rate of growth isn’t as concerning as what it implies. He’s growing stronger. At this rate, sure, it won’t grow more than two feet a day. But consider what that means: this time next week, it will be over there,” he said, pointing to the edge of the meadow. “And then next month, it will be down there. By Yule, it will be halfway to that yeoman’s hut we slept in last night. In a year . . .”

“And that’s assuming the rate of growth doesn’t increase,” agreed Reylan, dejected.

“Don’t you think that’s putting a strain on him?” Delman asked. “Perhaps it will be too hard for him to maintain if it gets too big.”

“We can hope,” I sighed. “Anyone want to actually go within?” I waited for a moment, and finally Delman and Rustallo agreed. I gave them a few moments to prepare, and then stood with the others at the edge of the misty divide and watched them quickly recede from our sight.

They were only gone ten minutes, but it felt like ten hours. When we heard their boots on the ground, we grabbed our swords but the two were back unmolested.

“He’s in there,” Delman said, hoarsely. “Ten feet inside, you can feel him. You can point to where he is, at the center of the sphere. It’s like he can just glance up and see you, see you down to your bones.”

“It’s not that much different than the Penumbra, actually,” Rustallo said, a bit dazed. I handed him a water bottle and waited for him to drink. “The grass is browner, the trees are already starting to drop their leaves, and everything is kind of . . . hazy,” he explained. “But you can feel him in there, like he’s standing right over your shoulder.” The young warmage shuddered at the thought.

“That’s enough for one day, I think,” I decided. “Let’s pack it up and head out of here – but not the way we came in. Let’s skirt the frontier of this thing and see how it progresses. We’ll head south. Toward that wizard we heard about.”

I suddenly missed Lady Isily, the Shadowmage. She would be the best suited to prowl into the Umbra without detection. And she looked achingly like Alya, which didn’t hurt. And while she couldn’t sling a sword around like the rest of us – at least, I didn’t believe she could – I had a suspicion that her insights would have proven most helpful.

Oh, well. You can’t have everything.

Chapter Twenty-One:

Bedding The Shadowmage

Wilderhall, Midsummer

I was half in a daze as I walked back to the cobblestoned garden where Rardine and her pretty coven of killers were still amusing themselves with gossip and gods knew what else. I waited respectfully for a break in the conversation before clearing my throat and attracting notice.

“My ladies,” I said, forcing myself into being charming despite the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Her Grace suggested you would be entertained by further demonstrations of the stone’s power.”

“Yes, Mother was kind enough to suggest that,” Rardine said, looking at me with calculating eyes. That’s very disconcerting when they’re attached to girl of sixteen summers. This was a test.

“Mother was very kind,” I said, nodding. Rardine bit her lip for half a second then nodded. My initiation into the Family was complete. “What might I do to entertain you?”

“Master Dunselen always claims magic is too valuable a resource to waste on idle amusement,” Rardine said, expectantly.

“Master Dunselen didn’t have a witchstone,” I replied, withdrawing mine once again. “I delight in idle amusement. And I am still new enough to need the practice. Any requests?”

“Can you cast an enchantment on me to make me perpetually beautiful and desired by every man in the Duchy?” asked Lady Esmara, the statuesque blonde who was pouring tiny cups of wine for everyone now. Watching her bend over to serve was pretty entertaining on its own.

“My lady, such a spell would be redundant. Might I suggest finding something that is lost?”

“Your scarf, Aralai!” one of the ones I didn’t know – a winsome brunette in the prime of womanhood – said, adamantly. “You’ve been looking for it for weeks!”

“That is true,” the maiden said, spreading out the scarf she was so carefully embroidering. “I spent all last winter on it, and now I can’t find it anywhere! I know I had it when we came north . . .”

“Can you describe it?” I asked.

“Describe it? This one is its twin, near-enough. The arms of my house. My father’s house,” she amended. “I will be taking my husband’s arms, whenever I am wed.”

I examined the cloth, and tried to fill in the unfinished areas in my imagination. I asked a few questions about where the cloth from the original came from, which I really didn’t need to know, but which gave me the opportunity to stare down the top of Lady Aralai’s dress for a few pleasant moments. Then I stood, relaxed, closed my eyes, and began the spell.

Finding spells are simple – incredibly simple. That doesn’t always mean that they work, but they’re the bread-and-butter for most village spellmongers. Lost jewelry, coins, keys, documents, heirlooms, and that doesn’t even include lost livestock. Everyone loses something, eventually. Even magi.

I fixed the image of the scarf in my mind and fixed a glyph of recognition around it. Then I built a simple construct which would resonate with the object of my search, based on the potency of my visualization. The result could be gleaned in a number of ways, from revelatory divination to sketches, but for me I’d always been able to actually visualize the specific location.

As a spellmonger it might take me an hour to set up the spell, and another to complete it. Repeat if necessary. With the power of a witchstone at my command, I had the whole thing hung and operational in mere moments.

I allowed my consciousness to follow the flow of the spell, the lines of force that connected the image of the scarf in my mind with the actual scarf. That took a fair amount of subtlety on my part, but like I said, I’m good at this kind of spell. I felt my ‘self’ pulled in the direction of the town, and followed the line. When my consciousness had reached the terminus of the line, it was in a small room upstairs from a prosperous merchant – a weaver. In his daughter’s chamber, under her bed.

I opened my eyes. “Has my lady chanced to visit a weaver of late?” I asked, politely.

Her eyes grew. “Why yes, I . . . I stopped there to pick out thread and cloth for . . . so it’s there?” she asked, in disbelief.

“It is, my lady. Upstairs. It seems to have been put away in his daughter’s room.”

There was a trace of blush in her cheeks as she nodded. “I suppose I shall have to visit to retrieve it, then,” she said, quietly. I didn’t probe further – I wasn’t raised a noble, but I know how to be a gentleman.

“Is there anything else?” I asked, trying to quickly change the subject. “Perhaps something a little more . . . spectacular?”

“Can you do something to cool us off, Master Spellmonger?” asked one buxom lass a few years younger than me, one with brown-gold hair and eyes that looked . . . well, a lot like Alya’s. Which instantly made me homesick for her. And horny.

“Let me think . . .” I said, studying the area, and noticing a small pool at the bottom of the terraces that reflected the image of a thousand yellow eyes back toward us, upside down. I closed my eyes and ‘felt’ around the area.

Elemental magic isn’t hard, really. It’s just hard to gather the power needed to do anything productive with it. I could have just summoned a cooling breeze, but I was shooting for ‘spectacular’. Breezes are rarely spectacular. Earth elementals, however, are.

Once it would have taken me days to prepare a spell of this magnitude. But I tapped into the reservoirs of the witchstone, and it was as simple as breathing. I summoned the energy necessary to begin, and then probed around the hillside upon which the castle was built and, sure enough, I found dozens of likely suspects. I selected a strong one, and then willed it toward the surface, emerging nearby within a flower bed. Of course.

I stirred the glyph in my mind and encouraged the earth spirit to take form, and around me I heard gasps as suddenly the dirt from the flower bed flowed up into the air like water, and settled in a kind of vaguely humanoid shape. It was about seven feet tall, and broad-shouldered, without a distinguishable face. Left to its own devices it would probably have stomped around in a stupor before it got bored and left its temporary body. Earth elementals are strong forces of nature, but they aren’t particularly bright.

Luckily, I was looking to impress the ladies with my magic, not its witty banter. I had the man-shaped mess of dirt and clay and stray roses shuffle down the stairway to the bottom, and plunge it’s ‘arms’ into the water of the pool, instantly turning it muddy.

Oh, but I wasn’t done. While maintaining the elemental spell, I hung another one. Water, this time, with just enough air thrown in. I gave it shape in the water, and in reality the pool seemed to churn and boil. But a few moments later the enthralled earth elemental dutifully stooped and pulled a large disc of pure – well, dirty – ice from the surface of the water.

Making ice is easy and impressive. Take water. Remove heat. You have ice. Without recourse to a mountain top or the depths of winter. Even without irionite, it was an easy spell. There were even Icemavens, people with a gift to do that one thing, like having perfect pitch or a gift for dowsing for water. With a witchstone, however, I could probably go into business doing nothing but making ice for people and retire a wealthy man.

The earthen giant lifted the heavy burden and carried it up the stairs to our level. At my direction, it set the four-foot wide disc on the pavement in the center of the courtyard. In the summer’s heat, you could feel the cold flow off of it in a very pleasant manner. As a finale, I had the elemental give Rardine a deep bow before I made it return to the flower bed, appear to collapse, and rejoin it’s fellows under the castle.

“Good goddess, what was that?” exclaimed Lady Esmara, eyes wide.

“An earth elemental,” the pretty brown-haired girl said, smiling at me. “A really big one, too!”

“Oh, he’s not that big,” I said, nonchalantly. “And all the women I’ve met have told me that size isn’t important, anyway, and I take them at their word. Is that cool enough for you, my lady?” Yes, I was flirting. She looked really, really good and Penny had said it was important that we ensure good relations with these people. So I was just doing my job.

“Oh, quite, Master Spellmonger!” giggled the assassin who could kill a man twenty different ways with poison – the perky harpist and whose name I couldn’t remember. “Now can you enchant me a bauble that will let me tell when a man is being less than truthful to me?”

“I would not be the one to unleash such powerful spells on the world, my lady,” I said, smoothly. “For how would we men lure you into our clutches if we cannot lie to you?”

“Is that so offensive to the gods?” asked a raven-haired beauty, “a man who cannot lie?”

I was pretty confident the male gods probably would back me on this. “No more offensive than a woman who cannot conceal her imperfections. What women do with blush and rouge, men must do with words and . . . imagination.”

“Most of you need more practice, then,” said one maiden, sourly. “I don’t care how many times you men tell me six inches is ten, I will still not believe it. If all men were carpenters, then all houses would be but four feet tall.” That provoked a chorus of titters, in which I joined. I’ve never exaggerated about such things, but luckily I had no need to.

“If there is nothing else, my ladies, let me then go prepare for the evening,” I said, bowing to them all. A few wanted private words with me, either to welcome me to the ‘Family’ or to ask me specific questions. Countess Rardine was one of the last. She clasped my hand in hers and leaned in to whisper in my ear:

“Instruct your servant to order a whore to arrive at the second hour after midnight,” she murmured. “And ensure that you are not disturbed.”

“May I ask why, my lady?” I whispered back, intrigued. I mean, it was the first time a beautiful woman has ever instructed me to order a whore. You take notice of things like that.

“Do as I bid, and it will ensure your safety against the Censor General,” she said. “And it may not be unpleasant in other ways.”

“As you command,” I nodded. I hope I looked cool and collected. Because I’d just invited an assassin to my room, and I was terrified and trying desperately not to show it. It’s just not a wise idea to piss off a woman who knows her way around exotic toxins and thinks nothing of sending men to their deaths.

* * *

“How did your interview go with Her Grace, Master?” Hamlan asked, innocently enough when I finally returned to my quarters that afternoon.

As pleasant as an afternoon in a dragon’s den,” I muttered. “So, you were sent to spy on me,” I said, a note of accusation in my accusation.

“Oh, yes, Master,” he agreed readily. “That was explicitly stated.”

“And it doesn’t bother you,” I added.

“Begging my Master’s pardon, but I am greatly relieved now that I do not have to hide the matter from you.”

I gave him a long, searching look. “And if your Mother required you to stick a knife in my ribs?”

“It would be one of the saddest days of my life to leave the service of such a benevolent master,” he assured me, without revealing what he would do about it.

I continued to study him, until I finally sighed. “All right, as long as we know our roles, I don’t think there’s any reason to concern ourselves further with it. By the way, I’ve been made one of Mother’s Sons.”

“I was so informed, Master,” he nodded. I didn’t ask how – Mother apparently had her ways.

“I will retire for a while, I think, and then—”

“Begging your pardon, Master Minalan, but I don’t think you have time,” he said, reasonably but with a trace of urgency in his voice. “A message arrived while you were meeting Her Grace. A few, in fact. Firstly, you are invited to attend a small affair this evening hosted by Lord Maron, Counselor of the West, at the Hall of Trophies in the Tower of Steel.”

“Crap,” I sighed – my interview with the Duchess had exhausted me. “All right, I hope he’s not expecting too much from me. What is the occasion?”

“Officially? It’s a weekly meeting of distinguished gentlemen of the realm. Unofficially, my sources say Lord Maron, Count Moray, and Viscount Poramar will be the highest ranking gentlemen attending, but that there will be several lesser nobles of some standing – important advisors or ministers or wardens of this or that.”

“How important?”

My manservant looked thoughtful. “The Duke would not make a decision based on their opinions alone, but he would think carefully before making one that would arouse their ire.”

“And the other three advisors?”

“Far more powerful. Lord Maron is Warden of the West, which means he is in command of the frontier garrisons, which means he has a say in Alshari-Castali affairs. It is widely known that he aspires to the Prime Minister’s seat, when next it is vacant. Count Moray is Ducal Advisor on the Treasury, which means that he arranges for the financing His Grace requires to run the Duchy. And Viscount Poramar is one of the leading nobles among the Riverlands Baronies. Not the most powerful, but perhaps one of the most influential. He is considered their representative at court.”

“Any chance they’re well-disposed toward my proposal?” I asked, hopefully, while I began changing into my other set of clothes.

“Ambivalent, at best, Master,” Ham said. “They are a conservative bunch, and missing from their midst is Count Chorlan of Tristany. He represents the wealthy port cities and mercantile interests, particularly the wine trade. His Excellency is currently in Farise, looking after the Duke’s affairs there.”

“I seem to be in a charming mood today,” I said, glumly. “Hopefully that will be sufficient to win them over. Any more good news?” I asked, sarcastically.

“May the gods be kind, Master,” he said, unhelpfully. “There was another invitation. From His Grace. Bearing his Ducal seal. You are summoned to Court before Their Graces to answer charges from the Censor General tomorrow, at the third hour after noon in the Great Hall of the Duke’s Tower.”

“I was expecting that,” I sighed, and then realized that the news had dropped the pit of my stomach through the floor. We’re taught to fear the Censorate. “I’m surprised it’s taken this long. That doesn’t leave me a lot of time,” I admitted. “But I still need to accomplish a few things. Give me a little peace to make some arrangements, and I’ll proceed to the Tower of Steel. Oh, and . . . do what ever it is you do to arrange for a whore for the evening. Second hour after midnight. I expect that I’ll want one, after dealing with nobility all evening. Make certain she’s admitted, and make yourself scarce while she’s here.”

He nodded sagely before excusing himself, as if such a request was common for someone’s manservant to arrange. Perhaps it was, at Wilderhall. I don’t know. He was my first manservant.

But I needed the counsel of another kind of tart at the moment. I tried to compose myself, withdrawing my stone and beginning the ritual to make contact with Penny. It took slightly longer this time. I guess I was tired, or she was busy. But eventually I “heard” her voice.

Min? she called faintly to me. What is it?

I’ve just finished my interview with the Duchess. She will support me. For a price.

What price? she asked, her voice a lot firmer. And why should her support be worth anything? All she does is screw the Duke and make babies. Oh! Don’t tell me she has an eye for—

No, that I could almost contend with. I can hold my own with an older woman. But as to the importance of her support, well . . . I’ve been recruited into her spy network.

Oh! Min! Duchess Grendine? Her? The Ducal Master of Secrets? Really?

She runs Castal’s whole intelligence network, apparently, I explained. She’s got an agent in every important barony and city of more than a thousand people, here, in Alshar, in Remere, hell, probably in Vore and Merwin, too. And assassins. So while the offer was extended courteously enough, there was a compulsory aspect of it that disturbed me.

I can see how it would, she replied, philosophically. Well, I did warn you.

And if my day wasn’t complete at that, I have to go to another meeting of nobles tonight. And tomorrow . . . well, I’ve just been informed that I’m to defend myself before General Hartarian. And I’d hate to do it alone. Any chance that a couple of fellows from the Order could find their way here? I might need a timely rescue.

I just heard from Taren and Rustallo a few hours ago. They’re within forty miles of Wilderhall, now. They should arrive before morning.

Good. My meeting – actually, more like a trial – before the Censor General is set for the third hour after noon, tomorrow. Having them around would make me feel a little more secure about the outcome.

Aw, Min! she thought, mockingly, are you scared of a little supreme magical authority?

It can be a little intimidating, I admitted. You know the Censorate’s reputation. I just had a Duchess threaten my life and the lives of my family for the sake of political expediency. Yesterday I got walloped by the Lord Marshal on the practice field and grilled by the envoy from Alshar. At this point, I’m actually looking forward to a hopeless battle.

I’ll remind you that you said that, she promised with a mental giggle. Just relax. There’s nothing that they can do to you, really. If they were to put you to death, the whole Order would rise up and destroy them. You would be avenged.

That’s not very comforting.

It is to me. I would be most vexed. Oh, and I finally established a telepathic link with Tyndal. I had a hard time, since he didn’t have the background in Imperial magic—

Hey! He’s only been an apprentice for eight months! Under the circumstances—

Yes, yes, I know, he’s a bright kid. Lots of Talent, for a barbarian peasant, and very smart, apart from his hopeless devotion to you. But he would benefit from a classical education. Anyway, I talked him through the spell, and now he’s in our spy network. He’s with your . . . with Alya at your parent’s house. He reports that things are fine, Alya and the baby seem in good health, except that one of your nieces has a crush on him which makes him uncomfortable and Alya and your mother have . . . had words a few times.

I had to chuckle about that. No one is more hopelessly devoted to me than Mama. I knew she’d give Alya a hard time, at first – she was merciless with my brothers-in-law when they were courting, and she wasn’t about to relax about the woman betrothed to her only son and pregnant with his child.

Alya can handle herself, I replied, my heart warming with just the thought of her. I’m just glad that they are safe. I felt a whole tension I didn’t know I was carrying leave me, and suddenly facing the Censor General tomorrow, or a pack of scheming nobles tonight, didn’t seem so bad. How are things going on your end?

Daddy is attuned to the stone, now, or at least enough so that I don’t have to baby-sit him anymore. He’s out in the garden, now, making trees grow at an accelerated rate. Last night he just sat on the roof and tried to see how big a farulian vortex he could conjure. He’s like a kid in a toy shop, she said, sourly. I’m hoping the novelty will wear off soon enough so that we can convene the meeting of the Order and go visit the Duke.

The meeting has been set?

For three days hence, at my cousin’s estate, she assured me. More than half of the senior initiates. I’ll be invited to speak as a special guest. That should be fun.

We exchanged some more catty comments and then said our good-byes. I wasn’t quite done with psychic communication, however. I fixed the sigil that Penny had assigned to Tyndal in my mind, and returned to the spell to contact him.

Master? His mental voice whispered. Is that you?

Yes, Tyndal, I’m using the link that Lady Pentandra created. I don’t have long, but I wanted to check in. How are you doing?

Well enough, Master, he admitted. Your family has been most kind to us. It’s nice. But your mother and Alya—

I know, Penny told me. Just stay out of it, all right? They’re going to have to settle their own issues. Don’t worry, they will. Mama went through the same thing every time my sisters got married. How is my bride-to-be?

She’s . . . she’s eating, Master. A lot. There was a certain awe in his voice. She ate four berry pies this morning. Your father seems to be proud of that, for some reason.

He would be. That’s one of his favorite recipes. How is he getting along with Alya?

Oh, they’re fast friends, he assured me. He’s even let her into his shed the other day. And she and your sisters seem to be getting along well. She seems to be doing well, although she pines for the valley and misses you terribly. I could tell by the tone in his ‘voice’ that Alya wasn’t the only one missing Boval Vale.

How about you, boy? Impressing the local girls?

Master! he thought, scandalized. I’ve barely been into the village. Your father has me using my stone for all sorts of things, from heating the ovens to enchanting the storehouse against pests. He sounded a little disgusted at such mundane spells. He had been as much warmage as spellmonger during his short tenure as my apprentice, and after using magic to deal death to your mortal enemy, keeping rats out of the barn didn’t seem too glamorous.

Its good practice, I assured him. You need to work on your control, anyway. Perhaps you can present yourself to Master Milo, at the Baron’s castle, and give him my regards. He would be quite interested in seeing irionite in person.

I’ll do that, Master, he agreed. If you think I’m ready for that sort of thing . . . There was no mistaking the doubt in his ‘voice’. While I could relate – especially after my meeting with the Duchess – I had a duty to give him some moral support, like Penny had provided for me.

Then another thought occurred. The Censorate.

On second thought, avoid master Milo. Keep practicing on your own, but try not to attract too much attention. The Censorate might notice, and that would be awkward right now.

The Censorate? Master, those are the ones you said—

Yes, and I meant it. That’s why I want you to keep a low profile. Just remember that you’ve already accomplished more in six months than many court magi do their entire lives, I soothed. You faced down an army of goblins and lived to tell the tale. There shouldn’t be a force on Callidore you fear . . . except me and the gods.

I’ll keep that in mind, Master. How are you doing? How goes . . . the war?

I am busy, but well, I admitted. The war . . . not as well. The gurvani have entered Alshar in force, and menace as far east as Tudry. I’m trying to convince the Duke of Castal to let me take the fight to them, but there are . . . it’s complicated, I finally said, after struggling for an easy way to explain power politics to a fourteen-year-old former stableboy from the most rustic fief in the most rural Duchy.

You’ve met the Duke? He asked, in awed ‘tones’.

And the Duchess, I agreed. And the Lord Marshal, and the Ducal Court Mage. And tomorrow I meet with the Censor General. Believe me, I’d rather be where you are. It’s not nearly as glamorous as you might think. Have you heard word from the rest of your people? I asked to change the subject.

Aye, Master. When Lady Pentandra taught me the thinking spell, I got in contact with Master Rolof. He’s staying with the Bovali, since they are being quartered at his uncle’s estate. They are mostly well, though some are confused and distraught. They don’t like the lowlands, they want to go home, and they want to fight goblins. But they are mostly well, he repeated.

Good. I am working on finding them a permanent home. For now, I charge you to keep up with your studies, keep watch over my property, and guard Alya and my child. Apart from that, have fun – because when I’m done here, I think you’re going to be sent to the Inarion Academy.

Master?! he sounded distraught.

It’s not a punishment, I soothed. I was speaking with Lady Pentandra, and she agrees that your Talent is exceptional enough to merit a more thorough approach to your training. If all goes well, I may have the influence to secure your place there. And if all went poorly, he’d be a barely-trained mage with a witchstone, running for his life. No need to mention that.

If you think that’s best, Master.

Tyndal, we’re going to need all the well-trained magi we can find – particularly those who can handle a witchstone. You’ve proven yourself with that, already. I just want to make sure you have as much preparation as possible for what is coming. And you deserve that kind of opportunity, after what you’ve been through.

I don’t think I made him feel better, but I asked him to send my love to Alya and my family and closed the connection. I had one more quick message to deliver before I could focus on the evening ahead. I grounded the residual power I had and began the ritual a third time, this time trying to reach Taren. It took even longer, since I was not nearly as familiar with the mage as I was Penny or Tyndal. But after some grasping and flailing around, I finally felt his consciousness rub up against my own.

Captain Minalan! he thought at me. Is there a problem?

Not yet. My trial before the Censor General is tomorrow, the third hour after noon. Pentandra says that you’ll be here before then?

We should be there before nightfall, he agreed.

When you arrive, take rooms at an inn in town called The Grateful Hind, and I’ll contact you in the morning. Tell no one of your connection with me, and try not to be obvious about being warmagi. Can you manage that?

We should be able to. When we stop, we pretend we’re traveling salt merchants. Why the subterfuge?

Because Wilderhall is not as safe as one might think. I’m making some progress, but until the Censorate is dealt with, I’d rather keep two powerful warmagi as a secret advantage. Not even my servant knows you are coming.

Servant?

His name is Hamlan, and he’s tending to me. But I don’t trust him, not with the secrets of our order. And our facility for telepathic communication is to remain a secret, is that understood?

Yes, Captain! he agreed, resolutely. That only makes sense. Penny said you were founding an order. I take it we’re all members?

I thought it was our best course of action. If you all are all still willing to follow me, that is.

Oh, of course, he agreed, as if it was beyond question. In fact, we’d better be watching out for each other, and not just from the gurvani. Did you hear about Azar’s difficulties?

No! What happened?

He was in a town in central Alshar, showing off his witchstone, when one of the Ducal Censors showed up and demanded he surrender it.

My heart sank. Of all people, headstrong Azar was the last warmagi the Censorate should mess with. Even Horka is more reasonable and less prone to sudden fits of anger. Most of us are pretty level-headed and matter-of-fact about our profession, but Azar is as much a warrior hungry for glory on the battlefield as he was a proficient warmage. He had been a brutal fighter at Boval, slaying hundreds of goblins throughout the weeks of the siege. And he loved the magnified power the irionite now gave him. I was the only one he’d ever willingly surrender his witchstone to, and I wasn’t even positive about that.

So how did that go?

The Censor yet lives, because Azar graciously spared his life. Four of his men – non-warmagi, hired swords of the Censorate – were not so fortunate.

And Azar?

Untouched. And furious with the Censorate.

Where is he now?

Scouting the edges of the gurvani advance. Last time I had word, he was twenty miles from Galvany. That was in the south-west portion of Alshar, I remembered.

Very well. The conflict with the Censorate was inevitable and unavoidable. I’m just sorry that the idiot Censor picked Azar to fight with. Anyone else

He isn’t a particularly gracious winner, Taren agreed. But Captain, I have some other news: Wenek, Horka, and Delman were in County Locare, and where they took command of some mercenaries who were wandering around, and they attacked a band of close to a thousand. They took two new witchstones. They have them secured, untouched, awaiting your orders.

That’s good news, I decided. Any word from Terleman?

He’s holed up at an inn near Kastonar, coordinating the efforts of our . . . Order? Unit? Brigade?

Order, I told him. Yeah, we really need to think of a nifty name for us, shouldn’t we?

How about the Order Of Renegade Warmagi?

I was thinking about something a little less incriminating. Like the Order of . . . Human Defiance?

That’s not . . . let’s keep thinking about it, all right? Taren thought, doubtfully. Rustallo says we should call it the Order of Magical Valor.

Keep working on it, I commanded. Ask the others, too. I’m new at this whole founding-an-order thing, and I’ve only got the vaguest of ideas how to proceed, so suggestions are welcome. But I get to wear a funny hat. That was the deal.

As you wish, Captain. We’ll see you in the morning.

When I broke the connection, I realized I was starving. Throwing power around like I’d been doing all afternoon takes a lot out of you, and my body was feeling it. I called for Hamlan, and had him raid the kitchen for me. He returned a few minutes later with a thick bowl of mutton stew, a small wheel of white cheese, and a loaf of bread that was passable, at best. He’d also found an earthenware jug of good, strong dark beer in to wash it down, and I was ecstatic. I devoured the whole thing, and then begged him to leave me to nap until it was time to go meet the Distinguished Gentlemen of the Duchy.

Chapter Twenty-Two:

The Soulless Of Terrihall And Their Master

Terrihall, Late Summer

The fief of Terrihall, legend has it, was gifted to Territh the Truthsayer about a hundred years ago, in the wake of the last goblin wars when there were more cows than people in northern Alshar by a margin of five to one. Or so it is said.

The story goes that Territh, a local knight (which back then meant he owned either a sword or a horse or both) was escorting a group of pilgrims from the north down to the great temple of Breega at Borgonal, when they were beset by bandits on the road.

Territh drew his sword and demanded single combat with them, and shamed them so eloquently in front of the ladies he was protecting that they agreed. Then he bested them, each one with their favorite weapon. Of course, one of the pilgrims turned out to be the Duke’s youngest daughter traveling incognito. For his bravery and his daring, she arranged for him to become a Ducal vassal with the gift of the Terrihall.

It’s all bullshit folklore, of course. The truth is far more interesting.

I later found out that Territh was himself a bandit, and that his intervention with the others wasn’t out of chivalrous grace but because he’d spotted the coach first and contested it with three competitors, fueled by a desire to get up the skirts of the ladies in question more than steal their valuables. There were a few duels of the common eye-gouging sort, and Territh allegedly stabbed one man in the back, but in the end he killed or scared off his competition.

After a brief but satisfying ravishment of the prettiest maid on the spot, he was relaxing in the shade, his sword on his knees, disrobing the second-prettiest maid when the third-prettiest maid insisted that she could pay a healthy ransom if he would but escort them to the next castle. Territh did, but only after he was also granted the prettiest maid (who was the Duke’s daughter’s handmaiden) to do with as he pleased, and the Duke’s daughter cheerfully consented. Terrihall was the price of her ransom, and the Duke chose to take the man’s pledge directly because he didn’t trust him to work under a lessor lord without conspiring against him.

Which just goes to show you: lechery and greed get rewarded nearly as well as chivalry and ethics – but not nearly as often or as publically.

I bring this up because when we rode to the frontiers of the Territhine lands, the harsh-looking red banner bearing the black skull reminded me that once again lechery and greed had taken this land from those who would defended it with chivalry and ethics.

“What the hell is that?” Rustallo asked, pointing curiously to the flag. “I didn’t realize the goblins used heraldry.”

“They do, after a fashion,” I agreed. “But not like this. This was man-made. Goblins don’t weave.”

We were spared from further conjecture when, quite unexpectedly, a peasant bearing a hoe stumbled out of the woods near the road.

Now, we’d seen plenty of peasants in the last few weeks, but damn few of them were actually harvesting crops or tending fields, like they were supposed to. They were fleeing for their lives instead. But this hulking brute had a thick bale of freshly-cut wheat straw bundled on his back, and he looked at us like he saw seven warmagi ride past him every day.

“Someone is harvesting crops?” Reylan asked, confused, as we rode by and he went busily on his way. “Why?”

“Because they’s ah ready to reap,” came a thick Alshari drawl. Our hands went to our sword hilts, but no attack came. The man who spoke was another peasant, and he, too, bore a bale as he climbed the steps up from the field. “Got to put up the hay. Winter, she’s right around the corner, she is.”

“Good man, who is lord here?” demanded Rustallo.

“Well,” the second peasant said, slower than honey at Yule, “it used to be Lord Hanulin, but that was afore . . . that wizard fella came.”

“The wizard,” I repeated. “And where might I find this wizard?”

“Up t’road,” he grunted, gesturing with his entire massive shaggy head. And then continued on his way.

“Goodman!” I called after him, “do you not fear the goblins?”

He looked back at me, scornfully. “T’flag keeps’m away,” he said, glancing at the red banner. “An’ this,” he added, baring a forearm. A fresh burn was healing poorly, black and cracked at the edges, a three-inch brand in the crude shape of a skull. He looked at me like I was stupid, hefted his bale, and was once again on his way.

“That was . . . odd,” Rustallo finally managed.

“It doesn’t look good,” Reylan agreed, examining the banner. “It’s not a magical talisman. I don’t see any sentries. Whoever this ‘wizard’ is, he isn’t keeping them at bay with magic or swords. What does that tell us?”

“Collaborators,” Cormaran said, darkly. No one else said anything, as we continued down the path that grew into a track a few hundred yards past the banner. We saw more peasants, more or less going about there business as if there wasn’t a war going on around them.

The implications were disturbing. It was one thing when the Dead God was out to kill every human being on Callidore, preferably upon an altar in his name. We could fight that. We might not win, but we could fight that.

But if the Dead God was taking slaves, if he offered the least respite against total destruction, that complicated our strategies considerably. I tried not to imagine the worst as we rode around a small hill at the edge of a village, and into a scene as bad as Kitsal, in its way.

There were people here – human people – hurrying about their business just like peasants and artisans did every day in villages across the Five Duchies. Only there were no smiles, no grins, no looking up much at all. Everyone stared listlessly down, and away from the looming Umbra shadow whenever possible. There were only one or two burned-out cottages here, amongst a town of six hundred. Indeed, the harvest being brought in on wains or an shoulders for threshing looked bountiful. It almost looked as if the entire village and fief of Terrihall had come through the invasion unscathed.

Almost.

The red and black banner was hung throughout the village, in front of most of the houses and from shops and hanging across the stout stone meeting hall like bunting. Everyone that I saw, sported that horrid brand on their forearm, although some had gotten it on their forehead or on their breast. The faces on the people had a haunted look, part hopelessness and part desperation. They looked at us curiously, for just a few moments, before they hurried off on their errands. Harvest time. There was a lot to do.

But there were no guards. None. Not human, not gurvani. And no one looked as if they wanted to run. I found that disturbing as well.

“That way lies the castle,” Cormaran said, pointing at the structure. “I’ve been a guest, before. Previous management,” he added. We didn’t laugh.

“Castle” was being generous – it was better than Grimly Hall, but not by much. A single stone donjon six stories tall on a prominent hill, and a crenelated stone wall behind a ditch, with a stout wooden gatehouse. A watch tower appended to the side of the donjon. A single wooden tower on wall. The red banner was flying from the rampart.

“Let’s pay a visit to the master of Terrihall, then,” Terleman said, with determination. “I want to comment on his taste in decorations.”

“I expect it’s a shaman,” warned Taren. “One of the greater ones. The urgulnosti.”

“Do you feel one?” asked Rustallo, nervously fingering a wand.

“No,” Taren said. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Be on your guard.”

“Not really the kind of place I’d relax for a nap,” muttered the young warmage under his breath.

We rode up to the gatehouse, where dazed-looking armored guards leaning on spears waved us through. Whoever ruled here was pretty lax on security. We stopped the horses just inside the palisade, and handed them over to a frightened-looking boy, a fresh brand on his arm covered with a dirty rag.

“You, boy, who rules here?” asked Terleman, commandingly.

“The Master does,” he said, cowering, his voice barely a squeak.

“What is your master’s name?” the warmage demanded.

“He hasn’t seen fit to give me one, m’lord!” he said, alarmed. “We all just calls him Master and he likes that.”

“Who do you report to?”

Before the boy could answer, a short, bowlegged man wearing a stained brown tunic waddled out of one of the outbuildings along the wall, saw us, and approached hurriedly.

“My lords? I am Vopei, the Master’s castellan. May I ask your business?”

“We seek to speak with your ‘master’, churl,” Terleman barked. He had a great barking voice. But instead of being intimidated, Vopei sniffed and re-appraised us.

“Very well. I shall tell him he has visitors. Whom might I announce is here?”

“The Order of . . . Eternal Vigilance,” Terleman said, with only a moment of hesitation. The lackey took the name at face value, gave a curt bow and scampered off.

“The Order of Eternal Vigilance?” I asked. I’m sure my eyebrows were raised.

“It’s not set in stone,” he shrugged. “But this is getting to be a problem. What are we calling ourselves?”

“Pentandra is calling anyone with a witchstone a ‘High Mage’,” I offered. “So we’re High Magi. The Eternally Vigilant Order of High Magi?” I suggested.

They all looked at me thoughtfully.

“No,” Terleman said, shaking his head.

“It doesn’t work,” decided Taren. “I mean, it’s technically accurate, but . . . it just doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

“We can keep working on it,” I agreed, a little defensively.

“Who is this . . . this Order come to disturb my meditations?” came a high, scratchy-sounding voice, dripping with irritation, from inside the donjon. My spine stiffened, and I saw a couple of my comrades jerk their heads around with recognition. That voice was permanently etched into my mind, and probably would be for all eternity.

“Garkesku,” I said, my eyes narrowing.

“Minalan,” the irritating little rival spellmonger said, earnestly surprised. “And friends. Some of you I recognize . . .”

“What by Ishi’s dewy slit are you doing . . . alive?” Terleman burst out, his nostrils flaring sharply enough to cause a breeze. “The last time I saw your sorry carcass you were skulking away from safety at Boval Castle!”

“I managed to survive the attack,” Garkesku said, striding forward into the sunlight so that we could see him. If he was intimidated, he didn’t show it. At all. “I hid, of course, though it did me no good. The Great Master found me, me and a few others . . .”

“The ‘Great Master?’” scoffed Taren. “You mean the abomination known as the Dead God?”

“A poorly chosen name,” Garkesku said with a sigh. “Fraught with ill-omen and fear, far removed from the actuality. The Old God, if you must, or even Shereul. The Great Master does not stand on protocol.”

“He doesn’t bloody stand at all,” muttered Rustallo.

I just stared at the twisted mage. He looked well-fed – better than he was at Boval – dressed in a long scarlet robe too large and far too rich for him. The extra length was bound up over a wide leather belt. He was even wearing his hat-of-office, a battered brown four-peaked cap. Around his neck he wore a heavy chain of gold, and suspended from a link on his breast was the unmistakable green of irionite – a torus-shaped piece, like the urgulnosti priests of the Dead God used.

But those eyes . . . those eyes weren’t quite human, anymore. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I finally managed.

He shrugged – the old bastard shrugged. Master Cormaran was at my shoulder, his hand on his blade.

“Who is this man?” he asked suspiciously.

“His name is Garkesku,” I supplied.

“Garkesku the Great,” he corrected me, his hands defiantly on his hips.

“He was a . . . professional rival, back in Boval Vale. He was the other spellmonger in the valley.”

“Go on, tell him the rest,” chided the nasty little man. “About how you forced me to aid you in the siege by thrusting witchstones on me and my poor apprentices. About how the youngest of them went mad and slew the oldest, and how he had to be destroyed because of your incompetence. About how you conspired to overthrow the rightful lord of the Vale and set up yourself in his place. And how when I, humble Garkesku, tried to intervene between you and Sire Koucey for the good of all, you tore my stone from me and cast me out, to be left at the mercy of the gob—the gurvani,” he corrected, self-consciously.

“You seem to have fared well enough,” observed Taren wryly.

“Yes, I have, no thanks to you,” sniffed Garkesku. “Indeed, much raised in my station am I, in but a few short months.”

“Who isn’t? So how did you escape the terror of the Dead God and wind up . . . here?” I asked.

He gave me a shrewd searching look. I could tell he was torn between eagerness to turn us over to his “Great Master” and his desire to gloat over me. The latter won out, unsurprisingly. “If you swear an oath of hospitality, promising to shed no blood under my roof, I will be happy to tell you. And over a meal, as well.”

I looked at my comrades, who were all looking back at me with various mixtures of curiosity and wariness on their faces. “You do realize that we’ll tear this sorry pile apart, stone by stone, if you go back on your word?”

He looked offended. “There’s no need for that kind of talk, Master Minalan. I am many things – many more things than you imagine now – but a liar is not one of them.”

“Fine,” I said, finally. “We accept. A truce: no harm shall we do, and no harm shall befall us. By the names of all the gods in heaven.”

Captain, do you think we can trust him? asked Rustallo through the telepathic link as we were led within to the great hall.

Of course not, I agreed. Keep your sword loose and your wand at the ready. He gave me a terse, silent nod in reply.

The interior of the keep was as dark as all such fortresses are, and even in the daylight little filtered through the narrow arrow slits in the walls or the smoke hole in the roof to light the interior. A few torches and a candelabra around the great wooden table in front of the fireplace provided a little more illumination, but nearly as much smoke as light. Garkesku waved in the direction of the candles with a flamboyant flourish, and suddenly they were thrice as bright.

I wasn’t impressed. I had a witchstone, too.

We settled ourselves uneasily around the table, all of us keeping an eye on our ‘host’, who seemed completely at ease. He took the lord’s seat at the head of the table, and looked like he was accustomed to it. I wanted to slap that bemused expression off his face, but I controlled myself.

“Bring our guests refreshment,” he ordered his lackey, that servant Vopei. The fat man nodded obsequiously and disappeared. A moment later, three scrawny-looking serving girls, their faces dirty and frightened, but resigned, brought out trays of sausage, cheese, and bread, as well as two jugs of tolerably decent local wine.

“Pardon the quality of the fare,” he said, as the servants set down the food. “Deliveries have been a little infrequent, of late.”

“It’s fine,” I dismissed. “So tell us how you survived the Dead God?”

“Because he let me,” the wily spellmonger said, simply. “I was hiding, as I said, but I could not hide from Him. Not when Koucey was also under his thrall. It took a few days, but soon enough his soldiers hauled me out of my lair and brought me before him.

“And he interrogated me – gently, at first, as if he were afraid of hurting me. But insistently. I could not resist his compulsions, and I feel no shame in admitting it. I told him . . . everything. I told him all of the ugly things you said about him, you and those nasty Tree Folk. That saddened him. He is merely pursuing his rightful vengeance, the same as any lord in the Duchies would, had he been served so poorly.”

“Genocide is not vengeance,” I insisted.

“Survival is not genocide,” the little mage shot back. “The Great Master merely wishes to re-establish the ancient kingdom of the gurvani, those lands taken by force and guile from House Brandmount and the like. Lands like these.”

“So he questioned you,” I continued, evenly. “And then you offered to swear fealty? Was that before or after you offered to kiss his non-existent ass?”

“Manners, Minalan!” he chuckled. “I did plead for my life – you would have too. You will, someday, I foresee. But the Great Master is gracious. He recognized a sincere plea when he heard it, and after he . . . he . . . after he rooted through my mind, we came to . . . to an agreement,” he said, clearly disturbed by the memory. “There is much he doesn’t know about Imperial magic, for instance, and plenty we don’t know about gurvani spells. I proposed a simple exchange of technical information. And pledged him my loyalty, of course.”

“He lost in that bargain,” snorted Taren. He’d never liked Garkesku. That said a lot – Taren likes everyone.

“In return he bid me take this fief as his vassal – I am the first magelord in three centuries!” he cackled, gleefully. “And this flies in the face of the lie you tell everyone, the lie that He wishes all humans dead.”

“You could have fooled me,” Rustallo grumbled. “All those bodies we passed on the way here?”

“He does not wish all of us ill,” Garkesku insisted. “Not at all! He merely wishes to be acknowledged in his proper place. Like any Duke, he has need for vassals.”

“Why would a disembodied artifact need vassals?” cackled Master Cormaran. “Is he planning on raising taxes?”

“His armies need grain and meat. All those who were spared his more intense examinations were given the chance bear his mark and serve Him here, or at other places like Terrihall.”

“Other places?” asked Reylan, sharply. “You mean there are other places like this?”

“Not everyone shares your unreasonable bias against the gurvani,” he said, as if someone had just farted. “There are plenty who see the advantages of service to a wise, gracious and benevolent master, under the circumstances.”

“I see that includes a witchstone of your very own,” I said, gesturing to where the green amber glowed on its chain.

“Honestly gained,” he said, clutching at it defensively. “The Great Master was livid with one of his servants – he doesn’t tolerate failure lightly, not from gurvani. After he executed the failure, he gifted me with his stone. That was before he placed me here, to lead these poor souls in their service.”

“I don’t see any sign of souls,” Terleman said, his eyes narrowed. “Were they tortured?”

“About their service,” Delman asked, more loudly and pointedly, “they seem even more resigned to it than the average peasant.”

“They are all volunteers,” explained Garkesku, pouring a goblet of wine with obvious relish. “They all came face to face with the Great Master, and were judged. Those who were judged worthy were given the opportunity to bear his mark and serve him and his cause – an honorable role.”

“And what do you get?” asked Cormaran. I could tell he didn’t like Garkesku already. “Besides your life?”

“Me? Why, I get my own witchstone! I get power, I get my own fief, get to be my own master. And what do I lose in return? I served another master ere this one; service is service, to gurvani or humani. Before the Great Master came, I was merely a step above the shit-stained peasantry. Koucey barely noticed me, and you . . . you made my life very difficult, Minalan,” he accused. “But the Great Master is gracious, and rewards his servants. He recognized my true worth,” he said, indignantly.

“He used you like a dockside butt boy!” sneered Rustallo.

“He elevated me to my proper position,” corrected Garkesku, annoyed. “He recognized my natural Talents!”

“So he just naturally recognized that you had it within your soul to sell out the human race, and all he had to do was give you a piece of glass?” Delman said, shaking his head. “That’s completely pathetic!”

“You don’t know!” Garkesku said, shrilly, “you don’t know! You’ve never stared into that . . . that . . . that glorious sphere, and you—”

“The hell I haven’t!” Delman said, rising automatically, his hands spread. “I was there at Boval, I did look into that cursed globe, and I had that abomination assault my mind! I stood to arms in his face, ready to die, if necessary! I can see you now, on your knees, begging for your pitiful life—”

“I did not beg!” Garkesku cried, unconvincingly. “And I had to prove my worth! I might be alive because of the grace of the Great Master, but I have irionite because I earned it! The Great Master was irritated with one of his shamans, and to test us both he made us fight – to the death! I am no warrior, but I bested him, and I took his stone!” he said, triumphantly, gesturing to the verdant bauble on his chest.

“You killed a goblin,” Rustallo said, sarcastically. “Congratulations, Garky, I shall have your petition for knighthood sent off at once!”

“You . . . you all hated me,” he said, his eyes flashing crazily from one of us to the other. “You were all jealous of me, of my intellect, of my power . . . and you conspired to strip it all away from me: my business, my status, my apprentices, even my witchstone! You abandoned me at Boval Castle, leaving me to die, thinking me dead and gone, even . . . yet here I am. Restored. Raised. And you can’t stand it, can you?

“Now you’re jealous of my position, too! You see me elevated above you and you seethe with envy! And why shouldn’t you?” he asked, his demeanor changing from angry to suspicious. “Your pitiful bits of glass, making you feel like little archmagi, and you haven’t had but a taste of the potential power. You think yourselves mighty?” he scoffed, standing himself. I tensed.

“The Great Master’s power so eclipses yours, you might as well be hedgewizards trading cantrips to children for pennies. Even He didn’t understand the potential, at first . . . but after I won my trial and took my stone and became attuned, He was within me and I saw . . . I saw the breathtaking potential!“ Now he wandered off into his own inflated memory, his audience all but forgotten. “His power is great, yes, but it is raw and unsophisticated. Even the spells He knew as a shaman, their power is magnified. But it could be so much more! Will be so much more!” he said, his eyes glazed.

“He’s mad,” whispered Reylan, uneasily.

“Of course he’s mad!” Delman whispered back. “He’s had the bloody Dead God rooting around in his soul!”

I was less concerned about the state of Garkesku’s soul than I was what he’d told the undead horror. “Garkesku,” I asked, carefully, “how will it be more? Surely there was nothing a simple spellmonger like yourself could possibly teach to . . . Him.”

“Ah, but you’re wrong!” he declared, his eyes flashing. “As usual, Master Minalan, your arrogance blinds you! The Great Master is powerful, but he is . . . unorganized. I am teaching him the rudiments of Imperial magic, and he shares with me the spells of the great gurvani shamans. And in that process, I am refining the way he and his servants communicate. There are all sorts of advantages that he could be taking that I have been able to point out, using the Imperial system. Soon, he’ll be as great an adept as any magi in the Duchies!”

“It sounds like a mutually beneficial partnership,” I conceded. “And you become Lord of Terrihall, in the bargain?”

“It’s a beginning,” he agreed. “A temporary post, since the Great Master is unused to managing humani. He has acquired the love and loyalty of many humans, actually. Not all who serve him bear the brand. Some came willingly, and he has put them to good use. Soon his dominion will stretch from Boval Vale to . . . to . . . well, that would be telling secrets, wouldn’t it?” he said, slyly.

“So you’ve become Shereul’s court mage,” I said, chuckling humorlessly. “I suppose that is a promotion. And his jailer, too, apparently. But why does he need human subjects? He has multitudes of his own people.”

“Minalan, perhaps you’re too short-sighted to grasp the strategy of wiser heads,” he said, condescendingly, “but the Great Master’s plan is far more elaborate and elegant than you give him credit for.

“Extermination? Don’t be silly. The Great Master merely wishes to reclaim his domain . . . all of his domain. And to do that he will need to provision his armies. The gurvani excel at many things, but agriculture is not one of them. So he has elected to secure the cooperation of some of his human subjects who are adept at growing grain and livestock.”

“Slaves, in other words,” snorted Delman. “And you the chief slave and overseer, cracking the whip and fawning all over your real master.”

“Am I any different than any other lord?” Garkesku asked, pointedly. “I rule here, in another’s name. Save that it violates the Bans, there is nothing unusual about that!”

“Except your liege is an undead genocidal goblin head,” Rustallo observed. “Who thrives on sacrifice.”

“Enough of the bantering,” Garkesku said, darkly. “I had more in mind than insults when I extended my invitation. You are known to the Great Master – you in particular, Minalan, and you, Terleman. He recognizes your skill and audacity in escaping, and he knows that you seek now to rally his enemies to overthrow him.” He pronounced it as if it was a secret he had just discovered.

“Yet even while you spy on His domains, He is gracious: the Great Master wanted you to know, and to spread word to all, that any mage who comes to his frontiers, unarmed, and pledges his fealty to the Great Master, will be granted a witchstone in his service. More, any knight who does likewise will be examined and, if found worthy, given a place within the armies of the Great Master. And that is but the beginning – the work I do here is prototypical. Soon the Great Master will need loyal servants throughout all of his lands.”

“More overseers,” Delman said, with scorn.

“Partners,” Garkesku corrected, diplomatically. “Humans who see the benefits of cooperation, not conflict.”

“That’s insane,” pronounced Cormaran. “Who would agree to such a bargain, when the inevitable end is death?”

“Who’s end in death isn’t inevitable?” countered the twisted little man. “Life is thus for all: no one escapes from it alive.” That was true, and perhaps even insightful, in a philosophical sort of way. What it wasn’t, was helpful.

“Death in the service of life is noble, and death under servitude is a welcome release,” observed Taren, coldly. “But to trade your humanity to your executioner for a few more months or years of slavery and torture . . . that is madness.”

“It is not only life that the Great Master grants,” Garkesku insisted. “There are other riches, as well, for those who serve him. This castle, the wealth it bore, the lands, all mine, now! The daughter of the late Lord of Terrihall warms my bed. I am respected – perhaps even loved – for the capable administration of this estate. The people do not foment revolt or riot. Indeed, their lot is better under the Great Master than under their human lords, for I take only what is needed from them and not rob them needlessly for my own enrichment. All who bear the brand have freely consented to this life – can the peasantry of the Duchies say the same?”

“And if they refused to consent, what then?” demanded Delman.

Garkesku shrugged, helplessly. “If they have not the wit to recognize an opportunity, then perhaps they do not deserve to thrive.”

“A neat and clean way of justifying the slaughter of thousands,” Terleman replied. “How can you sleep at night, Sir?”

“The Great Master fills my dreams with His grace,” Garky replied automatically. “I have said what I wanted to say. I have extended my offer. And I will honor the truce we have made and respect the laws of hospitality. See that you do the same. I retire to my chambers, now. I’ll summon a minstrel to make your meal more pleasant, but I ask that you be outside of the frontiers of my lands before dusk, lest you over-stay your welcome here.” He rose, gave a curt bow, whispered a few words to his castellan, and then retreated up the stairs.

“My lords,” Vopei said, addressing us with great dignity, “I will bring more wine and entertainment. Your horses will be saddled and ready within the hour.”

“Thank you, lackey,” Terleman said with barely disguised contempt. “So what is your tale? How came you here, to be in service to . . . that man?”

Vopei looked offended, but answered, stiffly, “I was a chandler, once, in Ganz. I fled with the others but was caught by the Great Master’s armies. After I was tested and judged, I was granted a brand and sent here, with the rest, where I helped restore the estate to its proper function. And when Master Garkesku arrived, he saw the good work I did and brought me inside the castle walls, to be castellan under the scarlet banner. If that will be all . . . ?”

He marched as stiffly away as his waddling body would allow, leaving us alone with the three dazed-looking servant girls. They were utterly wretched, never looking up from the floor any more than they needed to, and utterly silent. That told me more than just about anything else: I have five sisters. The last time four of them were quiet was just before the second one was born.

The promised minstrel arrived, a cocky young man with short curly red hair and a face utterly covered with freckles, wearing a bright blue gambeson that had been richly made, originally, but which had seen a lot of wear since. The man himself seemed almost as dreary as the serving girls – which he dismissed as soon as he arrived – but he did have a lap harp and a lovely tenor voice. He began to sing and play without any introduction. It was strange – almost surreal – to hear any kind of music in such a dreary place, but soon the melancholy melody he played seemed to fit the occasion.

We ate in silence – though we were ‘talking’ pretty rapidly through telepathy, where we were positive we couldn’t be overheard. Mostly we just traded amazements at the spectacle we were witnessing. The Dead God? With vassals? It was a factor that both complicated and simplified a good number of things. Finally the minstrel’s song came to a close, and when the last note had sounded he glanced around suspiciously.

“My lords,” he said, in a whisper, “I can see you do not bow to the Great Master, as my lord Garkesku does. Might I beg a boon?” he asked. We all perked up – this was as close to a friendly sign of life as we’d seen in this twisted land. I looked around myself – I didn’t think we were being overheard. Then I nodded.

The minstrel rolled up his left sleeve, displaying his own evil-looking skull brand . . . which he then neatly peeled off of his arm. “My lords, my name is Jannik the Jolly, jongleur of renown . . . and you would make me among the happiest of men if you would get me the hell out of this evil land and away from that fucking madman!”

Chapter Twenty-Three:

An Evening Of Entertainments With The Nobility

Wilderhall, Midsummer

“Master, you requested to be woken at this time,” the soft but insistent voice of my new manservant said. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I was already exhausted.

“Go away,” I commanded. “Five more minutes.”

“I would not be doing my Master any favors by complying with his wishes,” he chided me. “Your appointment with the nobles is within the hour, and it takes twenty minutes to walk the distance sober.”

“Admit it; you’re working for the Dead God, aren’t you?”

“Master seems cranky this afternoon,” he observed, as he opened the curtains wide and threw back the shutters to the tiny little arrow slit. The late evening sunshine streamed in from the west. I sighed, knowing that no amount of weariness could spare me from this obligation, and then I realized I felt a lot better after having had a nap. I swung my feet out and sat up. Hamlan was already pouring water into the basin and preparing a towel and a razor. I don’t know where he got them from.

“My apologies, Master, but I didn’t think we had time for me to run down to the kitchens and fetch hot water, so cold water will have to serve,” he said, with exaggerated patience as he worked a nubbin of soap into a lather with the brush end of the razor. “Cold water will help you wake up more quickly, anyway, and help you recover your wits.”

Shaving with cold water sounded like torture. I only shaved every week or so, if then, and tried to use a barber instead of nearly cutting my own throat with the razor. Besides, I like the gossip. He obviously considered I needed a shave, and I had to defer to his superior knowledge of court behavior. But I hadn’t shaved with cold water since I went to the Academy. I raised my hand and gestured, flinging a little bolt of elemental magic at the basin, and suddenly the water was steaming.

“I’d rather wake up more gradually, if there’s no threat of imminent death,” I yawned. “It makes me slightly less cranky.”

Ham was staring at the water with a trace of wonder, but his reserved demeanor wouldn’t let him gawk openly. “It seems that duties for a mage are going to be a little different than for a mere lord,” he remarked as I sat on the stool and leaned my head back on the table.

“Not always in a good way, I’m afraid. I may not need you to draw hot water, but I might have you go fetch me six gray hairs from a virgin’s cleft.”

“I look forward to the opportunity to serve you, Master,” he chuckled as he applied the soap to my face, then the razor. He was quick enough about it, and even produced a pair of shears to trim some stray hairs from my head while he was at it. He brushed them away and held up a small, highly-polished silver looking glass for my inspection. I looked better than usual. The towel he patted my faces with after rinsing was soft and luxurious against my freshly-shaven face. I wanted it.

“Any parting words, cousin?” I asked, as I collected up my gear. I stuck with my dress dagger, a pouch of this-and-thats a mage finds useful, and a small willow wand in my boot that had about six charges on it. Just a powerful blast of force – not enough to kill – but it could knock a man off his feet and leave him breathless. There was a stone in my pouch that would cause a man to fall asleep the moment he touched it. I wasn’t anticipating trouble, but it might come in handy. I dug out my cap-of-office, a cloth conical affair with three smaller “points” sewn to the sides. I grabbed my spellmonger’s staff last, and Ham watched amusedly as it floated across the room to my hand.

“Beware Moran, Master,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear as he wrapped the summer half-cloak that was the fashion around my shoulders. “The others are powerful, greedy, and jealous of their positions, but Moran is dangerous. He has designs on the Coronet itself, it is whispered.”

“Thanks,” I said as I left, not pointing out that people like Ham were the ones doing the whispering. Moran is dangerous. It wasn’t particularly helpful, but every bit of intelligence could be useful. I reflected and rehearsed on my way over to the Tower of Steel, and even stopped to hang a couple of little spells I might need. Then I sighed, turned on the tap to my quickly-receding reservoirs of charm, and presented myself to the very large knight who tended the door.

His sword was sheathed, and he wasn’t wearing armor, but the glittering chain around his neck and the prominent and elaborate display of his arms on his tunic told his story: younger son of a noble house seeking position through pure ass-kissing and willingness to do things like guard doors.

“Ah! Master Spellmonger!” the young lord boomed. “I’m Sire Dasuos, I’ve been expecting you! Welcome to our little weekly meeting!” Sire Dasuos said everything as if he was announcing it to a crowded hall. I bowed and made my greetings, and then was escorted into the dimly-lit hall, where prized hunting weapons were displayed in ornate racks and the heads of dozens of animals festooned the dark paneling, their glassy eyes staring blankly into the fire. A few even had weak enchantments to make them seem more alive, but they were as faded as most of the stuffed heads, so the effect was to just make them kind of creepy instead of threatening. The cobwebs between the antlers didn’t help.

Situated around a large fireplace bearing a small fire were over a dozen richly-dressed men, some smoking, all drinking, and all chatting away like a bunch of farmers at the beer tent on market day. I recognized Moray and Lord Moran from my session with the council, and maybe a few others who had been on the fringes, but they all stood as I entered and introduced themselves with a genteel casualness designed to put me off my guard.

“Master Minalan, thank you for joining us,” Moray boomed as he shook my hand warmly. He was a barrel-chested man with a pointed beard and a waxed mustache, his greasy black hair well-streaked with gray. He had at least seven rings on his chubby fingers, and wore a golden coin four inches across suspended from a heavy gold chain around his neck. “I would love for you to regale the gentlemen with the tale of this evil floating goblin head thing and the siege of Boval. Since you were there, perhaps you can give us some insight into the . . . goblin thing. Get inside his mind, so to speak. Perhaps he can be reasoned with? And brevity is encouraged – we don’t need every detail, just the important events.”

“I shall do my best, my lord,” I bowed, as he led me to the table. I stopped for a moment to magically affix my staff to the floor just behind my chair, and then hung my hat on it. That got a couple of chuckles. Everyone likes a showy bit of magic.

I did keep it brief, distilling a weeks-long siege and miraculous escape into thirty minutes of tense retelling. I’m not a professional story-teller, but I’d like to think I could have earned a few coins at market for how rapt my audience was. I finished with my honest assessment: “There can be no bargaining, no negotiating with Shereul the Dead God. He has no use for coin, he can’t be poisoned, you can’t stick a dagger in him, and you can’t ply him with comely maidens. He has one objective, and that’s the destruction of humanity. That is his sole purpose. And he has considerable power to further that goal. Far more than I have, or all the magi in the Duchies put together.”

“Dear gods,” a lord I recalled as Sire Donaro, a Riverlord, said in horror. “Then what can we do, if steel and magic together aren’t enough?”

“We withdraw,” Viscount Asipian said, as if it was the clear and obvious choice. “We cede western Alshar and move back away, until we can drub him properly. It will take time to raise an army that large.” He was an idiot.

“Don’t be stupid,” Lord Efert of Morilla said. “We can’t cede western Alshar! That’s good timber country. We can’t build ships without proper timber. And if we can’t get wood down river, the shipwrights can’t replace the fleet we lost at Farise. So we have to do something.”

Moray waited a few moments before offering his opinion. “We have to strike back! And hard! I’ve seen these gurvani in the mountains, and the largest of them is the size of a twelve-year-old. They wear little armor and fight with sticks, slings, and clubs. A mounted, armored knight can plow through them like butter. And between Alshar and Castal, we have thousands of knights!”

“Bugger Alshar, if you ask me,” Baron Uins, a cadaverous old man with one last shock of white hair defending his complete baldness. “Bloody Alshar brought this on themselves, messing with goblins all those years ago. Now we’re to pay the price, in treasure and blood and steel? Lose a whole generation of our heirs . . . for what? Goblins? There’s no glory there, no lands. Leave them to their problems, I say. Look to our borders and let none pass.”

“The westernmost baronies are gone, we’ll have to write them off completely,” sighed one of the nobles whose name I hadn’t gotten. “But what about the middle baronies? Surely they can hold out. Fesdarlen? Green Hill? Megelin? If properly supported. We needn’t loose all of Alshar.”

“And what if we did?” asked Uins again. “We’ve fought two wars with the Alshari in the last fifty years. If they get kicked around by the goblins awhile, what’s left can become part of Castal. The Duchess is Alshari, and if her brother dies she has a claim—”

“The Duchess!” Viscount Poramar said, not bothering to disguise the disgust in his voice. He was an older man, though not as old as Uins, and certainly more vital. “Grendine is more Remeran than Alshari. And I wouldn’t doubt she’d stick a knife in Lenguin to steal his throne.” I was a bit scandalized – that was fairly close to treason, not to mention casting aspersions on a sitting monarch. Not that I disagreed, but I wasn’t used to such scandalous things being bandied about so casually. Moray noted my discomfort and sought to soothe me.

“We have an agreement that the affairs of the realm may be discussed within our company freely, without fear of report or reprisal, Master Minalan. We are all perfectly loyal, to the Duchy and the House of Biminy. Duke Rard is a decent, if often-deceived ruler.

“But beyond that, we are permitted our opinions of the way the Duchy is run, and by whom. And in the opinion of most of us, Duchess Grendine is far too involved in affairs she shouldn’t be. A nosy woman, who pretends she can replace thoughtful counsel and good policy with whispers and lies. Some of us believe that she does not have the best interests of the Duchy in mind. But not all of us. She has her supporters, even here. Tell me, Master Spellmonger, what did you think of our Duchess?”

I swallowed despite myself. “A fair enough lady, regal in bearing,” I admitted, casually. “She seemed genuinely concerned about the shadow in the west, only vaguely interested in my proposal, and far more intrigued by the displays of magic I provided her ladies-in-waiting.”

“Really?” Moray asked, interested. “Just what did she say regarding your proposal?”

“Her mood was hard to gauge, my lord,” I shrugged. “Though she raised some profound suspicions about my motives. And she remarked more than once about my common birth. She seemed of the opinion that tradition was established for a reason, the Bans most of all. If I had to guess, my lord . . . I would say she was shifting away from supporting my proposal.” That was blatantly untrue, but I had a feeling that if Mother Grendine was a center of power within the court, these gentlemen were another – and one willing to paint the moons blue to spite her fondness for yellow. Saying that she didn’t favor my proposal was as good as asking for their support.

“That’s typical,” Poramar sneered as he finished his tankard of wine. It was his third in an hour – he was well known as a man of prodigious appetites. “The old bat can’t see the military situation is dire, she just sees a bloody peasant with a wand screaming about goblins. No offense, Spellmonger. No thought to the realm. When Alshar falls, who will ride to our rescue? Remere? Wenshar? Bloody Vore? No, we have to fight them now, while they’re still in Alshar.”

“I’m curious as to what Master Minalan thinks should be done,” Count Moran said, at last. “He’s a military man, and an educated one, for all that’s been made of his common birth. You saw our foe: if you were Duke Rard, what would you do?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Moran had listened thoughtfully to every word, but hadn’t offered an opinion yet. What would I do, if I were Duke?

“My lords, knowing what I know of our enemy, I know he has to be fought, and yes, you must fight him in Alshar now, else you will be fighting him in Wilderhall in a year. And in the Wilderlands. And in the Riverlands. The port cities will be the last to go, but they will go. The Dead God will not stop. Shereul will not waver. He pauses now and sends his skirmishers to harry us, but these are mere raids for sacrifices and plunder. When he settles in Boval Vale and prepares his invasion in earnest, we will not be able to withstand him. All we can do now is buy ourselves time, deny him as much of Alshar as we can while we ready a more long-term defense.

“But his shamans are powerful, more powerful than any warmagi – save mine. Worse, he has a molopar, and the skill and knowledge to use it against us. Who knows what horrors he could bring to bear? In the old goblins wars, they used all manner of beast and terror against us, from dragons to wargons to unnamed horrors they must have summoned through that portal. And the Dead God has more irionite than any mage on Callidore has ever possessed. That makes him a power as akin to a god as you could ask. His very presence is a threat to reality itself. With blood sacrifice and hate to fuel his magics, we are surely doomed unless we can mount a defense.”

“So what defenses have we, if our swords and castles won’t protect us?” asked Asipian. “You’ve admitted your witchstones are no match for the goblin head. What do you propose?”

“We do have a few advantages,” I conceded. “Our magi know how to work in concert. With the effectiveness of Imperial magic coupled with the power of the witchstones, we can amplify the power of our spells, and, with wisdom and ingenuity, use them to great effect on the battlefield. That, combined with our swords and castles, and the valiance of our knights, could delay Shereul’s conquest indefinitely. More importantly it will give us the one thing we have the scarcest supply of.”

“And what would that be?” asked Moray, a little sarcastically.

“Time,” I answered, simply. “Time to study the problem and discover the Dead God’s weakness, and time to live to exploit it. Time to erect a credible long-term defense. Time to search every scrap of lore in the world to discover some weakness the abomination might possess. That, my lords, is the absolute best we can hope for, right now. Even the Alka Alon were powerless to stop him, and they have been the masters of magic on Callidore since long before man came here.”

“Time?” Moran asked, inhaling sharply. “That’s it? That’s all you can offer us, Spellmonger? We overturn the Bans that have kept our people free of magical tyranny for three centuries, hand our fortunes and our lands over to a bunch of scheming wizards, and all this purchases us mere time?” Moran was openly scornful, seething, almost; as if the Dead God’s sudden invasion had put a kink into his social plans, which vexed him more than the potential of genocide.

“My lord,” Sire Uins croaked, raising a bony finger, “might I remind you that if it hadn’t been for this Spellmonger, we would be here dicing away the evening and talking about ‘goblin trouble’ in the west in between discussing our wives and mistresses and our favorites for the tournament season, instead of looking to the defense of our lands with the knowledge of the enemy we face. He has not made grand claims about his abilities, as a scoundrel would, nor has he asked for gold himself. Indeed, if he were a coward, he would collect his messenger’s fee and slink away to safer lands. Give the Spellmonger his due: he has not tried to deceive. Or to dismay. He has merely brought intelligence, in more ways than one. For that, at least, he should have courtesy.”

“The old man speaks true,” growled Poramar, refilling his pipe. I’d never seen anyone aggressively fill their pipe before. “Base he is, a mere common merchant he is, but a soldier he is, also. He knew his duty, and is risking his neck to do what he thinks will preserve the Duchies. He’s not once asked for money or position in counsel. And there are few enough among us who would have done the same.”

“Save the position of overlord over us all,” Moray objected. “He has that witchstone, and a squadron of warmagi as well-equipped.”

“Aye, and what would they do, if they aren’t fighting the bloody goblins?” asked Lord Efert. “You want them hiring out to your neighbors? Wake up and find yourself besieged by the dead in your own crypts?”

“The Censor could see to them,” Poramar dismissed. “It’s known as law that no mage may possess irionite without proper authority. I hear that General Hartarian himself is here to deal with him.”

“The Censor will not touch this stone, or any I have heard an oath for,” I said, resolutely. “On that, gentlemen, you can safely wager. I have looked into the soulless eyes of the Dead God,” I said, repeating what I had said earlier – it sounded properly poetic, and it’s always a good idea to infuse a client with a sense of mystery, “and I will not surrender my stone until he is blotted from the world, and humanity is safe. No ancient custom is going to stop me – and no warmage without irionite will be able to. Not and live. They call me a Spellmonger, but I’m more warmage than merchant of magic.”

There was silence as I spoke my piece. I felt it was time for a dramatic gesture. I stood up, put my hands on the table, and looked at each of them as I spoke. “Call me base and call me a merchant and call me a schemer, if you will, and it’s all true. You want to know what else is true? I’m right.

“Without me, you don’t have a year before you’re doing what Alshar is doing now. Not one more year. Because when the Dead God unleashes an army of a quarter of a million goblins from Boval Vale, instead of this vanguard you fear, you all can kill them, as many as you possibly can, and they will walk over your corpses and keep walking. Their shamans will poison the waters and foul the air, their beasts will prey on common men and noble corpses alike, and their soldiery will hunt your children for sacrifice, sport, and sustenance. You are all dead men, if you don’t follow me.

“And this is a one-time offer: we have a short period in which we can actually be effective, before Shereul’s armies have established themselves. Once they are entrenched, there is little I can do for you then. We hamper them now, and interfere with their plans, or we lose the game on the first throw.

“Now I don’t give a damn about gold, or lands, or timber, or ships or commerce or anything else, right now, but preserving our race. I’m not asking you to give up anything, personally. But my lords, if we do not do this, and now, then we will not have another chance. You can pray to the gods and hope they intercede, but if you turn down my proposal, you will have spurned their grace in your ignorance. And in that case, I’m grabbing my family and heading east. All the way to the Eastern Islands, if need be, and that still may not be far enough to flee Shereul’s wrath.

“But I won’t stay here and watch my people die because those who are tasked to protect them were more concerned about coin and fiefdoms and titles than the security of our people.”

“Mind your place, Spellmonger,” Poramar growled at me. “The defense of the Duchy is a military matter. Without fiefdoms and coin, there are no warriors to defend the people. If this is to be war, then those considerations must be seen to.”

“Then why are you so reluctant to put the sharpest sword in the hand that defends us?” I asked, exasperated. “Out of loyalty to an ancient custom? A law that has long grown useless – harmful, even!”

“Out of knowledge of history, Spellmonger,” Moray chimed back in, condescendingly, seemingly because he felt left out. “How long did the Magi of the Empire use magic to oppress our people?”

“They used magic to guard their borders!” I defended, which would have amused Penny to no end. “Did they ever come to the steppes and try to slay our ancestors? No, they stayed behind their walls and lived and governed in peace – by magic – for almost four-hundred years. They responded to raids and attacks by our people. They maintained a lofty level of civilization that we have yet to re-attain, because our small-minded, ignorant warriors are too cowardly to face the truth! And now the worst nightmare you ever had has come alive in the mountains, and you still quiver in fear over tales your grandsires told you about the evil magi from ancient history, instead of seeing the very real threat of a powerful magical foe on your doorstep!”

“So that’s why you want to re-found the Magocracy? So that the Magi can rule us all, again!” one of the other lords, a timid-looking little man in bright green velvet, said finally. “We’ll not have that, Spellmonger . . . better to die in battle fighting goblins than bend a knee to a wizard!”

I was sick of this – if they hadn’t the wits to see the fire burning toward them, I couldn’t make it any clearer.

Or perhaps I could.

I selected one of the spells I’d hung on the way over, glanced around the room and chose my targets, and then mentally activated it. Suddenly bonds of magic force wrapped around everyone present, save me, keeping them immobile from the neck, down. Some were frozen mid-stride, or with cup half-way to lip, or scratching their butts, but all looked immediately alarmed. There were a couple of angry cries and some helpless struggling, but they weren’t going anywhere for a while. The spell takes a lot of power to hold, and before the irionite I would have been able to manage it for only moments, but now I could do it almost effortlessly.

“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Moray, his face turning bright red.

“Cease your sorcery at once!” commanded Poramar, a trace of panic in his voice, and his eyes dripping with anger.

“Silence, or I will stop your mouths as well,” I commanded, as I walked among them. “Now that I have your attention, let me say a few words before I take my leave for the evening. You fear bending a knee to the magi, and rightly so. Bereft of all ethics and control, a trained magi with a witchstone is incredibly powerful. I could keep you here like this all night, or stop your hearts where you stand, or merely slit your throats while you helplessly struggled. I could bind you thus and then walk brazenly into your castles, rape your daughters and wives, slay your men, pillage your treasuries. I can make your crops fail, your livestock give no offspring, even keep your hens from laying. I can peel your mighty castles apart brick by brick, destroy your wells, rot your silage, and blight your orchards. A mage in his ire is a terrible, terrible thing, my lords. You are right to be fearful.

“But you know what a mage is, also? He’s human. He has the same fears and dreads as you, the same needs, wants, and desires, the same lofty aspirations to die peacefully in his dotage or gloriously on the battlefield. That means a mage can be reasoned with, bargained with, appealed to. And a mage will keep his sworn word. I could slay every one of you, right this moment, and walk away . . . but I won’t. Because I am a man, and you are men, and despite your fears and insecurities, that makes you my kinsman before Shereul’s floating head.

“The Dead God? He and his minions can do all these things as well, but instead of reason and civility, they have a profound hatred for everyone in this room. He would slay you out of hand. Either take your heads or crush your hearts, or spare you that for torture and sacrifice on his bloody altar, using your precious life as one more coin to buy yet greater power to bind your children. Or he may use you for sport, letting his goblins toy with you until you are half-mad, then feed your still-living body to their snarling teeth to fill their bellies.

“That is the choice you are faced with: an uncertain future with the magi restored, or a very certain end at the fangs of the gurvani. While the former option may frighten you, the latter will destroy you. So despise me for being common, for being a mage, for being insolent and rude and uncivilized, despise me for walking in with shit on my shoe if you must, but may the gods quickly grant you the understanding of the peril that we are all in, and further give you the intelligence to see that of a host of unpleasant choices, my proposal is the only one that sees you, your people – and your precious lands – with any hope of surviving.”

The reactions from the suddenly-immobile nobility were mixed, from fear and anger to simple discomfort and thoughtful consideration. A couple whispered curses or prayers, but most actually did listen. I released them after I spoke, and while there were a few glares at me, most were just cowed by the experience. When you take control away from powerful men who are used to being in control, you get their attention.

“I think we are done here, Spellmonger,” Moray said, evenly, as he regained his composure. “Thank you for meeting with us.” I knew a dismissal when I heard it. I gave them all a perfunctory bow and held out my hand for my staff and hat. In moments I was walking back toward the River Tower across the darkened flagstones.

But I heard boot steps rapidly behind me when I’d not gone more than a hundred yards. Figuring that perhaps one of the ‘gentlemen’ bore a grudge for the loss of his dignity to magic, I turned, drew the wand from my boot, and had a brilliant wizard’s ball of light illuminate the space around me. That caused an amusing squawk of surprise from my pursuer, who proved to be a young knight I’d seen at the meeting, but who hadn’t spoken.

“Master Minalan, wait, don’t blast me!” he said, holding his hands in front of his eyes against the bright light and cursing. “I mean no harm, I—”

“Who are you?” I demanded, making the light dim to more reasonable brightness.

“Sire Roald of Greenfield,” he said, lowering his hands. “I am oldest son and to old Baron Uins. I just wanted to thank you for your candor – a few of us younger lords were quite impressed with you and what you had to say. And some of us are supportive of your proposal.”

“Thank you,” I said, cautiously, stuffing my wand into my belt. “Why didn’t you say anything in the meeting, then?”

“Because young lords and new-made knights learn better than servant’s children not to speak up in counsel,” he admitted. “And some of us are wise enough to recognize that when your elders are bent on foolishness, speaking against it isn’t going to win you any esteem.”

“So how did I do, in there?” I asked. “Do you think I convinced them?”

“Of something, to be sure,” the man chuckled. “But you scared old Asipian enough to make him piss himself. And my own sire wasn’t happy with your presentation, though he admired your courage. About a third of them are like me, favorable to your proposal. If my lady wife wasn’t so adamantly against it, I’d be riding west on my charger as we speak, and I’m not the only one. A third are firmly against it, because they fear to depart from the path of their glorious ancestors.”

“And the final third?” I asked, resuming my walk.

“They are the important ones,” he admitted. “The great lords, or those whose counsels are widely respected. They are still ambivalent about your proposal, despite your demonstration.”

“May Breega grant them insight,” I said, disgustedly.

“Master Minalan, don’t misunderstand their misgivings,” the polite young lord said, putting a hand gently on my arm. “They are not fools. Indeed, they are amongst the shrewdest lords of Castal. They see a great many things that even magi do not. Just because they are not ready to fall behind your plan before His Grace has made his opinions known, do not fault them for their reluctance. It has been the ruin of more than one courtier to speak in favor of an issue too loudly before the mind of the Duke on the matter is known.”

“I apologize, Sire Roald,” I sighed. “I can’t quite say I meant no disrespect, because in some cases I most certainly did. But I am anxious about the approaching doom, and when I meet an ounce of resistance toward raising a defense I get . . . grouchy.”

“And a grouchy mage is prone to boldness,” he observed. “I understand, Master Minalan. I get frustrated in counsel myself, when I hear the same points spoken again and again, a solution clear for all to see but no man with the stones to claim it, lest he be singled out for failure of the policy.”

“Politics!” I spat. “The measure for failure in this matter is a sacrificial altar and the ignominy of a goblin’s soup pot,” I said, bitterly. “Yet they treat it as if it’s a peasant rebellion on the frontier, and the worse they may suffer is a loss of revenue.”

“Give them time,” he counseled. “As the dispatches arrive from Alshar, the tale will be told in fullness until even they cannot ignore it. And His Grace is giving the matter his full attention, which has also frightened them. They prefer a lord more concerned with hunting and tournaments than a real emergency. They haven’t seen the court in this kind of uproar since Farise . . . when most of them were against the expedition.”

At least I had that to thank them for. My life would have turned out a lot simpler if I hadn’t been drafted. “If Duke Rard is so concerned, then they know it is serious. They are just scared.”

“Tell me,” I said, pausing again, “the lords assembled seemed to have no great love for the Duchess. I am newly-arrived to court and don’t understand their enmity,” I lied.

“From what I understand, it goes back years,” Roald explained. “When Grendine was first proposed as Rard’s wife, there was some concern from the peers at the time that she was too close to our neighbors and not enough Castali. Some thought a Castali maid should have been chosen, and some thought a bride from Vore or Merwin should be found to improve ties between the Duchies. But Rard met Grendine and fell in love with her, it is said, and he prevailed on his mother to forge the union.

“Upon Rard’s ascension, Grendine began playing the courtier’s game. She found ways to exile some lords who she saw as a threat. She prosecuted scandals against others. For the most part my father and his friends were pleased with her maneuverings, since the old Duke’s court was rife with corruption,” he said with a straight face. “But some others who attracted her ire were more sorely missed. As a result, while they are as loyal to Rard as you could ask, they dislike Grendine.”

“Enough to plot against her?”

“Nearly,” he admitted. “Though it would never come to treason or rebellion, I think, they would go to great lengths to counter her machinations. They feel she is too loyal to Remere and Alshar. And that Rard entrusts her overmuch with matters of importance to the realm, from the selection of envoys to the disposition of cases at law. And, of course, some suspect her naturally because of her sex.” That was normal suspicion-of-the-consort court politics, I reasoned, the same charge laid at the feet of every woman on a throne interested in anything but looking pretty and having babies.

But it wasn’t the kind of thing you say about the ruthless leader of a cadre of spies and assassins. So Mother was suspected by this chorus of aristocrats, but her true strength and power was un-guessed. That was a credit to her skills as a spymaster, I supposed. And I had no doubt that she’d already heard every word that was spoken that night before I made it back to my quarters.

I shrugged. “As I said, I am new to court. And quite out of my element. On the morrow I have to face down the Censor General, and the mind of the Duke will be known – one way or another. In which case what I said here tonight probably won’t have mattered for much.”

“Don’t be so certain,” Sire Roald murmured. “There were many who were impressed by you and your demonstration, even if they are against your proposal. If nothing else, you were novel – magic has rarely been an issue for Ducal politics in the past. Much more intriguing than when Count Volmar was caught with Baron Farlan’s wife in the boathouse at Lastalia.”

“Well, I aim to be entertaining,” I sighed. “Thank you, Sire Roald. You’ve eased my mind on the matter. Here I thought it had been an utter disaster . . . and now I know it’s but a minor disaster.”

It was his turn to shrug. “This is the Ducal court. There are no clear lines or easy victories. Every day is a minor disaster . . . but the Duchy abides, despite it.”

I know he meant it to sound reassuring, but suddenly I had a lot less faith in the ability of my leaders.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Penumbralands

Late Summer

Jannik, it turned out, made an excellent traveling companion.

Of course a minstrel would be full of tales of wonder and songs of infinite varieties . . . but his main utility as a comrade proved to be his knowledge of the local country. After we had “rescued” him by the simple expedient of him leaving with us on our way out of Terrihall – or “Terrorhall”, as Teran now called it – Jannik told us the tale of how he came to be there.

It took most of the afternoon, thanks to his sense of the dramatic, but it was actually a fairly clear-cut tale. He was a Vorean, originally, but found his take went up the further west he went. Since the people of Alshar are usually left to make whatever entertainments they want to enjoy, a minstrel of any capacity was seen as a novelty, and a trained tenor voice like Jannik’s was in high demand. For the last several years he had been working a circuit throughout northern Alshar and Castal, from Wenshar to the feet of the Minden Range. He played harp, flute, drum, cymbal, gitar, pipe, and other instruments, but his strength was definitely his voice . . . and his keen wit.

When the first rumbles of trouble came out of Boval (about the time I had been leading a make-shift mercenary army from Tudry), he had been playing at the castle of the Baron of Denal, to the north of here.

The initial raids had riled the local lords, and for a few weeks Jannik was making good coin singing praises of their puissance as they gathered forces to answer the attacks. They came sporadically, in the beginning, until the first great band of thousands erupted past Mor Tower into Ganz and Presan and swept away the defenders taken by surprise. By the time they reached Denal, two days later, all was chaos.

Twice he had been impressed as a soldier by desperate lords, and twice he had deserted at the first opportunity – which saved his life both times. He was adept at hiding in haystacks, lofts, or holes in the ground, as needed, and he had slept in trees many times. He had taken refuge at Balirnam Castle for a week at midsummer, and then escaped again before it was betrayed and taken, its inhabitants led away in chains – those who still lived.

He had wandered quietly for days, after that, avoiding goblin patrols and human refugees alike, until he had finally come to Terrihall and seen the relative peace and stability. That was when he had spotted freed humans returning in long lines, each one with downcast eyes and bearing the brand of the dark skull.

“That’s the really nauseating part,” he said at last, as we prepared to camp in the shell of a peasant’s hut. “All those people in Terrihall, they might seem normal . . . but anyone who survives the judgment of the Dead God . . .”

“Yes, they were quite proud, if that’s the word, at having survived his judgment. Just how are they judged?” asked Cormaran, as he prepared to set the wards. I was letting him do a lot of the mundane stuff like that, as he was still becoming attuned to his stone and he needed the practice.

“I asked myself the same question, right after I affected that cursed brand with some burnt cork, red clay, and a bloody bandage – no shortage of those around. But I heard the tale from several of the survivors, my lords, and what a ghastly fate befell their misbegotten souls,” he said, his big eyes looking professionally sorrowful. While it was entertaining, I was looking for a military report, not a stirring ballad.

“Get to the point, Jannik,” I requested, firmly.

He sighed – also dramatically – rolled his eyes in frustration, and continued. “The performing arts are dead. The essence of the story is they were all taken to that sorcerous vale and brought before His Roundness, where a shaman put a knife in their hand and led them to an altar, where another human was bound. They were commanded to disembowel the poor victim. If they were unwilling, then the victim was given the opportunity to change places with the sacrificer.”

“That’s . . . that’s unspeakable!” choked out Taren. I shook my head. I felt a little sick.

Jannik nodded gravely. “It’s enough to take the song from your throat,” he agreed, sadly. “What’s worse, if you did plunge your knife in the guts of your fellows, you were rewarded by being forced to do it four more times before you were considered ‘worthy’ of bearing the brand. So everyone you saw at Terrihall, except for myself and one or two others, personally slaughtered at least five people like piglets at the equinox in order to preserve their own lives.”

“That’s horrific,” Master Cormaran said, simply. I realized I could ‘feel’ the effects of the gurvani despair spell through the wards, it meshed so well with the images in my head. “They had to murder five in order to be spared. What kind of—”

“Oh, it was worse than that, my lords, and Herus spare me for speaking of it. Worse than that, if you did slay that first stranger, then your kin were moved to the head of the line. Mothers were forced to slay their own children, husbands had to kill beloved wives, old women hacked babes-in-arms to death to spare themselves the same.”

“Why?” asked Terleman, outraged. “What possible motivation—?”

“Would you willingly break bread with a man who had murdered five to save his own life?” Jannik asked, pointedly.

“No,” sighed Terleman. “Not willingly. Not murdered.”

“Exactly,” the minstrel agreed. “Those who traded their souls for life and bear the brand have made themselves abominations among civilized men with their crimes. They will never be trusted by their fellows again. Their loyalty to the Dead God is sealed in the blood of innocents – but they had a choice, to die or to live a murderer. The stories I heard,” he said, shaking his head, his eyes filled with horror at the memory.

I passed him a wineskin, which he gratefully accepted. “Every tale was a night terror, my lords, I swear on my mother’s virtue. And all enough to make a stone weep for grief. A man whose wife, after disemboweling her own mother and father, balked at slaying her beloved daughter . . . and so he had to slay them both, and two sons besides, before sacrificing his father to that evil bastard to preserve himself. I asked him, man to man, how he had managed to kill both his own father and his own son . . . he told me that after he slew his wife and daughter, the man he had been was so dead that he felt little of anything when he plunged the dagger into his boys. And his sire.” He took another swallow of wine before passing it. “And that is by far the least of the tales of the Soulless. I’ll spare you more, unless you insist. But just knowing that there is that kind of evil in the world disturbs my soul.”

There weren’t any songs or stories around the tiny fire that night. We had seen too much, and we were still far too close to the Umbra for comfort. Our sojourn in Terrihall had convinced us not only of the evil of our foe, but had shown us the potential for depravity among our fellow men, and that weighed on us powerfully.

But there was more news from Jannik. While he had affected a brand and the dismal demeanor of the other slaves of Terrorhall, he had also listened most carefully to Garkesku’s ravings, and had heard messages from his dark masters to him. Surprisingly, our victory at Tudry was the subject of much of the discourse.

“Were they surprised, at least, at our victory?” I asked.

Jannik shook his shaggy red head. “Nay, Captain. Not really. Those goblins sent forward into the east and the south were supposed to engage you – engage all the military forces of Alshar. But they were not expected to prevail.”

“Why send out his spearfodder?” asked Terleman, confused. “We’ve slaughtered them, wherever we’ve found them in force. We preserved Tudry, we even made some inroads to capture lost territory.”

“It’s all a ruse,” Jannik told us, unhappily. “The horde near Tudry, the other one in the south, menacing Grindonal now, both were designed to draw the Duchy’s forces in, toward the center. Toward Vorone.”

“Why Vorone?” I asked. “It isn’t even the real capital, just the summer palace?”

“Because . . . well, if you wanted to split off half of the Duchy, the north from the south, where would you do it?”

“Well, Vorone does sit between the foothills in the east and the Mindens,” I conceded. “If you were to put a large enough force there, you could screen the north from the south fairly effectively.”

“Exactly,” nodded Jannik. “And if you were to make it a large enough force, you could preclude anyone from coming at you.”

“But why take Vorone?” insisted Rustallo. “Surely Tudry would be a better stronghold?”

“The goal isn’t to take Vorone,” pointed out Terleman, “the goal is to entrap the north. The army at Vorone isn’t the force the Dead God seeks to counter. It’s a rescue force from the south or east that he fears – if he fears anything.”

“But that’s crazy,” Delman said, shaking his head. “Neither the horde we scattered at Tudry, or the army in the south is big enough to take Tudry in its weakened state, much less prevent the southern armies from riding against them.”

“That’s just it,” Jannik explained patiently. “It took me awhile to figure out myself, milord. Those southern and eastern hordes are bait. They want you to go after them, that much I do know. They’re counting on it. They want you to bring as many men as you can to Vorone. And they have another force you may not know about,” he said, uneasily. “A horde far to the north, beyond the Northwatch.”

I snapped my fingers. “That’s right! We scried them, early on, but didn’t think they were much of a threat. I thought they were considering invading Vore from the west, or attacking the Valley People. Or worse, trying to recover some ancient gurvani artifact from some ancient stronghold.”

“They aren’t,” Jannik answered, glumly. “They came out past the Mor Tower in the very first days of the invasion and just headed north. I heard a lot about that horde, milord, let me assure you. They avoided trouble the whole way, too, barely burning the villages they went through. They by-passed the western Northwatch castles, moving east along the frontier with the northern tribes without inciting them. And they moved quickly, relentlessly, from what I was able to discover. The last dispatch I heard a few days ago puts them far to the northeast, now. Probably the furthest east of any goblin band.”

“So aren’t they safely out of the way?” Rustallo asked.

“No, they are encamped just north of Nandine. Thousands of them.”

“How many thousands?” Cormaran asked, alarmed.

“At least sixty,” answered the minstrel. “Sixty thousands, milord. Sixty of his best. They’ve been training all summer for this. They bear better weapons and armor and fight like humans, supposedly. But they are also to be supported by wild gurvani tribes from the western Kuline mountains.”

“I didn’t realize there were any gurvani up there!” Rustallo admitted.

“A few tribes, pushed back into the highest hills, remotest vales and deepest caves,” Delman said, off-handedly. He was Wenshari, he would probably know. “They’ve been peaceful for hundreds of years, though. They mine iron and silver in the Kulines and trade it.”

“Well, now they’re going to war for vengeance,” Jannik informed him. “No telling just how many, but Garky figured it would be at least a few more thousand. But even without them . . . sixty thousand and a better grade of troops as well. Many are using iron weapons of human design. And their plan, so far as I have been able to tell, is to gather their strength and then ride south, cutting off Vorone, Tudry, and all of northern Alshar from Castal and southern Alshar. Then, when the cream of the Alshari military has risen to one place at one time, the northern horde is instructed to move around their flank . . .and screen them off. Not engage them.”

“Why not?” demanded Taren.

“Because the Dead God wants more sacrifices,” explained the minstrel. “And more steel armor and weapons. And more food for his armies. That much was true, from the dispatches I overheard. But there was more. He has human messengers as well as goblins, my lords, blood traitors and branded murderers, from all parts of this damnable region who would take his gold and betray their own kind. Some are disguised in castles now, or as refugees. They are helping prepare the way so that he may destroy the Wilderlands baronies. And he’s set this trap to be sprung, sometime around the autumnal equinox.”

“What manner of trap?” I asked, quietly. I didn’t know this man, and perhaps he was sent as a spy to us, but his desperation and obvious relief at being escorted out of this hellish place was compelling.

“They want as many humans as possible, within the interior of northern Alshar. When the damn goblins think there’s enough, the big horde will march south skirting the edges of the Pearwoods, until it can bypass Vorone and Tudry from near to the frontier. Wilderhall, the Riverlands fiefs, or any other land which might aid them would be interdicted.”

“Huin give us strength!” swore Delman, making a sign against evil. Yes, there are far more effective and useful types of spells, but in times of stress and crisis we revert back to the basics – like invoking the war god’s aid against a foe, instead of just going out and fighting. “That would capture . . . tens of thousands!”

“Perhaps hundreds of thousands,” added Cormaran with a depressed sigh. “Depending on where they descend, and just where they try to close the noose. If they managed their attacks just right, they could capture nearly all the northlands. Everything north of, say, Pyler and Renaline.” Those were two prosperous baronies in central Alshar, in the northern reaches of the Riverlands.

“There’s more,” he continued, mournfully. I wasn’t sure I could bear much more. “I overheard one of those damned white ones – the priests, I suppose – arguing with that mad twit a few nights ago. They ignored me like I was an animal. But from what he said, the goblin, I mean, and he spoke the common tongue as fair as you or I, milord, after they cut off Vorone and entrap northern Alshar, the plan is to then to attack Castal, while he keeps the southern lords from taking his flank with his reserves.”

We all sat in silence as we visualized the maneuver of which Jannik spoke. It made sense, I could see, from a military perspective, given the Dead God’s ambitions. The Alshari in the north were sparsely settled, and the fighting men, while valiant, were comparatively few in number. Instead of trying to take every little village along the way, the old bastard had used his troops to rattle them, get them on the road and into the larger cities where they thought of security and shelter and food would be available. Then, once the human cattle were congregated, our forces congratulating ourselves on the ‘victories’ we’d won over his lesser servants, deploy a truly massive force to pen them in until they could be ‘harvested’ at leisure. Once the roads and easy ways were closed off it would be a simple thing to starve the survivors into submission . . . or terrify them with magic until they acted more like sheep or scathads than men . . . or, most disturbing of all, betray them with collaborators among them.

“Gods, what have we done?” Terleman asked. “We’ve done everything that he wanted . . . the relief of Tudry, the consolidation of refugees at Vorone, our forces are scattered chasing small bands, he couldn’t have asked for an easier time if he’d given us his orders himself! And meanwhile he has an entire army in the north, ready to bear down on us like a hailstorm!”

“So how do we counter him?” asked Cormaran, thoughtfully. “Evacuate Vorone? How? Unless Castal is willing to come to our aid . . .”

I cleared my throat. “It’s not as if they are unwilling . . . they just don’t want to absorb a bunch of people they’ll have to feed and clothe and house and order, while fighting the gurvani at the same time. Not when the problem could be solved in Alshar . . . or so that’s what the Court believes. Hells, that’s why they sent me here.”

“And what will they say when sixty or seventy thousand goblins suddenly bisect the Great Western Road between Vorone and Wilderhall, eh?” asked Reylan. “Those Alshari will be better put to use as spearmen and such than soup for goblins!”

“How many men, total, do we have at Tudry?” I asked, thinking furiously.

“Between the Tudrymen and your mercenaries, and then the knights from the surrounding baronies, Maybe . . . seven, eight thousand?” suggested Cormaran. “Perhaps as high as ten, if we conscripted more peasant levies. Another fifteen at Vore . . . perhaps as many as twenty or twenty five.”

“So twenty five or thirty thousand, against sixty or seventy thousand goblins,” remarked Taren. “And that’s not even considering the magical side of things.”

“Let me think on this a while,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll even take the first watch. Everyone else get what sleep you can. I have a feeling that we’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

I went off into the back of the old hut where I could think in peace. I even chanced a pipe, and as I stared into the tiny fire and smoked, I could see all of the scenarios playing out in my imagination. Most of them were ugly. In fact, the most helpful of them were ugly.

The first point of business was to inform Mother and the Family about the danger. Then I had to write or dictate a dispatch to the Duke, himself, informing him and asking him . . . to do something. I wasn’t sure what yet. But before any of that, I needed some counsel. I reached out with my mind, the sigil sketched easier than every before, until I felt Penny’s mind from afar.

Min! What are you doing? Are you all right? she thought to me, concerned.

At the moment, I conceded. Got a minute? I just got some disturbing intelligence that you should know about. I spent the next fifteen minutes catching her up on developments: Garkesku, the Umbra, the Penumbralands, Terrorhall, Jannik, and, most importantly, the northern horde. She was properly horrified at all the right places.

So what can I do? I asked simply, when I was done. What can be done?

That’s the question, isn’t it? She replied. It makes a lot of sense, actually. He gets an awful lot for his trouble, too, half a bloody Duchy. Could Vorone stand an attack like that?

Not a chance, from what I have heard. As it is, it’s a lousy place for a fight, and the castle there is more decorative than defensive. But even if we were to get them all back to Tudry, against sixty thousand or more . . . Pen, I can’t let this happen!

I don’t see how you can stop it, Min. How can you stop an army that big?

Magic? I offered, dully.

Get serious, you thick barbarian tool! she scolded. If that bastard takes north Alshar, he’ll be in Castal by next year and in Remere three years after that! That can’t happen! If nothing else it will play havoc with the spring social calendar and I am not having it! So think of something!

But what the hell can I do? I demanded. Die gallantly? How is that going to help? Ishi’s tits, Pen, I’m all on my own out here!

There was a long pause, and then a sigh. Yes, a telepathic sigh. Such a thing exists.

All right, she said finally. I’m on my way.

What? I asked, confused.

Well, obviously we can’t just wave our wands and turn the goblins into turnips, so we’re going to have to figure out another way. And there’s no way you’re going to think of something on your own, you poor thing, you’re way out of your element. And I’m not about to let you go die gallantly and get all the credit for all the hard work that I’ve done! There are too many things at stake for it to be left up to you. So I’m coming in to help. I’ll bring every member of the Order I can, and as many troops as I can, but don’t expect much. Where shall we meet you?

You just head west, I said, after sighing back to her. I’ll head east. We’ll find each other. I suppose I can alert everyone else, too. If there was ever a time where we needed to pool our efforts, this is it.

That’s the spirit, Min! she said, encouragingly. Come on! Pull it together! We faced half a million goblins at Boval, spit in the Dead God’s eye, and lived to tell the tale. One little goblin army? You, me, and our friends? That’s small beer, fella!

Fine, I said, more resolutely than I felt. But I felt better. Maybe if we can all get convene soon enough, well, maybe we can find a spell that can make one swordsman into five. Or something.

There you go, oh Wise Master. Just keep it together until I get there, and then we’ll all pitch in and have this settled by Yule. And in plenty of time for you to see your child born.

So what are you waiting for? I demanded. Don’t you have a dozen traveling bags to pack, Princess? Come on! Hurry up! I’m two feet from death! And you’re sitting on your lazy aristocratic butt—

Min!

All right! I’ll let you get to it. And Pen?

What? She snapped, sharply.

Thank you.

Another psychic sigh. Anything for you. And that’s such a pain in my lazy aristocratic butt I can’t stand it.

I took a moment to get up, check the wards, make sure all of my comrades were safe, check on the horses, take a leak, eat a hunk of cheese, wash it down with a mouthful of travel wine, and then sat back down and closed my eyes again. I had other agents to check in with, especially since this news concerned them and their mission.

Mavone! Are you asleep?

No, Min, he said at last. Just needed to find a quiet corner. I’m at a . . . small celebration. How fare you?

Well enough, I admitted. But there have been some developments. I’ll get into the details next time we meet, but suffice it to say we’ve received some reliable intelligence that suggests that that big horde of sixty or seventy thousand in the north is about to fall on eastern Alshar like an early snowstorm.

Oh my gods!

That’s essentially what I said. It makes sense, though, once you realize why. I sketched enough of Jannik’s story for him to see the reasoning. He was thoroughly horrified.

So what are we going to do?

Have you and Isily been busy?

Well, yes, although we haven’t actually done anything constructive. But we managed to shield the castle and most of the town from the worst of the despair spell. Things have gotten perceptively better. On the other hand, the price of bread just went through the chimney, because the refugees from Vorone are starting to show up . . . hungry. They’re not happy about it. Or you.

Who?

Everyone. The common folk resent having to share their food and pay for the privilege; the refugees are cursing you for making them leave their homes behind and then defeating the goblins, the aristocracy is livid that a Castali force rescued Tudry while they stood three days ride and waited. And Duke Lenguin is outraged that you – a mage and worse, a commoner – have usurped his authority and taken command of Tudry.

He wasn’t using it, I dismissed. He can even have it back, after I’m done with it. Don’t I get any credit for defeating the goblins?

Not from here. In fact, you’re the one who stirred them up in the first place by stealing their witchstones and waking up the Dead God. At least that’s one popular theory in the refugee camps. Oh, except the priesthood, they like you. Your protection of that temple earned you some friends at two of the larger temples in Vorone, which became a political issue when the Hearthmother preached a sermon calling you the Defender of the Gods, and berated Duke Lenguin’s manliness to boot. I think she was trying to shame him into action, but then again I think she’d do just about anything to spite him. They have a long history.

Well, I guess it can’t hurt that the gods are on our side.

For what it’s worth, Mavone said, wryly. Skyfather Vren of Orvatas’ temple, who’s always been seen as a conservative voice within the religious community, has come out in support as well. And Orvatas supposedly carries a lot of weight with the other gods, since he’s the Skyfather, but what that means against the goblins . . . I felt a psychic shrug.

Right. Well, perhaps they can be of use against the humans, if they can’t help against the gurvani. I need to convince the Duke to lead his troops north to confront the goblins before they get to Vorone. That’s really the only answer. If they make it all the way to Vorone and they try to make a stand there, they’ll sack the place through sheer numbers. But if he can catch them out on the fields north of there, maybe use the cavalry to their best advantage, they can brunt the blow.

But not defeat them, he observed. Not that many.

He wouldn’t be alone, I suggested. We can pull another six or seven thousand from Tudry. Professionals, too, some of them.

That would stretch the battle out longer, he admitted. But I don’t see it changing the outcome.

Me either, I agreed. But I’m working on it. He’d have the Order at his back.

The Order of . . . what, exactly?

We’re working on the name, I promised. For now it’s the Order of Really Nervous Warmagi, after what we’ve just seen. We’ve been to the Umbra, all the way through the shadowlands surrounding it. It’s bad, Mavone. And it’s growing. Worse, the Dead God has started using collaborators and human slaves. I’ll spare you the details, but we’ve taken to calling them the Soulless. They’re branded with the mark of the skull. You can spread that around, if you like. If people aren’t scared enough of goblin attack or the prospect of ending up a sacrifice on some altar, let them know that there are worse things than death.

I don’t think I want to know, now, he said, and I felt the psychic equivalent of a shudder.

You don’t. But you will. And the news keeps getting worse: among his new human lackeys is Garkesku the Mediocre, who’s spilling every misremembered detail of Imperial magic to him. The fool thinks he’s doing himself a favor. But whatever advantages Imperial magic holds over gurvani shamanism, it’s about to fade away.

That’s not good news, Captain, he agreed. But here is some that might be. There’s a peasant brigade that has arisen amongst the refugees outside of town, nearly four thousand strong, and they’re near to rioting outside of the city gate for someone to lead them against the goblins. It’s one step away from a peasant revolt. It’s got a lot of the nobility nervous.

That’s all I need, to be involved in another peasant revolt. So the gods and the worms of the earth are on my side. Great.

Don’t count them out. Among them are a lot of Farisian veterans, and even a few dispossessed knights. They over-ran a caravan from the south two days ago and plundered a shipment of weapons, so now they have a few thousand spears and swords in hand. They spend all day drilling and marching, preparing. They’re getting decent at it, too.

Well, do what you can to keep them putting the pressure on Lenguin. If we’re going to keep that horde from doing its job, we have to get that precious army of his moving north out of Vorone in the next few days – no more than a week or so – or that horde is going to make Tudry look like Grimly Wood.

Where? Never mind. Captain, Isily has been working the court. And she’s good – very good. She does things with light and shadow that I’ve never seen before. She’s got spells for eavesdropping, spells for hearing through walls, spells for—

She’s a shadowmage, that’s what they do, I said impatiently. What has she found out?

That the Alshari court is a mess.

I think that was readily apparent, I said, dryly.

It’s worse than you think. There’s five different factions trying to influence policy, and most of them hate each other so much they refuse to cooperate on anything. Worst of all is this southern baron, Jenerard. He’s extremely wealthy and everyone seems afraid of him. He was named Lord of the Coasts last year, although what he’s doing in Vorone so far away from so much as a dinghy, I have no idea.

He’s after power, not ports. Tell me, have there been any unfortunate accidents around the palace recently?

Now that you mention it, yes, a squire was found dead in the stables a few days ago. And a peasant was discovered stuffed into a root cellar with his throat slit two days after we arrived. Why is that significant?

I’m going to guess that those two ran afoul of our opposition. This Jenerard might be working on behalf of a clandestine criminal organization.

What, like the Iris?

The Iris was the most famous criminal organization in history, because it had its roots in ancient Perwin and had survived the Inundation, the Mage Wars, the Imperial Consolidation, and then the Narasi Invasion, all without apparently ceasing operations one moment. They controlled most of the smuggling and criminal work in Merwin, and had major colonies in Remere and Vore. They had a sophisticated culture of graft, bribery, assassination and other crimes that had at times even affected the course of history.

No one who was in the organization claimed any knowledge of it, and anyone who claimed any knowledge of it wasn’t in the organization. They’d even commissioned ballads about how ruthless and deadly they were, which was the only reason why anyone in Castal or Alshar had ever heard of them. There was even a certain amount of class and elegance associated with them, although I’d been assured by people who’d dealt with them that it was all just propaganda.

Yes, sort of like the Iris, I agreed. They’re called the Rat Crew. They want to be the power behind the throne.

Well, it’s getting kind of crowded back there, he grumbled. Jenerard might be powerful, but he’s no where near the front of the line when it comes to who is controlling His Grace. That position would fall to Count Marcandine, the Lord Marshal; when he isn’t whispering in His Grace’s ear, then Viscountess Threanas has her hand firmly entrenched up His Grace’s fundament. She’s his banker, from one of the coastal cities, and Alshar is in some debt.

That’s interesting, I agreed. Any idea who their intelligence service might be?

Not the head of it, but I think we’ve identified one of his lieutenants, the one who speaks directly to Lenguin. Sir Daranal, the head of the Ducal Palace Guard. And he’s figured out that we’re working for someone else, and he’s very curious to know whom. He doesn’t believe that the Order To Be Named Later is working independently, because, and I quote, “magi aren’t political”. Meanwhile Jenerard is strutting around like he owns the place, intimidating anyone he can, and the whole issue of the goblin invasion is secondary to securing his position at court. Isily has managed to find some damning information on several courtiers, and we’re assembling dossiers on the chance we can use the information as leverage.

Why Mavone! You seem to have a Talent for this sort of thing!

That’s what Isily says, he said, sounding discouraged. Personally, I’d rather be in battle. It’s more honest.

But the food isn’t as good. And you’ll have more battle than you can stomach before Yule. Still, you’ve accomplished a lot more than I’d hoped. I’m going to need you to use every avenue you have to start convincing people that the only reasonable course of action is for Lenguin to ride to intercept that northern horde with every man who can hold a spear. Get the temples behind it, that peasant army, bribe people, threaten people, kiss some noble ass if you have to, but I need every voice within Lenguin’s ears to be screaming that until he listens.

You don’t ask for much, do you? Mavone asked, dryly.

It’s just our survival that depends upon it, I observed. I have confidence in your ability. More, I have confidence in Isily’s abilities.

She’s a sharp one, Captain, he agreed, a trace of reverence coming through the link. I swear she can disappear right in front of you. And she knows just what to listen for in someone else’s conversation. Wherever you found her, I approve of you giving her a stone. And I’m just glad she’s on our side.

I considered letting him in on Castal’s Family Business, but I didn’t see any compelling reason to, so I didn’t. Once you tell a secret, you can’t un-tell it. Expect to hear from me in the next three days. Anything else?

Oh! Yes, Carmella came through, from points south. She was doing research, she said, and didn’t bother getting in touch with anyone until she needed Pentandra’s help with something. Penny filled her in, and now she’s got a telepathic link, too. She wanted something to do, and she’s not exactly suited for courtly work, so I sent her to scout north, to the west of the Pearwoods.

She was probably the last warmage I wanted doing that – Carmella is adept at a lot of obscure kinds of warmagic, but she wasn’t the stealthy, scouty type. She’s better at building siege engines or scrying for weaknesses in the enemy’s fortifications, that sort of thing. Personally, she was highly intelligent but just didn’t have that social awareness or understanding that makes a person’s company tolerable for more than an hour or so. Plus, she has this kind of barking laugh that’s really grating. Her professional competence and reputation gave her enough respect among her colleagues to overlook her personality, and she’d performed well at Boval Vale. But a scouting mission? What was Mavone thinking?

I wish you’d consulted me, I said, finally.

Should I have? Well, you are the Captain, but I was just trying to do something useful with her. Until there’s a siege going on, she’s pretty useless, otherwise.

You’re probably right, I said, unconvinced. Still, I suppose we need some sort of chain-of-command system in place for that kind of thing. Damn. One more thing.

I ‘heard’ his chuckle through the link. Being the beloved leader not the dream job you thought?

I never thought it would be, I just didn’t know it would be this hard. I’m making mistakes I shouldn’t be. But there is one piece of good news . . . Pentandra is coming west, with some help. She can work on all that organizational stuff while we fight.

That sounds wonderful, Captain, he said, utterly unconvincingly. And just what does Alya have to say about that?

Huh? I grunted in surprise. Why would she . . . oh.

Yes, your ex-girlfriend is coming to visit you on campaign. While your current girlfriend is where . . . ?

With my parents, being guarded by one of my apprentices, I answered, evenly. Just when did my private life become the subject of gossip?

Easy, Captain! I just like Alya. She’s good for you. And she’s not such a . . . she’s not as prickly as Pentandra.

Lady Pentandra is a well-respected, highly capable—

Captain! Nothing against Penny, believe me! Hell, she recruited all three of us, remember? We like Penny fine! She’s great, I’d follow her just about anywhere, but . . . just not for you.

You don’t think we don’t know that? Believe me, we’re strictly professional! I love Alya! She’s going to have my child! Penny’s just—

All right, Captain, just wanted to speak my piece. Didn’t mean to get you upset.

I’m not upset, I said, adding a sigh. Just . . . sensitive. All right, I can see how it might look like I’m bringing in a mistress, or something like that, but Pentandra is one of my most trusted counselors and advisors. There’s a lot going on that’s not readily apparent. If it matters to anyone besides me and Alya, I’m fully intending to drag her in front of the first priestess I can find when – and if! – I actually survive this campaign, all right?

Glad to hear it, Captain. Not that it matters, I guess. Just worried about you.

The whole world’s about to become a goblin playground and you’re worried about me? I snapped. Just get Lenguin off his ass and ready to ride north, okay? Let me take care of my own woman problems!

After that, I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone else, so I woke up Rustallo to take the next watch. I tried to get some rest, but the simple fact was, my relationship with Penny was becoming an issue for my men. It had already been a complication during Boval Vale, but I didn’t think that it would last beyond that.

But it was clear that Alya had her supporters among my men, supporters that didn’t like it when other women were around me. It was sweet, in an unsophisticated, romantic sort of way, but the fact was that I couldn’t do what I had to do and behave like a Hearthbrother. There were times when I would have to talk to other women, and that didn’t mean that I didn’t love Alya any less.

But obviously that wasn’t the consensus of opinion, and it was enough of an issue so that it was becoming the topic of gossip.

That didn’t bode well. That didn’t bode well at all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A Visit From A Whore

Wilderhall, Midsummer

I arrived back at my quarters just before midnight, after stopping by the garrison kitchens tucked in at the back of the Tower of Swords, which was on the way.

The Quartermaster’s store was there, and experience told me that I could scrounge a hearty draught of brew without too much trouble. The wizened old ancient who tended the stores happily traded as much as I could drink (which turned out to be three) for an anti-pest spell to keep his supplies from vermin – he’d had a request into the Court Mage’s apprentice, but we both knew how low down on the priority list he would be. I put so much energy into that spell that I’d be surprised if there was a living mouse within five hundred feet.

Hamlan was waiting for me when I arrived, and “helped” me prepare for bed. I haven’t needed assistance preparing for bed since I was a baby, so it was a little strange having someone shadow me. But in the process I noted that he had emptied the chamber pot, and suddenly I had a new appreciation for why nobles had servants.

But it was in his capacity as spy that he lingered, I soon learned. He wanted to know all about the meeting, of course, so that he could report it all to Mother. I told him what happened with a minimum of embellishment, though he seemed a little mystified at the description of the spell I cast. I explained that the entire exercise was a conditional failure, and he seemed to accept that.

“Oh, and Master, that other matter has been arranged,” he said, knowingly. It took me a moment to catch on. The whore.

“Oh! Yes! Good, good. Is she a comely one?”

“The agent I used has a strong reputation for ladies of unmatched beauty. He caters to the finest class in Wilderhall.”

“And have any more invitations, requests, or summons appeared while I was showing the nobility their duty?”

“No, Master, it has been a quiet evening. Perhaps the whore will enliven it.”

“That’s the idea. Thank you,” I said, absently. I almost wished that it was a real whore, instead of one of Mother’s minions. Not only could I really use the release and hired companionship, I really didn’t want to get entangled with the Family any more than I already was.

But she had promised protection from the Censor General. I couldn’t ignore that kind of bait.

“That will be all, then, Ham,” I said, tiredly. “Return at the first hour after dawn with breakfast. Um, that is the sort of thing you do, right?”

“Oh, it is no problem, Master, as I’ll be fetching my own. Enjoy your doxy,” he called, as he let himself out.

I sighed and stripped off most of my gear, sliding the blasting wand under my bed, within reach. I hung my belt up, splashed a little water on my face, and laid back down to doze.

I wasn’t sure what time it was, when the knock came on my door, but I felt a lot more refreshed than I had when I’d fallen asleep, so it had to have been at least an hour.

“Yes?” I asked tiredly, when I opened the door. There was a figure clad in a long scarlet hooded cape of satin, trimmed at the hood and hem in black embroidery featuring figures entwined in various sexual positions. Nice touch.

“My lord wished for warm comfort on this cool evening?” a warm and silky voice came from beneath the hood. And the perfume she was wearing was intoxicating.

“Come in,” I said, simply, and opened the door. I closed and latched it quickly, and added a binding spell while checking the passageway briefly to see if she’d been followed. That’s the problem with working with spies, it makes you paranoid.

“Thank you for meeting me,” the woman said, as she drew back the hood. It was the same one, the tall one who looked kind of like my girlfriend.

“You have a name?” I asked, cautiously.

She smiled, showing dimples. Really adorable dimples. “Many, but you may call me Isily. Isily of Brawin.”

“Brawin is near Wenshar, is it not?” I recalled.

“It is Wenshar – just the part of Wenshar claimed by Castal,” she agreed.

“So why are you meeting with me tonight?” I asked. I noticed that Hamlan had left a bottle of wine and two cheap silver gilt glasses. I poured and handed her one.

“Mother said she needed a stone. I am the one upon whom you will bestow it.”

“You are a mage?” I asked, surprised. Then I saw her with magesight, and realized that she was enrapt in a dozen subtle spells. So that’s why she smelled so good . . .

“You may consider me the Family’s court mage,” she nodded. “I am trained and licensed, although that is not well-known by the court. My father was one of Mother’s vassals. When I showed the Talent, she arranged for me to be trained in Wenshar. I’ve known her since I was a girl.”

“Interesting,” I said, sipping the wine. If it was poisoned, the poison hadn’t corrupted the vintage – it was delicious. “So you are ready to take my oath? And prepared to keep it, absolutely?”

“I would like to hear what I’m swearing to in its entirety,” she said, cautiously. “But from what you told Mother, it should not deter me from my service to the Family.”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “You merely swear to understand that the stone belongs to me, and is loaned to you, until such time as I recall it. You will surrender it when I ask, and you will assist in enforcing my recall on any other mage’s stone. You are free to use it as you will, with the understanding that if I need your assistance, you will render it to the best of your ability to protect humanity from the Dead God.”

She considered each term as I named them. “There should be no difficulty with those terms. If you should perish, to whom do I surrender the stone?”

That was a very good – and very morbid – question. I’d never thought of that before. Luckily, my tongue had an answer my mind didn’t realize. “Then you surrender it to Lady Pentandra, my lieutenant, upon her command. She has the same dedication to our cause and has taken the oath of – other magi I have given a stone to.”

“Lady Pentandra,” she nodded. “I think I knew her at Alar Academy. A theoretician?”

“A thaumaturge,” I nodded. “We did some advanced studies at Inarion. She’s utterly brilliant.”

“Advanced thaumaturgical studies?” she asked, intrigued – or at least faking it well. “In what field?”

Oh. Now I saw the trap I she had set for me. She had to have known all about me, or Mother’s spy network wasn’t what it should be. As she threw back her soft cape, I could see that she was exposing quite a lot of flesh under it, almost as much as someone actually in the trade she pretended. “Sex magic,” I answered, my throat almost catching. “Really very traditional work, for the most part, almost purely theoretical—”

“The tale is that you and Pentandra used sex magic to open the portal that allowed everyone to escape, before you stared down this evil goblin head.” She took a step closer to me.

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” I said, retreating to the edge of my bed. “But we did use some basic techniques to activate and steer the molopar.”

“That’s utterly brilliant,” she said, allowing the cape to drop to the floor. “I never would have thought of it.”

“So what’s your area of specialty?” I asked, hoping to change the subject away from the sex marathon me and my ex-girlfriend had.

“Going places I’m not supposed to, hearing things I’m not supposed to hear, seeing things I’m not supposed to see, and doing things I’m not supposed to do.” She licked her lips, her ripe, full, heavy lips. Damn her. “Shadowmagic. It’s the equivalent of being a warmage, only for espionage instead. Not just battlefield spying, but learning all sorts of things by magic that Mother needs to know.”

“That’s quite a list,” I agreed, quietly. “You realize that the power of the stone will be so intoxicating that you’ll want to explode, using it for all sorts of things. The period of attunement is anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. It can be rocky. Don’t be afraid to use it, but do so in increments. Until you get used to it, there’s a danger of going power-mad. That’s what happened with poor Uric.” I told her the brief version of the story of Uric’s Rebellion, and why the oaths were there. She nodded as she sipped.

“I understand. If madness is a danger, then it’s best that there be some control. And if you can’t rely on self-control to police your actions, then you have to rely on the other magi who . . . understand the process.”

“Actually, other magi who can stop you,” I corrected. “Because precious else will be able to. That’s why we have the oath. That’s why the stones are lent, not given. And there is more.”

“More?”

“If you accept this stone, you will be connected with all the others to whom stones have been given. We are an order, if you will, dedicated to fighting the Dead God. Should you prove trustworthy, it may be that we invite you to join this order, and be privy to its secrets. And they are secrets you could not betray to Mother or anyone else in the Family.”

“Every trade must have its secrets,” Isily said, reasonably, tossing her hair back. It really was lovely, the same shade as Alya’s. Her face looked kind of similar, too. Damn it. “I am no stranger to keeping secrets. And the defense of humanity is a noble enough goal. I can keep your oath, Master Spellmonger.”

I sighed. “I know you will. And after I help you attune yourself to the stone, you will be forever grateful to me for introducing you to such power. Just . . . don’t let it go to your head. As powerful as you are, the Dead God is more powerful still.”

“This process of attunement,” she asked, coming closer, “is it painful?”

“Not exactly,” I said, staring at her. “It’s a lot like getting used to using a couple of limbs you didn’t know you had. Or speaking a language you didn’t know you knew. While riding a runaway horse. It’s . . . exhilarating. There’s nothing you’ve ever experienced that’s even remotely like it.”

“Administer your oath,” she whispered. “Do not make me wait any longer.”

“As you wish,” I breathed, taking the small bag from inside my tunic. I withdrew one of the wild stones that had been shorn of its connection to the Dead God by touching my stone. It was three centimeters wide, four long, about one and a half centimeters thick. Rough on one edge, smooth on the other. It weighed as much as a tablespoon of sugar in my palm.

“Do you, Isily of Brawin, swear by your soul and your powers as a mage, to keep this stone in my name, a loan not a gift, to use with wisdom and discretion? Do you swear to surrender it when called upon by me or my representative, and do so without resistance? Do you swear to aid me and your fellow members of the order in recovering a stone fallen from grace?”

“By my soul and my powers as a mage, I, Isily of Brawin, so swear your oath without reservation,” she said, solemnly.

“Open your hand,” I instructed her. My mouth was suddenly very dry. She knelt in front of me, cupping her hands together, and I gingerly placed the stone within them.

The effect was immediate, and spectacular. Her pretty mouth twisted into a big, girlish grin as the tendrils of energy washed through her for the first time. Her eyes lit up as she tentatively tapped the potential of the stone, and suddenly the room was ablaze with magelights and simple spells.

“Don’t be afraid to experiment,” I instructed her, “but ease into it, and adjust the potency of the spell accordingly. Otherwise you’ll summon a breeze and get a gale.”

“It’s wonderful!” she said, her eyes filled with awe as she studied the stone. “It’s like . . . it’s like someone finally took their hands from my eyes and ears, and all is new and vibrant again!”

I smiled despite myself. “You’ll get used to the feeling,” I promised. “And you’ll have a lifetime to practice. You’ll tire easily, at first, too. And you know how doing a spell depletes your resources? Using the stone overmuch usually has one of three effects: hunger, weariness, or . . . arousal,” I said, unsure of just how to proceed around that delicate topic. This woman was not Pentandra, after all, and most noblewomen have very rigid ideas about sexuality. Which is why tumbling peasant girls is much more fun.

“Randy?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Won’t that be interesting?”

“It can be,” I admitted. “But it’s almost as bad as the overpowering hunger, or the profound weariness. And we’re still learning the details of what happens, but in general err on the side of caution. There is a limit to what restoration spells can do for you, even with the stone. Drink lots of water, too.”

“You have opened a door to a new world . . .”

“Just use the powers wisely. Try not to be overcome with the feeling of invincibility. And know that the flow of energy, while great, is not inexhaustible. After a while it, too, flags. Merely rest for a few hours, and the stone will restore itself.”

“This is the stone that built the Magocracy,” she whispered. “That made ancient Perwin prosper, and was its doom. And all that power lies now in the palm of my hand. How can I ever thank you?” she asked, shaking her head in amazement. Before I could come up with a witty reply, she decided on her own, and suddenly my lips were locked in mortal combat with Isily’s.

And I was losing.

It had been a long day, and I was emotionally exhausted, and suddenly she was in my lap and her curves were wrapped around me in a heated embrace. Then she was on top of me, staring down at me with magic in her eyes as her shift vanished and her charms were displayed for me in all their naked glory. In the heat of the moment, at my weakened moral state, and with her looking so very much like Alya, there was no serious resistance in my mind.

“Use magesight,” I whispered into her ear at one point. A moment later her mouth formed an O as she saw the incredible spectrum of color and feeling a mage produces while they’re having sex using a witchstone. Not that we were using the witchstones . . . well, you get the idea. It’s different. It’s spectacular. And unlike my last marathon tryst with Pentandra, which opened the portal and allowed the Bovali to escape the siege, this unexpected union had the added novelty of a new, beautiful partner who just happened to resemble the woman I was in love with.

Now I know you might think less of me for indulging in such an intimate act with someone I had just met while the mother of my unborn child was living with my parents, hundreds of miles away. The fact was, I was tired, I was mentally exhausted, I was highly anxious, and I was destined to face the highest authority in magic on the morrow to defend my very existence. The comfort and release of sex with a beautiful, magically-adept partner was just too alluring. Sure, I was weak.

But I wasn’t technically married yet.

Don’t get me wrong – I loved Alya with all my heart. And in my heart it was her that I was caressing and holding.

But the rest of me was utterly enchanted by Isily’s charms, and the comfort that lay within. She was just what I needed. And as our mutual ecstasy wound up to the inevitable climax – or the succession of climaxes, depending upon your gender – I subconsciously tapped my own stone and allowed my feelings of joy and contentment manifest as part of the dizzying lightshow in the room.

And, apparently, out of the room. The next morning the castle was aflutter with the tale of how the River Tower was lit up by magical fireworks of unique and spectacular magnitude. The effect was seen for a mile away, and alerted some of the guardsmen. Only my stalwart manservant, Hamlan, kept us from being interrupted, telling the guards that his master was merely entertaining a whore, and such outbursts of excess magical energy were common – and harmless – under such circumstances. Ham was smart – he caught on quickly.

When we were done, and the immediacy of our need was transformed into a contented afterglow and messy hair, Isily lay in my arms staring at the stone she held between her fingers.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered. “And so powerful.”

“And now, so are you,” I sighed, smelling her hair. “Use it wisely. And beware of excess. Even your subconscious thoughts and feelings will seek to manifest through magic. With that much power at your mind’s command, uttering an off-hand curse could doom some poor lackey, if you aren’t careful.”

“Then I will endeavor to be careful,” she agreed. “Now for my part of the bargain.”

“Bargain? Oh, yes. That’s right. You’re supposed to tell me how to keep the Censor General at bay.”

“I suppose you should know, General Hartarian, he is my uncle. My mother was his wife’s youngest sister, before she passed away, married to the Lord of Brawin. I didn’t know my uncle Hartarian well, since he lived in far from Brawin, but he did visit from time to time, when my mother was still alive. As a little girl, I remember him being very powerful but very kind. He was imposing, in the black-and-white cloak, but he was also willing to use his magic to amuse us children.”

That was a difficult image to visualize: the Censor General is a man to be feared and respected, a man with the power of life and death and professional success in his hands. He shouldn’t be making shadow puppets come alive to make the kiddies happy.

“When he found out I had Talent, and Her Grace chose to use her influence to see me at Alar Academy, he was very pleased. I was the only one in the family who had enough Talent to train, and he visited me once while I was there.”

“I’m certain that made your dormitory mates nervous,” I chuckled.

“More than you could imagine,” she giggled. “But he was a powerful mage, and he liked the fact that I was going into the trade. Although he insisted I stay away from certain elements he found . . . disreputable.”

“And certain magi, no doubt.”

“Exactly. However, Her Grace had other plans for me, and managed to secure a private tutor in the magical arts of detection and espionage without his knowing.”

“So where’s the part where you reveal Hartarian’s secret passion for buggering goats, or whatever leverage it is I need to make him not order me to be executed?”

“I’m getting to that. When I was a girl, I remember mother and my aunt talking in the garden one day about something that had disturbed my uncle. This was back before he was the Censor General, he was just one of the Censors of Remere, but he still had ambition. Apparently while bringing a hedgemagi to justice, the man prophesied that Hartarian would become the Censor General. The last Censor General.”

“Now isn’t that interesting?” I said, lightly. Far more lightly than I felt.

Prophesy is a very specialized branch of magic, as is all divination. Unlike merely throwing lots or reading entrails or studying the stars and moons, however, free-form prophecy is a particular Talent that appears sporadically among the magi, and seemingly more amongst the half-trained or self-trained footwizards and hedgemagi who operated just outside the law.

I suppose that’s because trained magi avoid divination and prophecy like a plague. It’s not that it can’t be done – it’s actually quite easy – it’s that prophecy and divination have an unpleasant habit of binding the subjects to the Fates, making a particular future path unavoidable (although due to the obscure nature of most prophesies, sometimes it takes centuries to realize the exact nature of the fulfillment).

The problem is that most prophecies are theurgic in nature – that is, they get filtered through the aspect of a god or goddess (or divine-like thing) who may have their own agendas and perspectives. Since the gods have been known to play favorites, give out misinformation, outright lie and otherwise entrap the foolish with their prophecies, a wise mage will avoid them. To hear that Hartarian had gotten disturbed about this off-hand prophesy was intriguing.

“The last Censor General, eh?” I mused. “Anything else to the prophesy?”

“Yes,” she said, reluctantly. “It said he will gain higher station than that, as well.”

“There is no higher station for a mage than Censor General,” I said. “He out-ranks even the Ducal Court Mages.”

“Of course,” she nodded. “Which is why that prophesy was so disturbing. The only mage who would – theoretically – out-rank the Censor General would have to be either a Royal court mage – that is, the personal mage to the King, which we seem to be short of – or the Archmage, which has been in scarce supply even longer than Kings in the Duchies.”

“I can see how that would be disturbing,” I agreed. “He can’t be Archmage without a Magocracy. He can’t be Royal Court Mage without a Kingdom. Either way promises to overthrow the established order in his lifetime. That has got to shake up a man who believes in his cause as thoroughly as the Censor General must.”

“There was one last part,” she added, hesitantly. “The most disturbing part of all. The prophesy said that he would have to betray his office in order to save the world.”

“Now that,” I said, lightly, toying with the outline of her nipple with one lazy finger, “is perhaps the most useful thing you’ve told me of all. This situation certainly fits. If he doesn’t allow the Bans to be relaxed, then the Dead God dines on our souls for breakfast. So he’s foreordained to give me my way,” I said, sighing. Perhaps there was a way out of this after all.

“Minalan, I don’t think it will be that simple,” she said, rising on one arm to look at me. “After he heard the prophesy, he went to the Temple of Avital, in Wenshar – there’s an old one there, dating back to the Magocracy and still in continual use – and he made a blood-vow that should he become Censor General, he would die before he would betray his oath.”

“So it comes down to whether he will bow to his honor or his spirit,” I said, my heart sinking again. “And I am supposing that he’s not known for cheating at cards, infidelity, or any of the other mortal failings to which man is subject?”

“He has been held up as a paragon of honor and virtue my entire life. He would rather lose a hand than see his reputation besmirched by even the suggestion of impropriety.”

I considered that for a moment. How come every aspect of governance of the Five Duchies was rife with corruption and dishonorable dealings – except for the one small part I needed to be? Scoundrels are easy to predict and maneuver around. A real man of honor, however, is always dangerous.

“So you think I can get him to break his honor by using the threat of the Dead God?” I asked, hopefully.

“If he has not had a change of heart, then knowing what I do of the man, no, you will not,” she admitted. “However, you may be able to use his fear of the prophesy to stay his hand. Create some doubt in his mind. Mitigate his impulse, which will be to punish you severely for your temerity.”

I swallowed, hard. That didn’t seem to be the level of protection she had promised me, but I guess it would have to work. “I suppose I can use it,” I said, at last. “Since he doesn’t know I know about it, it could be a useful surprise.” I stared into her big green eyes again. “Just curious – what ever happened to the hedgemage?”

“Him? Oh, Hartarian was not pleased. He was arrested for practicing without a license, then stripped of his powers, then tortured to death. They have a whole building devoted to that in the Censorate’s compound. And they stack up the skulls of those thus condemned as a mark of the Censorate’s command.”

I just had to ask, didn’t I?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tudry Town, Late Summer

By the time we rode back through Tudry’s gates, we barely recognized the place.

A lot of it was still abandoned, of course, particularly the poorer sections of New Town – those who had remained instead of fleeing to Vorone hadn’t hesitated to improve their station – or at least their quarters. But the streets were devoid of trash, there was a brace of armored guardsmen at every intersection, and the walls were being patrolled by vigilant-looking soldiers of the City Guard. Astyral had things well-in-hand, it seemed.

I headed for his office the moment we arrived, before I’d even summoned Hamlan to care for Traveler. Apparently that would be unnecessary: my manservant awaited me outside of the former Lord Mayor’s palace.

“Good fortune on your journey, Master?” he asked, cheerfully as he took the reigns.

“We’re all still alive. That’s as much good fortune as I could ask for. If you could prepare a bath, I think I need a thorough scrubbing, after I brief Captain Astyral. A full tub, back at the inn, but don’t worry about heating it up.”

“Yes, Master. It’s good to see you again, too,” he added, with even more enthusiasm. I sighed. Sarcasm.

“I’ll have a dispatch, later – Family Business. You don’t happen to have a cousin around, do you?”

“I shall inquire, Master,” he nodded, suddenly all-business. I let him do what he does, and I went between the two brawny guardsmen with halberds who were stationed in front of the palace.

“Palace”, as in residence-of-someone-important, not “palace” as in luxuriously appointed mansion. It had been built at the height of Tudry’s prosperity, after the lead mines opened, of sturdy-but-ugly gray-brown brick and local gray-brown quarried stone, where it hadn’t been patched with mortar and paving stones. It was moderately defensible, but better suited to surviving a riot than a prolonged attack.

I passed two more pairs of guards before I got to the door of Astyral’s study, and there were a couple of pages racing back and forth . . . bearing the yellow sash with the jagged slashed spiral of the Ilnarthi death-rune on it, which was kind of disturbing, considering I’d seen it carved on the foreheads of men I’d known in Farise.

Damn. We had to get better livery.

“Minalan! You didn’t waste any time, did you?” He seemed genuine pleased to see me. His desk was covered with parchment, paper, books, scrolls, and at least six pots of ink and a dozen quills and pencils. I couldn’t help but notice a wine bottle being used as a paperweight. I poured us each a goblet full of an incredibly mediocre table wine that tasted like heaven, after ten days of road dust.

“Like the Dead God himself was chasing me,” I agreed. “I would have . . . thought to you if I’d gotten into trouble. But we got a wealth of intelligence, and all of it bad.” I gave him the abbreviated tale of our journey, which took almost a half an hour. He looked as gravely concerned as was warranted. When I finished, he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“And here I thought I was sliding into a cushy billet,” he sighed. “We just got security the way I want it. Just got some organization back to this place. Oh, well.”

“I thought you didn’t really want to be a military governor?”

He shrugged. “Except for the horrible hours, it’s not a bad job. It looks like the Lord Mayor was the one keeping things from getting done. With him gone, everyone else has been surprisingly cooperative. Of course, they could be plotting my sudden and bloody death, but . . .” he finished with a shrug.

“Any more goblin trouble?”

“Sure, all the time. But all small bands. A hundred or so, here and there, raiding and looting but not a threat behind these walls. I’ve got Azar and his knights running patrols to intercept and destroy them. He’s having a lot of fun.” I could imagine. Azar isn’t happy unless he has blood dripping down both wrists.

I nodded. “That’s just what the Dead God wants . . . our forces scattered chasing after his churls while his main force descends on us. Our only chance against that horde is to concentrate our forces and meet it head on.”

“Head on? That doesn’t sound like the crafty, sneaky Spellmonger I keep hearing about.”

Goddess help me, I blushed. “If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it. But an army that size is going to swallow up anything smaller than itself. Throwing everything we can at it seems to be the only option.”

“You have me there,” he conceded. “Even after the relief of Sarsguard—”

“Sarsguard? The barony?” It lay in the outlands, just before the Northwatches. Very remote. Very sparsely populated. And it was well within the Penumbra.

“Yes, well, they got a messenger through and Azar decided that it would be fun. He took three hundred heavy cavalry and some scouts, and made a run at the besiegers. Damn if he didn’t take them, too – high noon, pushed through three thousand of the buggers. By the time they got themselves organized, most of Sarsgard was on the move. Seven, eight hundred made it out, with Azar covering their withdrawal. They’re back at Megelin Castle now.”

“And you didn’t think that warranted a message?” I asked, surprised. Once again, Astyral shrugged.

“I’ve been busy. I’ve been sending armed parties out to local farms to harvest everything they can before winter. I’ve got squatters fighting over houses. I’ve got soldiers fighting over women – the whores got out with the rest of them, mostly. I’ve got burghers insisting I bring everyone back because the mines are idle, I’ve got lordlings bitching that they don’t have to do what I say because I was appointed by a Castali envoy and not an Alshari, I’ve got—”

“I wasn’t criticizing,” I said, and then sighed. “Yes, yes I was criticizing, and I shouldn’t have been. Sorry. You were right to send Azar—”

“I didn’t send him, he just . . . went. He’s got a group of knights around him at Megelin Castle who think he’s Duin the Destroyer, reborn. When he said ‘go’, they went. I didn’t find out about it until afterwards.” He sounded a little disturbed by it. I was a lot disturbed by it . . . but what could I do? Azar was killing goblins. That’s what I wanted him to do.

It was becoming clear to me that the role of grand strategician wasn’t the easy job I thought it was. I had an army – of sorts – and captains, and spies, and scouts, and allies and . . . and no real way to control them. I could barely command them, I realized.

“How soon before you can have the men prepared to march?”

“How far?” he asked, simply. “Which men?”

“All of the horse, and most of the infantry. Save a thousand to garrison the town. A few hundred leagues. I suppose we had better figure out exactly where as quickly as possible. Because until we . . . then we . . . Damn!“ I finally gasped in exasperation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.

“I’m just realizing everything that has to be done before we can even begin to plan how to win. There are still too many questions that need to be answered. Exactly how large a force do we face? How are they composed? Where are they? How fast are they moving? When will they be where? Where is the best place for us to face them? How many shamans do they have? How many warmagi can we put in the field? Can Duke Lenguin be convinced to ride forth? And last, but not least, how can we talk the mercenaries into extending their support to an entire army? Can the Orphans even handle that?” I gave an exasperated sigh. “Too many unknowns to make any plans. “I need a council of war. A real one.”

“Well, you’ve come up with a list of questions. That’s a start. You just need answers. And people to find them out for you. And then more people to do what you want them to do. To answer one of those, the horse could be ready to move in four days, maybe three. The infantry will need a week, if you want them to go in good order, well provisioned, and prepared for battle. I can convene a small council of my – our forces, here at Tudry, and those at Megelin. Let’s go ahead and send for the Baron of Green Hill, too – it looks like this is going to happen near to his lands, if not in them.”

“If you could make those arrangements, I need a bath and ten hours of sleep.”

“Go ahead, Min,” he said, rising to shake my hand. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

* * *

When I awoke, sometime late the next day, I felt like a new man. An hour-long soak in the inn’s big brass tub, the water magically heated to the perfect temperature, a very attentive Marlet assisting me, Hamlan laying out my clothes (he had procured several sets at very good prices from some looters of good repute) and an unassuming but stunningly delicious rabbit and fargwort stew with chunks of onion and potato, from Master Brindalan’s kitchen, and two pints of beer from his cellars. The horrors of Terrorhall, the lingering sense of doom from the Umbra, and even the prospect of fielding a response to a true goblin horde faded from my spirit, if not my mind.

I was helped in this distraction by the minstrel, Jannik, who had taken rooms at the inn, in part because it was where I was staying, and he still felt grateful for my rescuing him (so he said) or because Jannik gravitated toward people in power who could protect and support him (my conjecture). Still, he was a hearty companion who seemed to be performing even when he was idling. Perhaps especially so.

Despite his caginess, I found Jannik to be shrewd in his judgment of people, and astute to politics in ways I wasn’t. For instance, he knew quite a bit about the Alshari court, despite working in the hinterlands, and that was more than I knew and I’d been living in Alshar for almost a year. I barely knew Lenguin’s name, much less the leading nobles of the Duchy. As a spellmonger, they’d had no need of my services, and as a warmage they were intelligent, rich, or powerful enough to avoid the kinds of private wars which are my profession’s bread and butter. Barons, on the other hand . . . they’re always scheming about enlarging their domains through petty warfare. Emphasis on the petty.

I encouraged Jannik to stick around, and had Hamlan ensure the innkeeper was being well-paid, before I asked him something else, when everyone else was out of earshot.

“Have you found a cousin capable of making it back to Mother?”

“Anytime you wish, Master,” he promised. “You have a dispatch?”

“I will, after I take counsel this afternoon,” I agreed. “And observe Jannik, as well. He seems very resourceful – well, he’d have to be, surviving the Soulless of Terrorhall. See if you think he’d be a good resource for Mother to cultivate.” After all, minstrels got around a lot and heard all sorts of things.

I made my way into the keep, where Astyral was busy getting the men ready to go. For his part, that mostly meant informing their captains that action was expected soon, and they would be moving out. After that, he could let them contend with the awesome task of putting an army on the move, and he could help me figure out just where to move them.

We began our strategies around a sprawling and not poor a map of the region in Astyral’s study. Azar was on his way back from his latest rescue mission, and the other warmagi who’d accompanied me to the Umbra arrived. Wenek was there, too, and Carmella, who was recently arrived from the region we were considering – and who didn’t look happy about it. I let her brief us on what she’d observed. She didn’t hesitate to step in front of the map on the wall and nervously address us.

“Let’s start off with where the horde is now – or was, a few days ago. I rode north with a few friends and got as far as Nandine before I hit serious resistance. Thing is, it gets real serious past Nandine. The village itself is a ghost town, burnt and pillaged, and the local manor is a hollow shell. But beyond the castle, there’s easily six thousand goblins bivouacking in the hilly country just north of Nandine.”

“Only six thousand?” asked Delman, his brow furrowed. “I thought we were facing ten times that number?”

“The forces at Nandine are only the vanguard,” continued Carmella, unhappily. “We skirted their sentries to the west, along this ridge, until we were able to get past them. We rode north, scrying the whole way, and only saw small bands of them . . . until we came to a valley, here,” she said, using the point of her dagger to indicate a spot at the very edge of the map.

“That valley is filled with goblins. Their camp is vast. It was difficult to judge, given how difficult to stay under cover, but . . . I’d say there were no less than eighty thousand goblins, Captain. In that valley, alone. There were probably another six or seven thousand broken up into smaller camps around the perimeter. I’m no expert at gurvani heraldry, but the smaller camps seemed to be made up of more tribal warriors, a lot less disciplined than the main force. The main force . . . it was . . . there were some strange things going on there, Captain,” she said, worriedly.

“Like what kind of strange?”

“How about giant goblins?” she offered. “Some as tall as six feet. And some broad, almost fat. With big shields and axes. And some . . . some other beasts, too – or maybe monsters – but they weren’t goblins. Trolls maybe? Giants? Some other horror? We couldn’t get close enough to tell, because there were – and I am not exaggerating, here – there were over thirty gods-damned shamans there, Min, over thirty!”

“Duin’s beard!” whispered Cormaran, fingering his own chin. “Ninety-thousand goblins, giants, monsters, and at least thirty shamans?”

“Those were just the ones in the main group, and a lot of them were those white-furred ones. The really tough ones, the urgulnosti. But there were others, too, the lesser sort. Possibly as many as a hundred, all together.”

“Any more gleeful tidings?” Astyral asked, joylessly.

“Yeah, actually,” Carmella said, brushing her dark hair out of her dark eyes. “They’ve got humans working with them. Some sort of slave soldiers, maybe, or – I can’t believe there is such a thing – collaborators. But we saw men in armor working with the gurvani, maybe a couple of hundred, all together. We thought they were captives, at first, but they had chances to escape they didn’t take. What kind of a shit of a human being sells out to the Dead God?”

“Garkesku, for one,” snorted Delman. He filled Carmella in on the horror of the Terrorhall and its mad master. She looked horrified.

“So how fast and how far do you think they can move?” I asked. She shrugged.

“I’m not really good at that sort of thing, but my friends—”

“Friends?” I asked, curious. Carmella didn’t seem the sort to have many friends.

“Four Swordsisters of Feshara,” she explained. “They hire out to me, sometimes.”

I was impressed – the cult of Feshara was an old militant all-female monastic order from Merwin, dedicated to the goddess Feshara. Or demi-goddess, depending on which version of the myth you prefer. But Feshara was the originally a goddess of the Fondolan peoples, who had been fishing and farming southern Merwin since before Perwin sank. There was an entire myth cycle devoted to her skill with a blade and how she bested her brothers and how she dueled the old Imperial gods. The Feshari Sisterhood, like the Gobargan Order, were frequently hired as mercenaries, from special forces units to mere armed guards. Some of them were quite good, and they were all passionate about their goddess.

It also explained how Carmella had friends. She paid them.

“Any way, my friends thought that the whole army could probably move as much as twelve miles a night, if they stayed organized. And they were on the move, south,” she admitted. “They will probably reach the vanguard at Nandine in . . . two weeks?”

“That’s something, at least. So where do we meet them?” asked Taren. “And how?”

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? “If they come south – as they come south,” corrected Astyral, “they will have to take this route,” he said, tracing the way from Nandine south. “They won’t go too far west of Nandine, or else they’ll come within range of the Green Hill castles, hard country for infantry to cross. Not that they couldn’t invest one, particularly Northhill, but they’d have to ford the river to do so – and it’s just not worth the trouble. It’s deep, they hate water, and it’s a crappy castle. More likely, they’ll stay more easterly, and come down through this region.”

“Why not the Pearwoods?” asked Delman. “They aren’t afraid of hills. And they wouldn’t have to cross a river. They are called the Mountain Folk, in some places.”

“The Pearwoods are filled with crags, blind valleys, sharp ridges, and twisting passes,” explained Wenek. “The forests are scraggy and overgrown, filled with thickets of underbrush, particularly brambles. The gurvani are nimble in such terrain, it’s true, but only individually, or in small groups.”

“Armies are like rivers,” agreed Astyral. “They will tend to go through the lowest, easiest passage, not the hardest. Even without horses, they’d never make it through the Pearwoods in force.”

“Not bloody likely,” agreed Wenek with a snort. “They might survive, but they wouldn’t be in any shape to fight. Nay, they’ll come to the west of the Pearwoods, to the east of the river. Through . . . this land.”

“That’s the fief of Timberwatch,” nodded Astyral. “Lord Sigarlan, I believe.”

“Aye,” agreed the guard captain. “He’s a doughty one, Sigarlan. His ancestors were given the fief to stand between the Pearwoods raiders and the timber men. His standard is an axe cleaving through a hill, and to look at him you’d think he could do it himself. He has fifty or sixty men-at-arms, personally, and about a dozen full knights. His castle is no country manor, it’s a stone keep with three timber palisades and some ingenious ditchwork, on the summit of the last hill of the Pearwoods. It bears a watch tower nine stories high, and his men are vigilant for the threat of forest fire from its summit. But it is small. Too small for the goblins to invest, too small for us to use as more than a place of retreat at need.”

“But they can skirt west of the Timberwatch easily enough, and then either move toward Vorone, through Grimly Wood, or turn east and attack the borderlands baronies,” agreed Rustallo, pointing out the obvious. He was a good warrior, but the boy had only the vaguest ideas about tactics.

“So it will have to be in the Timberwatch,” I nodded. “Tell me about the country?” I asked Volerin, our resident expert on the region.

“It’s rolling hills, in the east, and parts are still heavily forested. The land is not as good as even the Pearwoods and the people are every bit as prosperous. Poor. Those folk barely scrape a living out of the soil, when the market for timber in the south is bad. Its real corn-and-beans country, with a little oats and millet, not much else will grow.”

“I was thinking more about the lay of the land,” I said, patiently.

“My mistake, Captain,” Volerin said, a little embarrassed. “The key feature is the frontier with Nandine. In the north of the fief is an escarpment which faces south, a fall of maybe twenty to fifty feet. And it runs from the river to the hills. It’s not particularly scalable, outside of the passes. If they come from Nandine there are only a few easy tracks that they could take down from the plateau, three natural causeways that gently slope down from the top of the escarpment to the base, here, here and here. And which ever way they take, or all of them, they’ll have to regroup here,” he said, tapping the map to the north of the Timberwatch. “It’s a pastureland between the villages of Hoyf and Bucaral.”

“The peasants are long gone from those villages,” observed Carmella. “Not a sign of them when we came near. And Timberwatch was the last inhabited fortress we saw to the north. That area, it could get muddy if it rains, and it’s rocky. But it’s not too broken for cavalry, not at all,” she added, encouragingly.

“If I was to choose a battlefield to our best advantage, that would be it,” agreed Cormaran. “Timing will be important, of course . . . but if we catch them just as they are finished descending that escarpment that could prove decisive.”

“There are also plenty of things we can do to the area, once we’re sure that’s where the battle will be,” agreed Reylan. He had a knack for booby traps and static battlefield spells. “With a week’s notice, we can make the whole place into one big trap.

“Can we be certain that they will come down by that route?” asked Astyral. “What if they decide to turn west and try to come down through Green Hill? It might be difficult, but if it means they could avoid our defenses . . .”

“We could always do a decoy spell around there to warn them off,” suggested Rustallo, which wasn’t a bad idea. Of course, not everyone was familiar with the term.

“A what spell?” asked the guard captain, confused.

“A decoys spell. Just like we use cloaking spells to hide our troop movements from enemy scrying, you can also use magic to suggest that there are troops – or more troops – someplace where they aren’t.”

“Sneaky,” said the captain approvingly.

“Yes, we can use the garrisons at the Green Hill castles and cast Trager’s Augmentation on each one. It’s a simple spell and will last for a few days – few weeks, maybe, with irionite. It will make every man there appear to be five, when scried. And if we do it carefully enough, we can make it look like we’re trying to hide them, which will make them believe that we’re preparing an ambush.”

“Excellent suggestion,” I agreed. That would keep them away from those keeps – or conversely, it would pull enough of a screening force away from their main band to weaken the goblin horde that much more. “Anything else?”

“That field would be a perfect field for artillery,” suggested Terleman. “If they are going to me massed together there, what better place to fling some big heavy rocks?”

“Magically or mechanically?” asked Rustallo, eagerly.

“We can do both,” Terleman said, nodding and studying the map. “We’ll have to scout out the territory, but we should be able to build or haul a couple of mangonels or trebuchets, easily. Well, not easily, but we could do it,” he amended. “If there’s sufficient lumber.”

“It’s called the Timberwatch. They are wealthy in lumber. So assuming we have everyone we can realistically get on our side,” Carmella asked, uneasily, “just how many boots are going to be facing that thing? Because there had better be a lot. That’s an awful lot of gurvani.”

“Five to seven thousand from here,” I ticked off, “most of whom came with us, or are local. I’ve got Mavone and Isily working Duke Lenguin to get him to commit his forces, which would be another twenty thousand, maybe more – I heard a rumor that he’s hired three companies of mercenaries to strengthen his troops, but it will be another month before they arrive from the south.”

“Twenty seven thousand? Against ninety thousand?” Carmella asked, dazedly. “Still not enough.”

“I know,” I sighed, worriedly, as I studied the map. “Hey, Wenek, you said you were from the Pearwoods?”

“As a child,” he agreed. “And a thrall.” Ouch.

“You said they were tough fighters with the hills at their back. Well, Timberwatch is about as close as you could ask for. If the whole land was raised, how many men could they put in the field?”

He looked surprised by the question, but he took a moment to consider. “Maybe five to seven thousand. At least half of them would be archers, but they’re really good archers. Not much cavalry at all, but a decent grade of light infantry. Hell, some of the clans even fight naked.”

“Do you think they could be raised?”

He looked at me discouragingly. “I don’t know, Min. They mostly fight each other, and there are a dozen bloodfeuds going on at any one time. None of the Pearwoods lords is respected widely enough to command them all, not even that so-called baron.”

“What about someone from outside the Pearwoods?”

“Like Duke Lenguin? Maybe. They wouldn’t be happy about it, and two of the clans have been officially outlawed by him, but they might. Or at least half of them might.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“Me?” he said, eyes wide with shock. “Captain, I was a slave when I lived there. A bastard slave, the lowest of the low, in a land that’s already considered the lowest of the low. The Pearwoods may have been where I was born and spent my boyhood, but this is the closest I’ve been to it since I left home!”

“You’re a mage – not just that, but a warmage, and not just any warmage. You have irionite.”

“That’s not going to impress them in the slightest,” he said, shaking his head.

“Not just by waving it around. But you can show them how powerful you are, promise them stuff, and do everything you possibly can to mobilize them and bring them into the fight, couldn’t you?”

“Theoretically,” he said, doubtfully.

“Take twenty men from that region with you, and see what you can do. If we could arrange an attack from the Pearwoods on their flank that could be telling.”

“Twenty men?” he asked, even more doubtfully. “Even with magic, why would they—?”

“Because we’re going to bribe the hell out of them to fight. And tell them lies. And promise them all the booze they can drink. They can each bed down with the goddess of their choice, I don’t care – just get them ready to fight,” I said, resolutely.

Wenek didn’t look convinced. “I’ll try,” he shrugged.

“Reylan, Delman, and . . . Master Cormaran, I want you three to take fifty men and ride to that field. See what we have to deal with, what spells might be most useful, that sort of thing. You’ll be our advanced party. Inform the local lord what’s about to happen to him, and try to prepare him as best you can . . . but if all goes to plan, he’s going to have guests for the next few weeks.”

“I take it you want full intelligence on the area?” Delman asked, his mustache twitching.

“That would be lovely. And try to keep his scouts from reporting back anything useful. I don’t want to spook them, else they will try to go through Green Hill, as hard as that might be, and most of our cavalry would be pointless up there, and completely useless in a siege.”

All three of them nodded, and I was pretty certain they’d do it, too. Delman and Reylan were old trusted comrades, and I’d chosen Master Cormaran because he had more experience in magical warfare than anyone in the room. I could have selected Carmella, of course, since she just came from there, but I wanted to give her a chance to rest before I sent her off again. And when I did, it wouldn’t be on a scouting mission.

I drummed my fingers and stared at the map a good long while before I looked back up. “All right, let’s have the cavalry ready to go in a week, and we’ll send the first elements of the infantry out as soon as they’re ready.”

“ ‘First elements?’,” asked Astyral, confused.

“Yeah, in order to disguise just how big a force is being employed. We can send the infantry out in units of one or two hundred, and they can take this route – from Tudry, almost directly east to skirt the temple here, back across the ford where the Battle of the Lantern was fought, and thence to Green Hill castle. Or in a cantonment around it.

“Each unit can rest and re-provision at Green Hill or at Northhill for a day, then move out to rendezvous here, in Timberwatch. That way we won’t have a huge ungainly column to protect, and the companies can assist each other along the way if they get into trouble. Plus we can bring up our cavalry over the roads, where they’ll be able to move faster, from here to Fesdarlen, thence to Paleslan, here, and then overland between the Great Western Road to the North Road, because we don’t want to get conscripted by His Grace’s pickets at Vorone.”

“About him,” Astyral said, his eyes narrowing. “Why the hell isn’t his armored ass out here, chasing little black furry guys?”

“I’m working on that,” I promised. “As a matter of fact, after I send a dispatch to Duke Rard, I’m going to turn my full intention on Lenguin. We need to get his troops marching. Together, we can have an impact.”

“You’re going to go tell the Duke of Alshar what to do?” Rustallo said, finding the idea amusing.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” I said, flatly.

“Min . . . he’s a Duke,” Reylan said, in a hushed tone. “Warmagi don’t tell Dukes what to do! He’ll have you thrown in a dungeon, or executed out of hand!”

“He might find that difficult to do,” I nodded. “Besides, I plan to have a very compelling argument at hand.”

“His Grace is known for his . . . mercurial temper,” warned Astyral.

“Even when he’s summering in Vorone,” added the Volerin, “he’s famous for changing his mind on policy, ministers, everything. His wife isn’t any better. I swear by Huin’s dirty feet that when that Remeran twat was sent to wed him, Remere got the better end of the deal.”

“What did they get?” Rustallo asked. He had been a child when the Alshari Duke got married.

“Two island fiefs off the coast and enough timber to build a dozen ships,” grumbled Cormaran. “That was a poor deal, even before Farise made them valuable again. Castal had proposed a prominent and wealthy, if homely, daughter of Count Sharlane of Tallbanks when he was ready to marry, but Lenguin hated the fact that his sister approved. So he went with the brainless blonde girl with the big boobs and the exotic accent. Alshar was robbed,” he scowled.

I looked at him in surprise. “You seem to know a lot about it,” I said, curiously.

His scowl grew, until it ended abruptly in a smirk. “I spent two years as Court Mage to Baron Aldoz, down in Corusine at the time, before I came back to Tudry. He was a party to the negotiations. I left his employ shortly thereafter, since Lenguin’s enchantment with his new bride meant Aldoz’s timber interests were booming and he was moving to the Ducal Court. A year later, Duchess Enora had him executed for . . . well, something silly.”

“She’s really that bad?”

Wenek looked thoughtful – he paid some attention to politics . . . which I needed to start doing, it appeared. “If you took a retarded cow, wrapped its head in a blanket, and then beat it senseless with a rock, it would still be a towering intellect next to Enora. But after almost ten years and three useless children together, he still dotes on her like she was a fourteen year old virgin again. And Enora’s got him wrapped around her . . . policies. She’s the key to His Grace, and all the courtiers know it. ”

I winced. “All right, does she have any weaknesses?” I sighed, tiredly. Astyral looked at me with a mixture of concern and amusement.

“Well, yes,” he said, slowly and cautiously. “But you’re not going to like it.”

“Just tell me . . . I’ve dealt with royalty before. Hell, after what I did to the Censor General, I’m sure my reputation will precede me.”

“Well, that just adds another problem to getting him to do what you want, then,” chuckled Taren, who had been there. “If you’re successful, you know what happens. Or what will try to happen. If His Grace, Lenguin of Alshar was ambivalent about his big sister and her husband before, he will be positively livid if you succeed and His Grace, Rard of Castal, fulfills his promise. Most livid. Livid enough to raise troops and threaten war.”

“He has a war on his doorstep, and he can’t seem to fight it,” dismissed Cormaran. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Lenguin’s ire.”

“Not at his brother-in-law, perhaps,” I agreed. “But at a pushy spellmonger who’s already taken over one of his towns without his express permission? And even installed military governors? I don’t think he’d have any problem finding a cozy little cell under Vorone castle to keep me in until it was time for the noose. Believe me, when dealing with dukes, I aim to use an excessive amount of caution. Especially after what happened the last time I came before a Ducal court.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

Censor General Hartarian

Wilderhall, Midsummer

When I awoke the next morning, Isily was gone, leaving behind only rumpled sheets and the heady aroma of her lustful scent in my nostrils. Hamlan wisely avoided waking me until the last possible moment, then appeared with hot tea, biscuits, walnuts soaked in brandy, and a couple of sausages still hot from the pan.

“So today is the big day,” he said, after inquiring about the satisfactory nature of the whore he’d procured. I truthfully told him I hadn’t had such a good time in a month, and left it at that. “The Duke’s Tower is buzzing about the affair – apparently the Censor General has been bellowing for your head from the moment he arrived.”

“Well, as long as he’s not prejudiced about my case already,” I said, sourly. After last night’s exertions, you’d expect that I’d be dragging, but the fact was the tryst had invigorated me. I got up, used the chamberpot, and stretched luxuriously before heating the water in the basin for washing.

While I was scrubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I began feeling the first tentative tingle of a psychic contact – someone wanted my attention. Carefully, so as not to alert Ham of my communication, I allowed the message to manifest in my mind.

Captain? came the call – Taren’s “voice”, I could feel. Are you awake?

I am, I answered, as I scrubbed. I’m just preparing myself to face the day. I had a busy night last night.

I know, came the sarcastic reply. Whatever you were doing, we could feel the residuals all the way in town. Rustallo and I are at the inn you suggested. We await your orders.

All right, I responded, as I rinsed the soap from my face. Get into your finest wizardly costumes and present yourself to the castle gate at noon. I’ll alert them that you are coming. There shouldn’t be any issues, but if there are, ask to speak with a woman named Isily of Brawin. She’s a courtier of Her Grace, and owes me a favor. She’ll make sure you get in.

Isily of Brawin. Got it. Anything else?

Get lunch on your way in, I decided. It might be a while before you’ll get another chance to eat.

Why?

We might be on the run for our lives, with an army chasing us.

I see how that would be useful, then. So you’re really going to argue before the Censor General?

It’s not my first choice, I admitted, but it’s the one I’m left with. His Grace won’t rule on my proposal until the Censorate has had a chance to comment.

You anticipate a negative finding?

It would betray my pessimistic nature if I didn’t. Come on, Taren, you know the Censorate as well as I do. Even with the Dead God lurking in the background, do you really think they’re just going to stand by and let the Bans be destroyed? They have no purpose, without the Bans.

I know, Captain. Don’t worry, I have every confidence that you’ll be able to convince them.

And if I don’t? I asked, as I toweled my face dry.

Then Rustallo and I will tear the castle down brick by brick until you do to avenge your death and dismemberment.

That’s comforting, I said, sarcastically.

We’ll be there, Captain, don’t you worry. And you do have one piece of security you may dwell upon, at need. Something that has plagued many a commander, yet you are safely protected from worry about it.

What is that? I asked, hoping for some profound insight.

You don’t have to worry about one of your subordinates usurping your position as leader. No one else wants your job. That’s why we elected you. You’re the one they’d hang first.

I let the contact drift away after that because, after all, what could I possibly say to that? Thanks for the confidence in my leadership? Curse you all? I applaud your wisdom while I weep for your lack of faith? Just for that, asshole, you’re now second-in- command? See you at the execution? I snorted instead, and dropped the towel to eat breakfast.

“So what do the stable boys say this morning, Ham?” I asked, cheerfully. I can’t help it – I’m always cheerful after a night of soul-cleansing sex. Even if I might be executed that day.

“Some very interesting things, Master. For one, there were strange signs and portents of doom hanging over the River Tower last night, some say near to this very room,” he said, amusedly.

“Were there, now?” I chuckled. “I’ll be sure to look into that. Next?”

“There are apparently troops assembling at the nearby village of Cleston. Almost a thousand, so far, and more arriving soon, it is said. Mercenaries. One rumor says that they’re destined to cross the frontier and campaign against the goblins in Alshar, another says that they are here to take you into custody on behalf of the Censor General. There’s even some wagering about it. Any comment?” he asked, with a wink. Obviously, he was trying to get the better of his fellow gamblers with a little inside information.

“Could go either way,” I said, between bites of sausage. “But put me down for twenty gold ounces on Alshar, if they’re taking good odds.”

Ham looked surprised, and he stopped blacking my boots for a moment. “You know something, Master?”

“I know it would take far more than one thousand troops to bring me down. And besides, if I lose, I’ll die, and twenty ounces of gold isn’t going to hurt or harm me either way.” That was a dramatic overstatement, but it couldn’t hurt my reputation amongst the stable boys. “Anything else? Any word from ‘Mother’ this morning?”

“No, Master.”

I sighed. I’d hoped she’d help, somehow. She seemed to be considering my case – why else recruit me into the ‘Family Business’? “Then inform the gate that I am expecting two observers for the trial today – sorry, the ‘hearing’ before the Censorate. I would like them admitted without problem.”

“I shall see it done, Master. Friends of yours?”

“Fellow magi,” I shrugged. “Interested parties to the discussion.”

“And will my master be preparing otherwise for his trial – sorry, his ‘hearing’?”

“Yes. But I’ll handle that in seclusion. While you are cleaning my green suit. One must look one’s best while pleading for one’s life before the Censorate.”

“Of course, Master,” he agreed. “Leaving a shabby corpse behind is just tacky.”

After shaving me and collecting my green suit, he hurried away to make arrangements. I spent the rest of the morning checking in with my warmagi, who were scattered around Alshar learning useful things about our enemy. I also hung a few useful spells, exchanged telepathic barbs with Pentandra (she was riding her favorite horse, and not a hunky servant lad, for a change) and looking in on Tyndal, and by extension my family and Alya.

I felt a little guilty about my unanticipated liaison, but only a little. I mean, I loved Alya, I planned on marrying her, I adored her wit, wisdom, beauty, breasts, you name it. But I was also facing potential execution. And even if I avoided that, I was still likely to be sent off to die against the goblin hordes – and that’s if things went well.

As much as I adored Alya, I also was still getting to know her, on a personal level. And we were not wed, as yet. And if all of this sounds like a massive justification for what I did, you’re probably right. But I’ll be damned if I was going to worry about a little thing like vague infidelity when my neck was literally on the line.

Noon came, and with it arrived Ham, huffing a little from bringing my suit back from the washerwoman, whom he had bribed heavily to do my clothes. They weren’t quite dripping, but they were still quite damp. He apologized for that and promised to hang them in front of a fire in the kitchens to dry, when I spared him the trouble by simply removing the water from the garments with a spell. It made the stone floor of my chambers wet, but after it was thoroughly dry Ham was able to brush the fabric into an eye-pleasing luster. I admired the suit for a second, and then used a spell to make my professional hat appear to be made of the same fabric. Pure illusion, but it made me look good.

“There was one last thing, Master,” Ham said, as I strapped on my weapons belt. Technically you weren’t supposed to appear armed in front of the Duke in Court, but this was a special occasion, and I would not be deprived of the tools of my trade. The Duke would just have to understand. If I’d wanted Rard dead, I could have slain him long ago. “Those . . . visitors you mentioned arrived at the gate a little early. They presented this to the guard with instructions to deliver it to you,” he said, hesitantly, and brought out a small wrapped bundle.

There was no magical signature present, indicating a booby-trapped spell. I checked, nothing glowed or tinged, so I opened it. Inside was a yellow baldric five inches wide, that ran from my shoulder to hip. On the upper breast of the sash was embroidered the Ilnarthi death rune, a jagged spiral rendered with a few slashed lines.

“What is it, Master?” Ham asked, mystified.

“A token of loyalty,” I smiled. “We used this rune in Farise. And at Boval. If the gods so will it, it will likely become the symbol of my order of warmagi.”

“I . . . see,” he said, clearly not understanding. That was fine. I didn’t need Ham carrying every little tidbit back to Mother. That would be boring.

I pulled the baldric on over my weapons harness, which didn’t do the shape of my elegant tunic any favors. Courtly garb is not designed for a wide leather harness heavy enough to carry a mageblade, daggers, and warwands. But after adding the hat and the staff, I did look fairly impressive. I surveyed myself one last time in Ham’s looking glass, and took a deep breath.

“Let’s get on with this,” I said. “If I’m not dead, I’m going to take the afternoon off and maybe go swim in the river.”

“It’s always nice to have a contingency plan,” Ham agreed, affably. “Good luck, Master. May the gods be kind.”

We looked at each other and both had to laugh at that.

* * *

The day was overcast and there was more than a suggestion of rain in the air – a dark and foreboding cloud hung in the west, and there was a sense of impending dread looming over us all.

I stared up at the thunderhead as it grew, and remembered Master Insico’s experiments which verified a positive etheric charge immediately before a thunderstorm, which due to the Law of Crossed Reactions, made human beings feel generally ill-at-ease before a storm, and generally upbeat and cheerful afterwards when the ether was decidedly negatively charged. That, the good thaumaturge had explained, was why people dreaded thunderstorms but always felt better about life in their aftermath. I knew that intellectually, but I couldn’t help having my imagination point out how one large cloud in particular resembled the angry rictus of the Dead God’s face, a definite ill omen.

Or maybe that’s just the way I felt about it. To everyone else, it probably just looked like it was about to rain.

The Duke’s Tower was decked out with banners flying from every tower and spire, and the Ducal guards were wearing their best, shiniest armor as they allowed me through. Next to them stood two of the Censorate’s hired swords, non-magical warriors who helped enforce the Censor’s rulings. They both glared at me as if I was something they stepped in on the way over.

The Censorate warmagi, the Shirlin Order, were within. So was most of the Court, and I waved cheerfully at some of the acquaintances I’d made in the last few days, particularly the nobles I’d flustered the previous night. There were easily double the number of guards around as there had been on the first day of the war council, and I could see some of the nobility present had worn their armor and swords to lend their support to an immediate expeditionary force to Alshar, regardless of what the magi figured out.

The Shirlini warmagi, armed with their own mageblades and warstaves, flanked the simple chair that had been set near to the thrones in the Great Hall, upon which sat the imposing figure of the Censor General, Hartarian.

He didn’t look like he was in a good mood.

I took my place near the front of the gallery, and quickly caught sight of Taren and Rustallo, who weren’t wearing their hats but were carrying staves. They had taken up positions to either side of the hall, where they both had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. No doubt they each had a mageblade concealed about their person too, magically or otherwise. I gave them each a nod and a grunt mental approval through our stones.

Next I caught sight of Master Dunselen, entering at a sedate pace with his ridiculously ornate hat-of-office and his own wizard’s staff, and stopping near His Majesty’s throne. He wouldn’t look directly at either me or the Censor General, which was frustrating. Had he agreed to keep our bargain? Or had he capitulated to the Censorate? A lot could depend upon what that old geezer might do.

Then I saw Isily out of the corner of my eye, and my breath caught just the slightest. I was still basking in the afterglow of our encounter, and had fond thoughts toward her for that. She slipped me the briefest of smiles before she took her place to the left of the court, with Her Grace’s other ladies-in-waiting. Suddenly things didn’t look so bad. Maybe her presence reversed the etheric current, or something, but I felt better for having her present.

Then Their Graces were announced, we all stood for the fanfare and procession, and they took the thrones. The herald announced that court was in session, and that the Censor General begged an audience.

“The throne of Castal has always welcomed the Censorate in our court,” Rard said, nodding graciously in a way I’m sure he’d practiced countless times in private. “Approach, General Hartarian, and present your business.”

The Censor General rose, and I saw just how big he was in person for the first time. Easily six feet, seven inches or more. His shoulders were broadly built, and displayed the black-and-white checker of the Censorate in a particularly imposing way.

“Your Graces, I thank you for the opportunity to present our business today, he began, formally, in a deep and serious-sounding baritone. “For it has come to the attention of the Censorate that Castal is harboring several acute violators of the Bans of Magic, and I humbly request your leave and assistance in apprehending them and bringing them to justice, as custom demands.”

“And who might these violators be?” Rard asked, formally.

“One Minalan of Castal, called the Spellmonger, renegade warmage.”

“And of what is he accused?” asked Rard. That took the Censor General aback, as if he hadn’t expected the question. That was encouraging – if the whole thing wasn’t scripted out beforehand, then there was a slight chance that I wouldn’t be summarily executed. I watched as the Censor General struggled for words.

“Your Grace, it is a technical matter of our trade. A violation by possession of certain proscribed items.”

“And these items are . . . ?” Rard asked, pointedly.

I watched the Censor General’s face harden. “A shard of irionite, Your Grace. That foul stone that so poisoned the magi of old that the Magocracy, itself, forbade its unrestricted use. The device Orril Pratt, the Mad Mage of Farise, used to work warmagic on us.”

“Irionite,” the Duke repeated, as if hearing of it for the first time. “And this stone is proscribed by the Bans?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“Could you please recite the section of the Bans which specifically proscribes the use of irionite?” asked the Duke, reasonably enough.

Oh ho.

You see, Irionite has never been explicitly banned by the Bans – when my tribal ancestors conquered the Magocracy, the stuff was already exceptionally rare, being the sole property of the dead Archmage. So controlling any stray stones wasn’t as important an issue to the shamans who became the first Censors, the rebellious magically-Talented former nobility of the Magocracy were.

There are whole sections of the Bans revolving around the issue of loyalty and conduct of a registered mage, and the punishments inherent in violating those terms of the Bans. None of them explicitly ban irionite. Indeed, even Orill Pratt, the Mad Mage, hadn’t brought the Duchies down on Farise as punishment for having irionite. They invaded Farise because he used it to sink Ducal merchant ships and otherwise interfere with trade. On paper, magic had nothing to do with the invasion.

The closest they got to it, under the letter of the law, was the regulation of magical substances deemed “too volatile or dangerous to be used by an inappropriately-trained mage”. That statute was written to keep apprentices from sneaking off with some rare and special substance and using it without knowing it’s properties – and while Irionite certainly fell into that category, so did about a hundred other magical substances. Not all of which were banned by the Bans.

“My Lord?” the General asked, confused.

“I spoke clearly enough. Please identify which portion of the Bans that this Spellmonger is in violation of, and I will call him into court.”

“Your Grace,” Hartarian began, evenly, “it is well-known that the properties of irionite make it an unstable and dangerous—”

“Well, is it prohibited, or is it not?” asked Her Grace, sharply.

“Not explicitly, Your Grace,” Hartarian admitted, grudgingly. “But the Censorate may act to investigate a suspicion of a violation at the discretion of the Censor General. And the rumors I have heard – and the magical display we all witnessed last night – lead me to have a profound suspicion that this Spellmonger, Minalan, has improper possession of a witchstone.”

“So you have a mere suspicion that this Spellmonger may have a highly powerful magical artifact,” repeated Her Grace, sounding bored.

“Yes, Your Grace,” agreed Hartarian.

“An artifact that is not explicitly banned from use by the Bans you enforce.”

“Yes . . . Your Grace,” he admitted through clenched teeth.

“Well, you seem to be well within your rights then,” she said, casually. “Call this Spellmonger forth!” she commanded. Not exactly what I wanted to hear.

“Their Graces command the presence of Master Minalan of Castal, called Minalan the Spellmonger, Certified and Accepted Mage and licensed warmage of the Five Duchies!” I stood without thinking, pleased that someone had had the foresight to list my credentials. I’d earned them, after all.

I came forward and bowed, before the thrones, taking care to keep my pointy hat from falling off of my head. I stood at ease holding my staff on the opposite side of the room as Hartarian. “I am happy to be of service to Their Graces,” I said, oozing charm.

The General was not impressed. “You, Minalan of Castal, are accused of possessing a witchstone. What do you have to say in your defense?”

“It’s all true,” I said. “I do own a piece of irionite – several, if you want to be technical. I’m already attuned to my first sphere, however, so that is the only one I claim truly as ‘my own’.” There was a gasp from the crowd that had to have been staged, either that or these people were starved for entertainment. If anyone didn’t know I had a witchstone, it wasn’t because I trying to keep it a secret.

“So you admit having possession of this most dangerous and unpredictable artifact?” he said, accusingly.

“Why would I deny it? It’s not a violation of the Bans.” Another gasp.

“How is it not?” Hartarian asked, amused.

“Where in the Bans does it prohibit irionite?” I asked. My strategy had been to argue the dire necessity of the situation and throw myself on the mercy of his reason. This route suddenly seemed a lot more promising.

“The Bans do not prohibit it explicitly,” the older mage continued, “but that does not mean that irionite is outside of the purview of the Censorate. That is clearly stated in the Bans.”

“Under what clause?” I asked.

“Under the section dealing with materials deemed too volatile or dangerous to be used by an mage,” he retorted.

“An ‘inappropriately-trained’ mage,” I corrected. “I am a certified mage of the Duchies, your own signature is on my certificate, am I not?”

“So far,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“And am I not an accomplished thaumaturge? Master Theronial is considered one of the finest minds in magical theory in a century, and he certainly considered me such.”

“Yes, it is said you have demonstrated some ability in thaumaturgy,” he said, unconvinced.

“And I am also a registered warmage, having been successfully passed through the War College and into the Ducal Magical Corps for the duration of the Farisian Campaign, am I not? Where I learned the responsibilities implicit in my position by instructors chosen by your own hand?”

“Yes, you are licensed to conduct magical warfare within proscribed limits,” he sighed. “None of this is at issue—”

“Excellent,” I said, interrupting him, “then can you tell me, my lord General, just who is better-trained to use a shard of irionite as I? I am certified, I am registered, I am an acknowledged scholar—”

“In Sex Magic!” he said, scornfully, “a discipline long derided for its pointlessness and perversity!”

“I’d rather say it’s an obscure discipline which the narrow-minded moralists within our profession have unfairly singled out for repression,” I dissented. “But that’s no matter: I am a thaumaturge, a warmage, and a mage, legally, by your own admission. What skills or training do I lack to use the irionite in my possession that some other mage might have?”

“You ask the wrong question, Spellmonger,” Hartarian said, his voice as imposing as his form. “The question is whether or not a man who is all these things and chose to waste his Talents as a village spellmonger, instead of pursuing a course as an advanced student of thaumaturgy, has any claim to such a powerful artifact, much less the wisdom and ability to use it.”

“As for wisdom, only time will be the test,” I admitted, as much to the crowd as to the General. “But I think I have sufficiently proven my ability to handle the power of the stone. I have had it two, going on three months now.”

“There is the question of whether any mage is well-trained enough to contend with the powers inherent in the substance,” he countered. “If you had continued your studies along some fruitful aspect of thaumaturgy, perhaps you would have been permitted access, under the strictest supervision, to study it. But you did not. You have been using it wildly and haphazardly, according to no controls or dictates but your own. Therefore the Censorate has no choice but to accuse you as a wild mage, and ask that Duke Rard rescind your certification and registration.”

“Thus depriving me of my livelihood,” I said to the court, appealing for their sympathy. “And you base this accusation on what evidence, exactly?”

He smiled a wolfish smile. It was not friendly. “It is the opinion of the Censorate that any unauthorized use of a shard of irionite is haphazard by definition.”

“So, there is no actual evidence that I have misused the stone or used it in a fashion dangerous to anyone who stands more than four feet tall and isn’t covered with black hair.”

“The possession of the stone is enough,” he said, simply. “History has taught us all too well the dangers of possession. The last human being to do so went mad and sparked a war.”

“A war in which I was deprived of the ability to pursue advanced studies, because I was drafted into the Magical Corps,” I pointed out.

“That in no way diminishes the danger of allowing even a single mage to walk around with a witchstone,” he said, crossing his arms defiantly. “In my capacity as Censor General, no one is better-suited than I to determine a magical danger.”

I turned to the Duke and Duchess in overwrought exaggeration. “Your Graces, I must appeal to your judgment. Have I proven myself a haphazard practitioner? Have I lost control at any point in my discussions? And did I not render some slight service to the Five Duchies in my steadfast defense of Boval Castle, against an army of hundreds of thousands?”

“The Spellmonger has some compelling points, Hartarian,” Duke Rard said, nodding solemnly. “He has used the stone to defend his master’s fief, and then used it to escape from the clutches of the Dead God, and now he seeks to use it to further our defense. In the process he has yet to prove himself anything but wise in employing these magics.”

“For now, Your Grace,” Hartarian admitted, not uncrossing his arms. “But for how much longer? Orril Pratt did not go mad overnight, it is known. In six months time, will he be able to control his power?”

“In six months time the Dead God will be using Wilderhall for his summer palace, if we do not act,” Her Grace said, tiredly. “Our own scouts have reported dozens of goblins with witchstones. If it is too dangerous for a spellmonger, trained and approved by every facility of the Censorate, to hold one of these stones, then what say you to the prospect of dozens of them in the hands of goblins?”

“I am charged with policing human magi, Your Grace,” he said, with exaggerated gentleness. “I’m afraid it falls to Alshar to police its borders, not the Censorate.”

“So . . . you admit that irionite is too dangerous to be deployed in our defense, but you have no opinion on it being deployed against us,” Rard said, staring balefully at the General. “Is that the sum of your argument?”

“Your Grace, my office is empowered to monitor and register legitimate magi,” he said, stiffly. “We have no mandate to regulate how the gurvani or any other race use magic.”

“Then perhaps the utility of your office may have waned, General,” Duchess Grendine said, coolly.

“Regardless of external threats, there are still magi to be regulated, and uncertified practitioners to be discovered and punished.”

“Why?” asked Grendine.

Hartarian looked confused. “Your Grace? Why . . . what?”

“Why is your office in the business of regulating the practice of magic?”

“Why, because that is how the charter for the Censorate was established over three-hundred years ago. A Royal charter, I might remind Your Grace, and a charter which cannot be rescinded by a Duke.”

“I’m aware of the legalities,” she said, curling her lip at the mage. “What I don’t understand is what use your office is to the Duchies.”

Hartarian looked astonished. “Does Her Grace propose that magic should be free and unregulated, able to be used to oppress all who face it?”

Grendine raised her eyebrows. “So you admit that the Censorate was established to protect the Five Duchies from bad magic,” she re-stated.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head in agreement.

“Yet now that the Duchies are threatened by the greatest enemy ever arrayed against them, where one Duchy has already been decimated and the rest are certainly imperiled, now that danger looms on our doorstep, the Censorate has nothing to offer to protect us . . . save regulating our one defense away.”

Hartarian’s lip was trembling – but not with fear. The man was barely able to contain his rage.

“Then Censorate does not exist to protect the Duchies from attack! It exists to ensure the safe and effective use of magic in the realms! It falls to the Dukes and the military to protect!”

“Yet now the Duchies are under attack, and I, as Duke, find I’m far more interested in defending my people by any means at my disposal, not worrying about the wizards my great-grandfather were worried were hiding under his bed,” Rard said, dismissively. “If the Censorate cannot help in that defense, so be it. But if the Censorate hinders that effort, then what choice do I, as Duke, have but to mitigate its effects?”

“Mitigate, Your Grace?” Hartarian said, with far more derision in his voice than was probably healthy. “The Censorate exists to protect the people from young idiots like this,” he said, pointing angrily in my direction. I almost flinched – from a mage as experienced as Hartarian, a pointed finger is as good as a drawn sword. “Not only is he, himself, in possession of a stone, but he has given them to other magi! One bested one of my Censors in southern Alshar!”

“So the Censorate cannot even protect itself from a human mage,” sneered Her Grace. “How is it that you propose to protect us from the inhuman?”

“That . . . is not . . . my duty,” Hartarian said, slowly and with great deliberation. “The defense of the realms is given to the Dukes. How they choose to comport themselves is their affair.”

“And yet, we Dukes have a magical corps for our troops which must needs be established from the available warmagi.”

“Under the direction and oversight of the Court Wizard,” Hartarian added, testily. “So look to that dotard over there for help against the goblins, but that man is not leaving this palace with a witchstone on his person!”

“I beg to differ,” I murmured. A sharp glance from Her Grace shut my mouth at once. There was a deeper game being played here, one I didn’t understand.

“And how do you elect to enforce that edict?” Rard said, his voice raised dangerously.

“By calling upon the Duke of this realm to do his duty and assist me, as the Charter requires!”

“My first duty is to the defense of the realm,” Rard riposted. “How can I defend it if you wish to deny me my magical corps?”

“Your Grace may staff his magical corps how he sees fit,” assured the General. “You may use this mage or a seawitch or a foot wizard, for all I care, but he is not to have that stone! I will!”

The admission was not, of course, entirely out of bounds. In his role as Censor General, he was in charge of all powerful magical artifacts confiscated from wizards across the Five Duchies. By that right, if he did collect my stone, it would be “his” in the sense of it belonging to “his” office. That’s what he meant.

But that’s not how it sounded.

To me, to Their Graces, to the court, it sounded as if Hartarian, in his anger, had admitted to personally coveting my stone. It cast an entirely different light on everything he had said.

“How . . . interesting,” Grendine said. That woman could sneer a cat off a fence.

“So if I might comport my magical corps as I see fit, General,” Rard continued, his voice low, “then I suppose I should ask the advice of my Court Mage – I believe that this ‘dotard’ standing behind me, to whom I have entrusted the fate of magic in my Duchy for the last twelve years – can tell me what to do in this case. Would you agree, General, that Master Dunselen is the precise man within my court whose advice and opinions upon matters of spellcraft I should defer?”

“I meant no offense, and apologize for my rash words,” Hartarian said. It was graciously enough said, but the damage had been done. Master Dunselen looked up for the first time since the debate began, and his eyes did not look like those of a dotard. There was a profound intelligence and absolute focus in those eyes, and more than a little vindictiveness. Magi are not known for their forgiving natures. Especially not politically-motivated magi who had reached the heights that Dunselen had.

“Well, my liege,” he began, his voice crackling at first, but then growing stronger as he progressed, “I would say that the Duke’s first and only duty of consequences is ensuring the security and safety of the Duchy. Any further duties would be dependant upon that. Including a perceived duty to an outside agency, such as the Magical Censorate.”

“The Royal Magical Censorate,” Hartarian reminded everyone, loudly. “Established by the hand of the King, Kamalavan I. And a King, Your Grace, out-ranks a Duke, as everyone knows.”

“Yes,” sighed Rard, heavily. “In that you are correct, Master Dunselen. And if the Duke’s first duty is to protect his fief, and he may best do so by using warmagi armed with irionite, then would voluntarily turning over the means of his defense to be warehoused with other arcane baubles until the goblins overrun it, would that be a furtherance of that first duty to protect the realm?”

Master Dunselen fixed Hartarian with an icy stare. “No, my liege, it would not.”

“Even if it meant violating the edict of the King?”

“I suppose Your Grace would have to ask the King,” Dunselen said, with such casualness that the entire gallery erupted in laughter. There hadn’t been a living king in the Duchies since Kamalavan had died and split his crown and the realm into five pieces. “Ask the King” was a well-known saying among the middle-nobility and the professional classes about appealing to non-existent authority.

“Yes, I suppose I would,” agreed Rard, just as coolly. “Tell me, General, could you bear a message from me to the King?”

Hartarian bit his lip, despite himself. “No, Your Grace, I cannot.”

“What? It is a reasonable enough request, to be certain,” Rard said, feigning amusement. The gallery politely tittered in response, on cue. “I would like you to bear a message to the King, the monarch of the realm, the supreme sovereign of the Five Duchies, and ask him what the Censorate’s course of action should be. Surely, you must feel free to appeal to this authority you claim.”

“Your Grace, the Crown has delegated the entirety of the matter of magic to me and my office,” Hartarian said, easing back into a smoother tone.

“But not the matter of defense, and it is on this issue that we make our appeal. Surely you would be so kind as to bear the message.”

“Your Grace knows that I cannot.”

“And why is that, General?”

“The King seems to be missing from court, Your Grace. On an extended holiday, I have heard it said.” The sarcasm in his voice was, I had to admit, delicious. Even Rard chuckled politely.

“But if the defense of the Duchy is my responsibility, and I owe my loyalty and allegiance to His Mysteriously Absent Majesty, then does he not also owe me protection, justice, and guidance? That is, after all, what I swear to my own vassals.”

“So it would seem, Your Grace,” Hartarian said, his eyes fixed on the Duke.

“Then I demand that you discover the whereabouts of this missing monarch, and relay my message to him, as a representative of the Royal Crown. Either do that, or yield on this fiction that you serve at the pleasure of anyone but me and my brother Dukes.”

“That is the practical reality, Your Grace,” the General agreed, his voice tight.

“And if I should, say, as an emergency measure, lift the control of the Bans on Magic from the Censorate within my Duchy?” There was a hiss of breath from the crowd. “To further the defense of the realm and its people?”

“Such a course would be madness, Your Grace,” Hartarian said, flatly. “It would be chaos.”

“Really? And on what basis do you make that judgment, Hartarian?”

“On the basis of my knowledge of man’s nature, Your Grace. On the basis of a lifetime of experience beating back the pretenders and the scoundrels from my honorable profession – and those who seek to use those powers against the best interest of the people and the land.”

“So you have no exact knowledge that chaos would ensue if I lifted the Bans? Just a . . . an educated guess?”

“It is a very good guess, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps. It could be an excellent guess, for all I know Hartarian. But the fact is, it is still a guess, and it still can be – and probably is – wrong.”

“Your Grace is of course entitled to your opinion.”

“I am. How good of you to recognize. And in this case, I would say my opinion counts for quite a lot more than yours does it not? In practical terms?”

“That could be said,” agreed Hartarian. “Though I am not without resources for enforcing my commission.”

“You have thirty Censors, a few score warmagi, and a hired host of mercenaries,” Rard said, flatly, “operating out of a crumbling old Imperial castle that no one else wanted. The fact is, the Court Magi have been doing the bulk of your regulation for you. I’m sure your men are very busy chasing down soothsayers and hedgewitches and foot wizards, galore. And for that great and illustrious service, we thank you. But Castal shall have no need of your services after today, as we shall be assuming control of enforcement of reasonable rules on magic within the borders of our realm. An emergency measure only, I assure you.”

“Your Grace cannot do that!” Hartarian spat.

“His Grace can do what he damn well pleases,” Her Grace said, sharply, “and I’ll remind our Royal guest that he is still a guest in this hall.”

“And may I ask what your brother Dukes will do when they hear about this . . . this . . . this repudiation of sacred law?”

“It isn’t sacred law, it’s a Royal edict,” dismissed Rard. “And of my brother Dukes, let’s examine the four of them, shall we? Alshar is split in twain and hemorrhaging to death on my borders, my brother-in-law hiding in a wooden castle with a few thousand scared peasants around him while his realm crumbles. Then there is my brother in Remere, who is far, far more concerned with the increased trade opportunities through our occupation of Farise than he is any minor disagreement among Houses on matters of magical policy. Merwin is far more concerned about the East Island pirates, who have taken in those Farisi pirates who escaped our grasp in Farise and now sport with the Sea Folk. Vore, of course, is far more concerned about the barbarians of the steppes, the constant insurrections of the Valley People, and of course their continuing contention of the sea lanes with both the Merwini and the pirates. Why should they have a care about what I do to protect my realm?”

“Your Grace is speaking treason,” Hartarian hissed.

“His Grace is incapable of speaking treason, by definition,” Grendine retorted. “You forget yourself, sir!”

“I do not,” Hartarian said, slowly. “The Censorate was established by the King. By the King’s hand alone can it be dissolved. You may throw us out of Castal, but we will not leave, Your Grace. Indeed, we will dog the heels of your renegade magi until they are once more brought to bear. If they do not destroy you, first.”

Rard considered the big man in the checkered cloak for a moment. “I will tell you what, General. I will send both you and the Spellmonger into Alshar to fight the goblins who invade that land. If the Spellmonger and his witchstones cannot staunch the flow of blood from Alshar, and you and your Censorate have a better effect, then I will yield to you and give you every man you need to see your mandate fulfilled.

“However, if the Spellmonger is successful, and he and his warmagi can save the better part of Alshar from conquest, then it will be my duty as Duke to ensure the continued successful defense of the realm by relaxing the Bans on Magic.”

“You do not have the authority, Your Grace,” Hartarian said, scornfully. “You will still be a rebel prince of a renegade province, not a Duke of the blood defending his fief.”

“Quite right,” Rard said, nodding. “In that case, if the Spellmonger is successful in prosecuting this defense of Alshar, then I will have no choice save to crown myself King of Castal. Then I’ll have all the authority I need to overturn the Bans. And do a great many other things, besides.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

At The Court Of Alshar

Vorone, Late Summer

Vorone was once a humble fishing village that grew up on the banks of the Andal river, about a hundred years after the founding of the Five Duchies. As the Narasi settlers pushed north and west and began harvesting the vast forests of northern Alshar, the lumber camps and military camps needed protein, and the fish in the Andal were (back then, apparently) absolutely huge. Twenty-pound canteyes, trout by the thousands, greenfins sixty inches long, meaty and popping with fat. The surrounding hills were magnificent for hunting, too, and soon Vorone was doing as much business in trapping and game as it was fishing.

The lord of the land built a small, ramshackle wooden motte-and-bailey and a fine palisade of timber on a slight rise in a bend of the river. His eldest son answered the call of the victorious side in one of the Alshari dynastic disputes and was elevated to Baronet, and then to Baron when he sent two of his own sons to die in another conflict in the south. The remaining son was sent to the court in the south to be educated and transformed into a civilized and chivalrous knight – not an illiterate barbarian warlord like his father. While at court he befriended a young princeling named Farguin, who, much to his astonishment, was presented the coronet by his uncle the Lord Marshal, after a series of accidents and illness befell the royal family.

The second Baron of Vorone, Simir the Gallant, retired to his ancestral estate after his father’s death, and the following year invited his friend – the new, youthful Duke of Alshar – to come up for hunting and fishing on his way back from a state visit to the new Summer Palace in Castal, Wilderhall, where he was to sign a treaty. The Duke, ambitious to not only improve his realm (perpetually the smallest and poorest of the Five Duchies, especially after the Gilmorans left for Castal) but to challenge Castal on its own terms, enjoyed himself so much in the Wilderland fief that he decided to copy the magnificence of Wilderhall and build his own damn summer palace. He gave his friend Simir the barony to the south and he began re-designing the entire village to suit his needs.

After twenty years of constant building and investment, using the finest artisans in the realm and the most elegant materials, the Summer Palace at Vorone became one of the finest manors in the Duchies, in a rustic, woodsy, Wilderland sort of way. The palace sits where the old fortress used to, and countless loads of wood, stone, and dirt had been used to extend the modest hill until it dominated the entire valley in undeniable magnificence.

Like Wilderhall, the palace became a favorite place for the Dukes and Duchesses of Alshar to get away from the hazards of court in the south. Considering how most of them seemed to get there, I could see why. It’s dangerous being an Alshari Duke or his heir.

And like Wilderhall, if you wanted to influence the Duke you had to be at Vorone in the summer. So an entire industry of shops, inns, hostels, whorehouses and other entertainments grew up to give the visiting nobility a place to spend their money and impress their noble friends. Shops sprouted to service these genteel services, temples were founded to give the guilty and the hopeful someplace to spend their money, and the town of Vorone grew and grew.

The nearby timbering, lead mining in Tudry, and iron from the Mindens added to the industry there, and while most of the nasty bits were placed in an oxbow safely downriver (and downwind), the workers, smiths, timberjacks and miners (not to mention the merchants who bought and sold) all used Vorone as a place to spend some of their profits before they went back to work. Vorone’s market is one of the finest in the Duchies, actually.

Two hundred years after its settlement, Vorone is a stately and distinguished address. It doesn’t even get that bad in the winter here, thanks to some helpfully occluding hills in the west. If it snows more than six times, it’s considered a “hard winter”, whereas my one winter in Boval, where it snowed once every day for nine days, was considered mild. It’s a really pretty, really pleasant place to spend time – and money. I’d come through Vorone a couple of times, and always found the food delicious (although the days of twenty-inch greenfins was long gone), the whores pretty and cheerful, and the wine excellent. If you could afford it, Vorone was a lovely place to spend a decadent summer holiday.

But it was never designed to be a military fortification, and there was no way it could ever seriously serve as one.

As a Ducal property, none of the neighboring lords would dare start a private war with Vorone. Therefore there was never a compelling reason to build large-scale fortifications, and as a result the town had just a large wooden palisade around the perimeter of the business and temple districts and a stout-looking, un-crenelated stone wall around the Ducal palace district. There are guards, but they’re there to keep out thieves and assassins, not goblin hordes. There was an army camp at the north end of town large enough for three companies, but the camp was more defensible than the town was. If Lenguin persisted in his inaction, then this whole pretty place would become a pleasure palace . . . for goblins.

So it was with a heavy heart that I rode at the head of fifty men of Rogo Redshaft’s company, along with Hamlan and the minstrel, Jannik. Because I could see why Lenguin didn’t want to leave this pleasure palace. It was a thing of architectural beauty crafted to complement its beautiful natural surroundings. It’s gorgeous, and leaving it to go off to war had to seem like the stupidest thing in the world.

But it had to be done, and for three days Mavone and Isily had tried their mightiest to influence the court to see it done. With no luck.

Mavone tried to explain it to me, telepathically, but the situation was just too complicated. Apparently compared to Alshar’s court, Castal’s was a model of staid decorum and civilized behavior. While the Duchess and the Nobles of Castal were locked in a low-key feud, the parties in contention at Vorone were literally at each others’ throats. Duels were not uncommon, assassination was commonplace, and treachery was practiced with gay abandon. The Rat Crew probably felt right at home.

So I decided that the best thing to do would be to go appeal to His Grace myself. Maybe it was a dumb move, but it was frustrating watching the troops at Tudry scramble to deploy and know that the rightful Defender of the Realm was sitting on his fat ass in a pleasure palace, watching (I’m not lying) the third jousting tournament in as many weeks . . . to determine just who would command his army.

I knew I was walking into a pit of snakes. I was prepared for that. Pentandra and I had been talking telepathically every night, going through strategies to get to the Duke, eliminate those forces who would pull him from his duty, and then convince him to do that duty. The Duke, you recall, who had a reputation for sudden fits of temper. The Duke who was guesting agents of the Censorate in his palace. The Duke who was generally antithetical toward magi in the best of times, and who was certainly not used to them running rampant through his realm, taking over towns in his name and actually winning battles that he wasn’t fighting.

If I could pull this off, it wouldn’t be magic. It would be a miracle.

Mavone and Isily had taken quarters at a crowded inn called the Blushing Mermaid. It was a pretty pathetic excuse for an inn for Vorone, which meant it was more that twice as nice as the inn I lived at in Tudry. Mavone had procured the last few rooms at great cost for me and my party, though the Nirodi archers had to bivouac in one of the freshly-harvested wheat fields near the river. The Nirodi didn’t mind – they had a chance to indulge themselves with the finest whores and wines in the northlands, while the rest of their company was scouting the dreary fields of the Timberwatch. They weren’t complaining.

Mavone met me at the stables of the inn when we arrived and escorted us quietly upstairs, where he had a meal laid out for us. He also had procured an invitation to the Palace the following morning.

“How did you do that?” I asked, surprised. I figured I’d have to stand in line and deal with some third castellan’s assistant before I even got in the door.

“I found out some very interesting information about the Nightcaptain of the Ducal Guards, for one thing,” Isily said, sweetly, as she buttered a roll. “That and some help from the Skyfather, and we were able to get you an audience with the Court Mage, Master Thinradel of Vladenar. He doesn’t know exactly who you are, yet, but he’s granted you an hour’s audience. And don’t ask how much it cost – Pentandra said the Order would cover it.”

“We will,” I agreed, immediately, and then was forced to wonder just how the Order had any money or how it would get any. Oh, well, there was still some gold left in the campaign chests. I thought.

“We think the two biggest players in the court are the ones who are now stalling Lenguin’s action,” Isily continued. “That would be the Duchess Enora, and Baron, Jenerard, Lord of the Coasts.”

“I thought the Lord Marshal, whatshisname, Count Marcandine, was the biggest player?” I asked, as I sank my teeth into a rabbit pie.

“He was,” Isily said. “Until you liberated Tudry. Which he publically praised you for in front of the whole court, and then begged His Grace to make a similarly bold move.”

“I never considered the proper defense of the realm a ‘bold move’,” I confessed. The wine was an exquisite compliment to the pie.

“Well, His Grace didn’t either – he called it the desperate and opportunistic tactics of a foreign-born usurper, improperly using His Grace’s authority.”

“Ouch. That doesn’t bode well. What about the Duchess?”

“She wants an end to all of this goblin silliness and head back south before it gets cold,” Isily answered, her voice dripping with contempt. “She’s a complete tyrant to her ladies-in-waiting and maids, and she thinks that she’s the only one with the sense to run the Duchy. When in actuality she doesn’t have the sense to run a brothel. Every time a courtier tries to encourage His Grace to deploy the troops, she comes up with some excuse why he shouldn’t, and he listens. The man has the spine of a floathog.”

“And that’s what she saw the Lord Marshal as doing, when he praised you, so she convinced the Duke that he insulted her, and the Duke sent him to ‘drill the troops’. Marcandine has been out at the camp ever since, sulking.”

“What about Viscountess Threanas?” I asked, finishing off the pie. The crust wasn’t spectacular, but the baker knew his craft. “The Duke’s banker? How does she fit? Does she support an expedition, or does she want to head south?”

“She was in the Duchess’ party, for a while,” admitted Isily. “But then the reports started coming in from the occupied territories, and she started to get very alarmed by just how much of Alshar the Dead God swallowed up already. Then the landless Baron of Horane arrived with a small group of men-at-arms, survivors of that first big battle. He and Threanas were childhood friends or old lovers or something, I haven’t been able to find out exactly what yet, but she listened to him. After that, she was cautiously in the pro-campaign side. Which pissed off Her Grace, which is why Threanas has been sent south.”

“Damn,” I sighed. “Is there any other player we can count on for help?”

“There is Sir Daranal, the head of the Ducal Palace Guard,” reminded Mavone. “He is decidedly the head of the intelligence service, or at least the Duke’s liaison. Good man, I’ve spoken with him thrice. Sharp. He didn’t commit to anything – that could be the end of you in Vorone – but he did hint that he’d prefer to see the army go fight, instead of linger here getting drunk and fighting each other. He may have the Duke’s ear, but after what happened with Threanas and Marcandine, he’s being quite laconic about policy matters. He won’t act unless his boss or the Duke commands it. That doesn’t mean he’s stupid, just loyal. There are worse qualities in the head of the palace guard.”

“And what is the Lord Rat doing?”

“Acting like he’s the Duke,” grumbled Mavone. “The man is a lout, untidy and mean as a rat. But he’s as obsequious as . . . well, as a courtier. And as vicious as a goblin. He doesn’t want the Duke anywhere near a battlefield, nor the armies marching, because that would put him out of his influence when he’s trying to get the Duke to invest in a new fleet, because, and I quote, ‘Alshar can get along fine without the north – we did for a hundred and fifty years, after all.’

“He’s playing the wise and trustworthy counselor, right now,” added Isily, “and the Duke is eating it up. Particularly after the ‘treachery’ of Threanas and Marcandine. And, of course, Jenerard just adores Her Grace, and Her Grace just adores Jenerard – and all of the gifts he keeps sending her – and between the two of them, they’ve kept Lenguin away from anyone who might tell him the truth. If he’d actually recognize it anymore.”

“Well,” I sighed, I guess we’re just going to have to be compelling in our arguments, then.”

* * *

Master Thinradel, Court Mage to the Duke, looked nothing like his Castali counterpart. Master Dunselen had made a point to cultivate an image of serene wisdom and powerful magics while never doing much of either. Beard, robe, hat, he used magic for politics. He wasn’t a potent force at court – he was an administrator, but a wiley one.

Thinradel, by contrast, wasn’t an administrator – he was a high-class spellmonger from Vladenar, on the coast, and he was ambitious.

Not in the political sort of way that Dunselen was – Thinradel was eager for power, but he wanted his full share, not the scraps from the table that the magi got under the Bans. That made him an ostensible ally, or at least greedy enough to be open to a bribe.

But it also made him highly unpopular in a court where magic was being blamed for all the Duchy’s ills.

He was a tall man, strongly built, and he would have made a great warmage in his youth. He apparently disliked the normal flowing robes of the court mage and the ridiculous hat, so he made do with stylishly cut noble’s garb in black and silver. The dagger at his hip was no dining implement – it was at least twelve inches long and an inch wide, and it had a very serviceable-looking hilt. The dark wand in his belt didn’t look like toy, either. He had dark hair streaked with gray at the temples, and very intense eyes that looked out over a hooked nose.

Honestly, he looked more like an underworld figure than a mage.

His office was located at the farthest end of the unfashionable northern section of the palace complex, and compared to Dunselen’s tower it was small and sparse. Mavone and Isily led me past six busy secretaries poring over ledger books and records from academies in the outer office and brought me to the elegantly ornate door, where a thin young mage admitted us.

He didn’t look pleased to see us . . . but he didn’t look displeased, either. Mavone made the introductions, Isily first, then me. He tossed off my name, “Master Minalan the Spellmonger, High Mage of . . . head of the order of high magi,” he finished, uncertainly.

I’ll give Thinradel credit: he didn’t gape, startle, or even do a double-take. He just gave me a three-second stare and then a barely-polite quarter-bow.

“So you’re the one who stirred up all those goblins in the Mindens?” he said, quietly.

“Not exactly,” I pointed out. “I just happened to be there when it happened, and took advantage of it. Oh, and I rescued a lot of people from certain death.”

“And got away with irionite, too,” he said, his voice nearly a monotone. “More than the Mad Mage of Farise.”

“I’ve been generous with it,” I observed. “Not to mention that I’ve worked my ass off the last two months trying to rally the defenses of two duchies to counter it.”

He stared at me for another three seconds, then held out his hand. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of the three chairs in front of his desk. He wasn’t summoning the guards – that was something.

“So what can the court mage of Alshar do for you, Master Minalan?” he asked in the same cautious monotone.

“I’d like to use your good graces to get an audience with His Grace,” I said, as I sat.

“That assumes that I have good graces with His Grace,” he said. “At the moment, His Grace wants to hear very little of magic.”

“I don’t blame him,” I shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t important. I need to speak to him, Master Thinradel, about meeting a very large force of goblins who are even now moving south toward Vorone.”

That got his eyebrows raised, at least. “Interesting. You do know that the Censorate has put a price on your head? And that your credentials have been revoked? Lord Angrial was sent back to the capital – Falas, the real capital – in shame when he returned to Vorone from Wilderhall. Her Grace accused him of selling northern Alshar to the Castali, or the goblins, or something,” he said, dismissing the Duchess’ words out of hand. “And then you took Tudry and buried Vorone in twenty thousand refugees. That’s on top of the twenty thousand soldiers gathered here. There have been a steady stream of wagons from the south, and barges upriver, loaded with provisions . . . and it’s still not enough to feed everyone. There’s now a movement among the refugees to force His Grace to lead his troops against the goblins, a movement he is preparing to put down by force.

“And then you, of all people, show up unbidden and unannounced and expect me to introduce His Grace’s biggest political irritant to court, knowing in advance that His Grace is far more inclined to have you hung than to do as you ask.” He waited expectantly for a reply.

I considered all he had said. “Yes, yes, that’s a fair assessment. I want you to introduce this irritating ol’ Spellmonger to the Duke of Alshar. And yes, Master Thinradel, I’m quite aware of how . . . vexed His Grace might be with me.”

“Her Grace, as well, will be highly agitated,” he continued, expressionlessly. “And there are more than a few other courtiers who will be out of their skins with fear and worry and rage. The stories that have arisen here of your works are . . . not kind. By appearing in court, you will have all the welcome of a goblin, yourself. Worse: while the goblins consume the realm, you have the temerity to make His Grace look like a fool.”

My heart sank. “So you will not make the introduction?”

He suddenly grinned, a savage, wicked-looking grin – the type of grin you see on a twelve-year-old boy’s face when you propose torturing his sister. I knew that look. “On the contrary, Master Minalan, it will make me very happy indeed to make the introduction.”

“Even if it upsets the court?” Isily asked, pointedly.

“Especially if it upsets the court,” he said with a nod and a return to his taciturn expression. “My lady, I have been at this glorified cabin in the woods for months, now, surrounded by the most idiotic, shallow, irresponsible people who by no virtue save birth are in charge of mis-managing the Duchy. The realm is invaded, the court is a nest of vipers and agents, and meanwhile the Duke and his . . . wife play at jousts and hold garden parties. There are Censors lurking behind every door, spies under every window, and the Duke persists in foolishness and indecision. I would like nothing better than to shake up the court.”

“You don’t seem happy here,” agreed Mavone, sympathetically. “Why did you take the position in the first place?”

Thinradel didn’t sigh or shrug – he was always precise in his movements. “I thought it would allow me to do the research and spells that I wanted with lavish support. Instead, I sit here behind this desk and read reports of students and apprentices, spellmongers and foot wizards, and I show up to the occasional party.” He looked me directly in the eye. “Is it true you have irionite?”

“Yes,” I nodded, almost catching my breath. “And I do, indeed, distribute it freely. In support of the war effort against the Dead God – and yes, he is all too real.”

“And the story about your . . . altercation with the Censor General, in Wilderhall?”

“Depending upon which one, it’s probably true,” I admitted. “I don’t see why the Censorate should impose its archaic rules on us during a time of war. His Grace, Duke Rard, was convinced.” That was enough about that now – I was about to plunge into the politics of one duchy, I didn’t really need to expound on what happened the last time I did that.

“Then let me be frank: I hate this job, I hate this court, and I’m as envious as Varsis On The Shore of your little green rocks. But it is a position of great responsibility and renown. Not to mention the fact that I enjoy a hefty stipend. If I introduce you to the Duke, he’ll likely kill you and I’ll be out of a job.”

“I don’t plan on letting myself be taken,” I pointed out.

“Even better,” he agreed, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “Of course, that will reflect poorly on me – that cannot be helped – and I’m likely to be dismissed. Or executed along side of you.”

“That would be unfortunate,” agreed Mavone, “but not—”

“It wouldn’t be unfortunate at all,” Thinradel said, standing. “It would be the most blessed thing to happen to me in two years. Not an execution, but a dismissal. Particularly if I could show up that snotty little—I mean, ‘His Grace and his faithful wife.’”

“So you’ll do it?” Isily asked.

“There is a party tonight in the Hall of Stones, ostensibly for one of Her Grace’s ladies-in-waiting, but it’s just another excuse for the court to guzzle wine and fondle each other’s wives behind the curtains. I was invited as a matter of course, but I don’t usually attend. I believe I will tonight, however, and inform His Grace that I have urgent information on the whereabouts of Minalan the Spellmonger.”

“And then I’ll appear and the rest will be up to me.”

He nodded, once. “Exactly. Once you are announced, I expect to fade into the woodwork and enjoy the spectacle. Even if I get dismissed – especially if I get dismissed – it will be one I cherish to my dying day.”

“Then I thank you for your help, Master Thinradel,” I said, bowing formally. “And if this works out, then . . . well, I think we can find a spare witchstone for you. It might help you make the transition back to civilian life.”

His grinned returned, only this time tinged with avarice. “That would be very gracious of you, Master Minalan.”

We said our courteous good-byes, and then we headed back into town toward the Mermaid.

“That went well,” Mavone said, sounding surprised.

“I need everything that can possibly be known about this Hall of Stones,” I said, to no one in particular.

“Already on it,” Isily said, determinedly.

* * *

I had to admit, compared to the palace at Vorone, Wilderhall seemed as plain and common as Boval Castle had been. Whatever their other failings, the Dukes of Alshar had a sense of style.

The room was huge, nearly big enough to joust in, and there were five massive chandeliers which bathed the room in the light of a hundred lamps apiece. At each end was a massive stone fireplace I could have ridden Traveler into without ducking my head. Nearby to each was a bank of tables overloaded with food, wine, and other delicacies – which I found particularly ironic, considering the thousands of hungry people encamped outside the city.

I arrived with my two magi in tow, none of us dressed as such. Isily had managed to find a lovely yellow gown somewhere, and Mavone was dressed like a courtier himself, with white hose, a daringly cut red doublet, and an unlikely-looking red hat trimmed with gold which looked nothing at all like a mage’s hat.

Me, I got by with the green velvet suit I’d had since Wilderhall, with new black hose Hamlan had bought from the impromptu marketplace that had sprung up outside of Vorone in the refugee camp. There was a lot of that going on, as people sold whatever they could for food, medicine, firewood, or whatever else they needed. And the hose complimented the tunic nicely. I had Ham wash it and I dried it by magic again before I put it on. I skipped the weapons harness this time and contented myself with a single silver-hilted dagger . . . and a warwand in each boot. Ham also found a dashing black half-cape that completed the outfit.

After I was certain I was not going to look like a scruffy spellmonger, and more like petty noble eager to fawn all over his betters, I began making other preparations . . . because, no, I wasn’t about to just walk into a hostile Duke’s private party and hope that his sense of noble obligation and regal grace was going to spare me from his temper.

So when we walked into the room, unannounced (the party had started already and the important guests were already announced by the herald) we blended in well-enough with the hundreds of courtiers who were dancing about, drinking wine, and making catty remarks about their enemies.

Mavone and Isily stood near me by the eastern fireplace, and after Mavone had procured us each a goblet of strong, rich red wine from Remere, they pointed out the various players in the court: The Duke and Duchess, of course, who were in the north and south corners, respectively, surrounded by their personal hangers-on. The ineffectual Prime Minister, a dazed-looking old Count.

The infamous Lord of the Coasts, Lord Jenerard, was near to the Duke and surrounded by a gaggle of attendants and henchmen. He looked more like a scruffy spellmonger than I did – or at least an unkempt merchant in need of a shave – in an ill-fitting, richly appointed powder blue doublet and breeches, flared at the ankles over leather slippers. He was drinking liberally and ordering about people like he was the one in charge. From the way the Duke avoided looking at him, perhaps he was.

Sir Daranal, captain of the Ducal Guard, was there wearing his official tunic, carefully studying the crowd from the sidelines while overseeing the discreet guards who were at every entrance.

There were others, but those were the important players. Master Thinradel had yet to arrive yet. And until he did, we tried to blend in and look like we belonged there, watching people dance (not the lusty country-dances I’d grown up with, but slow, stately pavanes designed to show off pretty clothes) and drinking the Duke’s booze.

Then two figures entered, also unannounced, and I felt my bowels clench of their own accord. They were perfectly ordinary-looking fellows, dressed more or less like everyone else, except for their black-and-white checkered cloaks. Censors.

“Oh, that doesn’t look good,” whispered Mavone. “I’ve been studiously avoiding them, whenever I’ve come to the palace. They’re urging His Grace to take his gathered forces and move against the Duke of Castal, for his . . . temerity.”

“You mean protecting me and giving me my own command?”

“Among other things,” Isily said, rolling her eyes. “But that will do for a start. They are quite upset about the irionite, and even more upset that it isn’t under their control. See the one on the right? He was beaten by one of the high magi recently, and he’s not happy about it.”

I remembered belatedly the tale of Azar killing a couple of Censorate men-at-arms and creaming their master, one of the Censors. The way both of them strode directly to the Duke’s corner told me that they were on good terms with His Grace. And then my heart thudded when I saw him embrace one of them warmly.

No, this was not going to be an easy argument to make.

After half an hour and two cups of wine, the Court Mage made an appearance. He was garbed in a flowing black and silver robe, which he looked damned uncomfortable in, and he had even donned a matching black-and-silver pointed hat, and carried a very ornate-looking blackwood staff chased in silver. A quick glance with magesight revealed it to be mostly decorative, with only a few minor spells on it.

He made no overt sign of recognition of either me or my party, and strode past us like we were servants. He made a brief circuit of the room, greeting only a few of his colleagues at court, before he made his way first to the Captain of the Guard, and then directly to His Grace.

It took a while for him to get past the gauntlet of courtiers that surrounded the Duke, including the two Censors, but eventually Lenguin (who was wearing a cloth-of-silver doublet in a military cut that had obviously been made for him and fit perfectly) scowled and waved his Court Mage forward.

“We’re on,” whispered Mavone, handing his wine goblet to a passing servant and straightening his doublet. I nodded in agreement, and he and Isily departed for opposite corners of the room. I stood there, watching the Duke and the Court Mage, and finished my wine. If I was about to be executed, then I wanted that sweet vintage on my lips when the axe fell.

Soon enough I saw the signal that Master Thinradel had arranged, when he shifted his staff from his right hand to his left. I began ambling forward, skirting the dancers, flanking the buffet table, and infiltrating the Duke’s retinue from behind.

Once in earshot, it was clear that Lenguin was not happy. He sat in his chair, a throne by default, and glared at his Court Mage.

“—thinking that I should drop everything and get involved in magical politics?”

“Your Grace, it was you, yourself, who placed the bounty on the Spellmonger’s head. One would think that you would see him discovered . . . or was that bounty a polite fiction?”

“The bounty is real enough,” Lenguin said, darkly. He was a thin man of moderate height, dark hair and short-trimmed beard, with delicate hands with long, almost feminine fingers. “He misused his authority, and has caused chaos to my realm. So yes, I certainly wish to have him brought to justice. But as these honorable gentlemen from the Censorate have reported, the rogue continues to be holed up in Tudry. So I suppose your spells telling me that he’s holed up in Tudry, while impressive, do not actually help bring him to justice.” He said it with contempt and arrogance.

“Ah, but if I might correct Your Grace,” Thinradel said, smoothly, “I know for a fact that Minalan the Spellmonger is no more in Tudry.”

“Do you now?” scoffed Lenguin. “Has he slunk back to Castal, now that he’s left my realm in ruin?”

“No, my Duke, he has not,” admitted the Court Mage. “In fact, he was in my study earlier today, wishing me to make an introduction to Your Grace.”

That confused and shocked the monarch. “What? In your office? In Vorone?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thinradel agreed, nonplussed by his liege’s outburst. “I was just as surprised as Your Grace appears to be. He appeared suddenly, and with but few retainers, and rumor has it that he has taken some quarters in the city.”

“That evil sorcerer is in my city?” he said, shocked. “And why did you not find it within yourself to summon the guards, Thinradel?”

“Your Grace has not seen fit to provide me with any,” the mage in black said, mildly. “If you recall, I requested some at the beginning of the summer, but you felt it was a poor use of Ducal resources. Of course I bow to Your Grace’s superior wisdom,” he added, and actually bowed his head.

“So why did you not arrest him at once, yourself?” asked one of the Censors, his nostrils flaring. “Was that not your duty?”

“My conversation is with His Grace, mage, not with the likes of you,” Thinradel said with a contemptuous sneer. There aren’t many magi who could get away with insulting a Censor without repercussions – at least, not then – but a Ducal Court Mage could.

“Answer the man,” Lenguin demanded. “Why did you not take him into custody? Was that not your duty?”

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Thinradel conceded. “However, the Spellmonger, despite his innocuous title, is an accomplished warmage. And he reputedly has a witchstone – perhaps more than one. And his retainers certainly had one each. So three warmagi armed with irionite, against one humble practitioner of the peaceful arts of magic? While I would have been happy to die in performance of this duty, Your Grace, it occurred to me that I would probably serve Your Grace better alive than dead.”

Lenguin’s beady eyes narrowed, and I could suddenly see the resemblance to his older sister. “Perhaps you miscalculated, Thinradel.”

“Perhaps I did at that, Your Grace,” he nodded seriously. “Yet I do not recall that courage was a requirement for the post of Court Mage. However, I felt it appropriate to inform Your Grace of this occurrence.”

“Hours after he no-doubt left my palace?” scoffed Lenguin. “You serve me poorly, Thinradel! The bandit was right here beneath my roof, and you let him get away! He’s likely headed back to Tudry, now that he’s failed on his mission, and I shall have to send horses to fetch him back. A more timely response would have prevented the expense.”

“Oh, there is no need to give chase, Your Grace,” Thinradel said, warmly. “As I said, Master Minalan asked for an introduction to Your Grace to discuss urgent matters concerning the realm.”

“So?” scoffed Lenguin. “Did you have him contact Lady Arasma to have him placed on the court schedule?”

“Why no, Your Grace,” said Thinradel, that wicked smile returning to his dark face. “He asked for an introduction. Since he is a colleague of mine, and his errand was of the utmost urgency, I felt it was my proper duty to expedite such an introduction.”

That was too much for Lenguin, whose face was turning a spectacular shade of crimson. Time to contact my people. I raised the telepathic charm and sent to Mavone. Tell everyone – when you next hear my name, it will be time.

Yes, Captain, he replied, as he sauntered over toward the eastern door. Isily was at the southern exit, near to the fireplace. Do you think there’s time for one more drink?

I didn’t answer him, because Thinradel was already squaring his shoulders.

“You what?” Lenguin spat, outraged.

“I am the Alshari Court Mage,” Thinradel said, with dignity, “and it is the duty of my office to deal with magical affairs on Your Grace’s behalf. In my opinion the goblin invasion and flood of irionite in the hands of the enemies of the Duchy seems like a magical affair of grave importance. Therefore I felt it in the best interests of the Duchy to facilitate a meeting.”

“You presume too much, Master Thinradel,” Lenguin said, his nostrils flaring angrily. “I determine what is in the best interests of the Duchy!”

“Perhaps,” dismissed the Court Mage with a wave of his hand. “But I am not one of those courtiers who mistake the interests of the Duke for the interests of the Duchy. A good third of the realm is under enemy control, and there are hundreds of enemy shamans in Alshar. There are thousands of goblins within a day’s ride of Vorone. This city has been under magical attack for weeks, now, and yet nothing has been done. How is this, then, a service to the Duchy?”

“The impertinence!” Lenguin howled. “You dare instruct me on how to run the Duchy?”

“Only when it comes to magical affairs, Your Grace,” agreed Thinradel, smoothly. “And to that end, I would like to introduce to Your Grace Master Minalan the Spellmonger, savior of Tudry and defender of the gods!”

I stepped forward from the back of the crowd, and took a bow.

And at that moment, while everyone was staring at me, every door into the Hall of Stones slammed shut, not to be opened by mundane means until my people allowed it.

“Your Grace,” I said, as I rose from my courtesy, “I think we have some urgent matters to discuss. Like saving your Duchy . . . and possibly your head.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

Getting What I Wanted . . . Good And Hard

Midsummer, Wilderhall

“What say you, Master Spellmonger? Are you willing to wager a realm on your word? You seemed certain enough to wager your life.”

I was in a daze. And that can be dangerous for a mage. Especially in a tense situation, in the middle of Ducal Court.

Duke Rard IV of Castal had just declared that, based entirely on the success or failure of my expedition to Alshar, he would determine if he would overthrow four hundred years of the established order and crown himself King.

King. Based on what I did . . . or didn’t do.

I stared at Duchess Grendine for a long moment, until she caught my eye and I desisted. So this was the game they were playing. They were conspiring to establish themselves utterly independent of – and superior to – the other Duchies by promoting himself to monarch. No doubt Their Graces had been plotting this for years – decades, even – and I had provided the perfect opportunity to legitimately challenge the custom of denying the rulers of the land the ultimate title and authority.

I felt so used.

The Duke and Duchess hadn’t been interested in helping defend me from the Censorate. They hadn’t even been that concerned about the Dead God and the gurvani, except maybe in theory.

But they had used this one point of trans-Ducal authority as leverage to attempt to transform Castal from Duchy to Kingdom. That would not only allow them total sovereignty over magic, but over a lot of other things that were considered pan-Duchy matters. Shipping. Trade. Coinage. Fealty. The Dukes had always been kings in all but name, but by taking that title Rard was, indeed, challenging his brother Dukes in a most audacious fashion.

And I was the fulcrum upon which his leverage depended. Without the issues with the Censorate and the invasion of Alshar as a pretense, it would have been extremely difficult for His Grace Rard IV to become His Majesty, Rard I without Alshar, Remere, and probably Merwin literally up in arms against him.

But Alshar was devastated. Remere’s attention was on Farise. And Merwin wouldn’t interfere in a military matter so far from its borders. No doubt they felt that if Rard wanted to call himself King to fight goblins, as long as they didn’t have to send troops or treasure, they didn’t care.

So Rard and Grendine could crown themselves and no one would say a word. Except for the Censorate. I expected that Hartarian would incite as much outrage as possible amongst the other Duchies, but in their alarm at the goblins devouring Alshar, they might be more willing to watch and see, rather than intervene. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Politics can do strange things, I was learning.

I had no idea how long they had been planning it, or why, or whose idea it was (though I had my suspicions) but the fact was that Rard and Grendine had positioned themselves perfectly to assume a throne and not have anyone – save the Censorate – question their legitimacy made this seem far less like a spur-of-the-moment pronouncement and a lot more like a long-contrived plot.

And if the Censorate was booted out of Castal, there wasn’t much the General could do about it, without Ducal support. The whole thing was so elegant and politically reasonable my head swam. And I wasn’t the only one. There was no polite giggle or rehearsed laughter or feigned outrage from the court. There was just silence. And awe. And disbelief.

And suddenly everyone in the room was staring at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath, counted to five, and then exhaled. “Your Grace, whether it is my life alone or the lives of the whole . . . kingdom, the result is the same. Either my men and I prevail and give the . . . kingdom time to prepare for the Dead God, or he will walk over us from here to Merwin. Call yourself what you will when I return, wear whatever headgear pleases your fancy . . . but one way or another we must go meet them on the fields of Alshar, or else drive them from our own walls.” I bowed respectfully toward them . . . while inside I was seething.

I found I disliked being a prop in a piece of political theater. Intensely. There was a real crisis here, people were dying by the thousands, and these power-mad idiots were using it as an excuse to give themselves more titles and positions.

But I also couldn’t argue with getting my every wish and desire. He wanted to give me troops and money and position, not to mention doing away with the damned Censorate, which was beyond the scope of my wildest dreams. I was conflicted about the entire stunt, but seething was in there. So I seethed.

“And if this ‘goblin threat’ is exaggerated, and the man a liar?” asked the Censor General.

“There are now at least two hundred thousand refugees moving east from western Alshar because of the ‘goblin threat’, according to trusted reports,” reminded the Duchess. “If the Spellmonger exaggerates that threat, then I would be happy to learn of the truth.”

Hartarian had no answer for that. He looked at me steadily, as if sizing me up for the very first time.

“And you feel your back broad enough to build a kingdom upon?” he asked, taking amusement in his defeat at the sudden turn of events. Bastard.

“My back had better be broad enough to keep the hordes at bay, General,” I said, proudly, trying my best to ignore the anger. “If I fail at that, kings and dukes will matter not.”

“And your oath to submit to the Censorate? You would cast your honor aside for what? Power?”

“I’m common born,” I pointed out. “Honor doesn’t mean more than a sack of flour to me. I fight to defend the people, not raise up kingdoms or destroy duchies. Yes, I took an oath – things have changed since then. If my honor is the price paid to meet that challenge, then I gladly sacrifice it.”

“And base-born, too,” he sighed. “Your Grace, if you will not do your duty, then live or die, it falls to me to do mine. Master Minalan of Castal, called The Spellmonger, I hereby place you under arrest in the name of the Censorate and the lawful King. Surrender your sword to my warmagi, and surrender every witchstone you possess, and you will not be harmed. If you resist, then we will use all means necessary to defend ourselves. Your Grace, I remind you that this is a matter of the Royal Censorate – and unless you’ve grown a crown in the last five minutes, you have no jurisdiction in this.”

Rard shrugged. “If you can take him, General, then I won’t interfere.”

Great. So much for my ‘protection’.

I shifted my feet around as I regarded the General. “You really want to duel me? Here?”

“I must do my duty,” he repeated, steadily, as he drew a wand from under his cloak. “Perhaps if you were noble, you’d understand that.”

“I understand survival,” I replied. “That’s what we ‘peasants’ do best. If you really wish to prosecute this . . . “ I drew Slasher, which caused a stir among the Duke’s guards and a gasp from the crowd. I stepped forward, my sword lowered. The Censorate’s warmagi, a couple of big, thuggish-looking sparks wearing the sinister checkered cloak, each drew their own mageblades and flanked their General.

“If I let you live, I overthrow three hundred years of proud tradition,” he said, softly, as he brandished his wand. People were shrieking and moving out of the way – fast.

“But perhaps you gain more by doing so,” I countered. “Surely you must have higher aspirations than Censor General,” I said, as I began measuring my steps. I drew a warwand from my harness with my left hand. “Your last chance to withdraw, General,” I said, loudly and clearly. “I will not pursue a vendetta if you do.”

He raised his eyebrows, amused. “I don’t think I have to worry about that. There’s one of you, and three of us. Witchstone or no, you can’t defend against everything we can throw at you. Something will land. And whoever is left will haul what’s left of your carcass back to Wenshar to be flayed and displayed outside the Censorate’s walls.”

“Well, thank the gods I am facing a man of honor, then,” I chuckled, and got a few laughs from the highly anxious crowd. “Are you so confident in your abilities that you aren’t worried about hurting the court?”

“I have higher priorities,” he said, his right hand moving his wand in small circles. “If a few courtiers should perish, well, that is a small price to pay.” Which had the effect of nearly emptying the room of anyone not possessed of a morbid curiosity to see which mage would win this duel.

“I won’t let that happen,” I said, making my arms relax. “In fact, I can’t allow the arrest to happen. I have higher priorities.” Namely, getting back to my girlfriend and raising a family while simultaneously establishing a real defense against Shereul. But he didn’t need to know that. His men cautiously advanced, and I could feel their spells going up. Time to call in reinforcements.

Now, I said to Taren through the telepathic link.

Suddenly the mageblades of the warmagi dropped to the ground with a clang, and the two men were struggling mightily against a magical force far beyond their experience. It’s a simple binding spell, only on a scale impossible without irionite. Bands of force were encircling them, forcing their arms to their sides. In addition, their mouths moved but produced no sound. Another brute-force spell, courtesy of Taren. He was great at those sorts of non-lethal spells.

Rustallo, on the other hand, preferred a fight. He walked calmly to my left, his blade drawn, proudly dispelling an illusion that had occluded the sigil on his breast: the Ilnarthi death rune. The symbol of our incipient order was just as intimidating to the remaining courtiers as it had been to the gurvani in Boval. Taren, his mind still controlling the binding spell, followed and took up a station on my right. Hartarian glared at both of them.

“And so you spread the corruption,” he said, disgusted. “And attack my men in the performance of their lawful duty. You pile crime on top of crime, Spellmonger.”

“Enough whining, General. You wanted to take me by force, I’ve effectively disarmed you. Utter a spell and your men will die before it takes effect. If that wand twitches, I’ll have my boys tear their heads off in front of you. You’d be surprised what you can do with the power of a witchstone. You remember Orril Pratt? The least of our witchstones is twice the size of his . . . and it took three Duchies to kill him. If you value your life, and the lives of your men, you will put aside your ‘honor’ and yield. If not . . .”

He continued to glare at me. There was no telling what was really going on in his head, save loathing and hate, but you don’t get to be Censor General if you can’t think things through. He finally put his wand back under his cloak and raised his hands so I could see them. “I yield, Spellmonger. This time. Spare my men.”

“And you’ll accept the relaxing of the Bans in Castal?”

“Never.” There wasn’t even a hint of equivocation in his voice.

My turn to shrug. “Your Grace? Your decision what to do with him.”

“So it is. Hartarian, you and your men shall retire to your quarters to pack, and then you will be underway from this castle by nightfall. Proceed to the frontiers of the Duchy as quickly as possible, and do not pass the border again without my express permission. My Duchy is in a state of emergency right now, and any accidents would be regrettable. But understandable. Have I made myself clear?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” he muttered. “I give you my parole. I shall do as you ask, my word of honor.”

“He’s noble,” I pointed out. “That’s supposed to mean you can trust him.” That earned me a sour glance from Grendine.

“So it does,” said Rard, completely missing the sarcasm. “You are dismissed. Court is adjourned, and the War Council will reconvene this evening over dinner. Master Spellmonger, that includes you and your . . . gentlemen.”

“This is not the end of this,” Hartarian murmured to me, as Taren released his men at my direction. “You have earned a powerful enemy today.”

I studied him as thoughtfully as he’d studied me. “General, I’ve stared in the face of the Dead God. Compared to him, you’re a moment’s distraction. If you can’t find some way to help defeat him, then all of the honor you value so highly means nothing.”

“This is not the end of this tale,” he repeated, pointing that finger again. I reluctantly refrained from cutting it off in a petty but dramatic gesture. Instead I let him turn on his heel and lead his men from the hall in peace. There were even a couple of boos and a hiss. For no particular reason I felt gratified by that.

“Congratulations, Master Spellmonger,” Duchess Grendine said, nodding. “Perhaps you’ll join me for a walk in the rose garden before dinner?”

“Whatever you desire, Your Grace,” I said, as meekly as I could. I reluctantly resisted the urge to throttle her to death for brazenly using me like a two-copper dockside whore. What was worse, she had used me damnably and then had given me everything I wanted. So I was seething and grateful, which was an odd combination.

I needed a drink, and soon, I reflected.

“That would be lovely. I shall send one of my ladies to escort you, since you championed us so boldly.” I had a pretty good idea just which one would arrive. I suppose ‘everything I wanted’ included Isily, at least for the moment.

As the herald dismissed the court, I broke off a moment to consult with – and greet in person – my two valiant warmagi. Taren looks like a lanky librarian, with a large hooked nose and an unruly shock of dark hair on top of a very tall frame. Rustallo, by contrast, was build more compactly – and more solidly. His shoulders were as broad as a blacksmith’s. His face still had some boyish flab, but he’d grown a discouraged patch of beard to soften it a bit, without much success. He had curly brown hair and a cocky attitude that would have been unbearable, if he wasn’t so loyal, too.

“That was fun,” he muttered. “I was hoping for more of a fight.”

“It was enough,” assured Taren, holding up his hand. “I never thought I’d be assaulting an agent of the Censorate.”

“I never thought I’d have the establishment of a new political order based on my success in the battlefield, either,” I observed. “I guess it’s been a strange day all around.”

Rustallo snorted. “So does this mean that we’re going back out into the field?” he asked, impatiently – like he wanted to go right then.

“Eventually,” I admitted. “The Duke will tell us what forces we’ll have, and we’ll likely depart within a few days. But yes, we will be fighting again. In the mean time, rest, relax, enjoy the Duke’s hospitality while you can. You’ll be missing the comfort, soon enough.”

Master Dunselen was the next one to find me. He clapped me on the shoulders warmly, almost knocking my hat off. He’s stronger than he looks. “Well done, my boy, well done!” he sighed, contentedly. “There were a few anxious moments, but . . . well done! Now, when can you pop by with my new witchstone, eh? I’m eager to begin exploring it!”

We made a date for the next morning, at his office. Other members of court made sure to get my attention, Count Sago, Prime Minister Kindine, Lord Maron, even Count Angrial gave me a grateful nod that was almost a bow.

Then I saw someone scurrying around whom I very much wanted to speak to: Harrell, the Castellan’s assistant. When I asked him to find some quarters near the River Tower for my men to join me, he bowed and told me that he’d already had Hamlan move my things into the Ducal Tower, into a suite of rooms in the far west wing, at the behest of the Duchess. As he led us there he congratulated me – I’m not certain for what, but I appreciated it.

I introduced Hamlan to Taren and Rustallo, who took to him at once. I quickly added a telepathic caution about him being a spy, and how not to discuss the business of the Order in front of him. That took them aback, but I explained that’s just how life at court was. The line between friend and enemy, ally and opponent is blurry and sometimes invisible.

My new quarters were spacious, three small bedchambers ringing the exterior of a broad tower connecting to a central chamber with a large fireplace and ornate furnishings. It was on the less-prominent, lower-status south-facing slope, the one which looked out over the river. But I didn’t mind. I preferred the view to any pretensions of position.

Ham had my burgundy suit ready, but was more pleased to present a dark blue tunic of light wool, with a vaguely military cut, for my afternoon ‘walk’ with Mother through the Rose Garden of Doom.

“I like it,” pronounced Taren – not that he had much fashion sense. “It will go well with the yellow of the baldric.”

“You think I should wear it?”

“Pentandra’s orders,” he said, shrugging. “It was her idea to have these made up,” he said, plucking at the yellow tabard he still wore over his tunic. “She thought the sudden appearance of fake livery would have a dramatic effect.”

“You have to admit, that rune is rather intimidating, even without knowing what it means,” Rustallo agreed. “We’re still playing around with names for the unit. How does ‘The Golden Hawks’ strike you?” he asked, eagerly.

“It has all the class of a third-rate professional jouster,” I dismissed. “We need something more substantial, more meaningful than that. Keep working on it.” Rustallo looked irritated that I hadn’t liked his idea, but that was fine. I didn’t like most of his ideas. That didn’t mean I didn’t like him.

“Pardon, Master,” Ham said, politely. “There is a Lady Isily here to escort you to the Garden. She looks surprisingly like my sister’s Daughter,” he said, with the slightest emphasis. I suddenly recalled that he still didn’t know the identity of the “whore” who visited the other night. Perhaps that’s a secret I’d be able to keep from him.

“Please let the lady know I will attend her in a moment.” Ham bowed slightly and went to do so. I turned to Taren and Rustallo. “Contact the rest of the order and let them know how things went. Pentandra, especially – she’ll spread the word to any stragglers. Believe me, this news is going to make ripples all the way across the Five Duchies.”

“Doesn’t it just affect Castal?” asked Rustallo. “And maybe Alshar?”

I shook my head. “Now that the Bans are effectively relaxed, and the power of the Censorate is ended – not to mention the fact that I’m handing out irionite like a hearthbrother handing out candy on holiday – Castal is going to attract every foot wizard, hedgemage, village witch, spellmonger, warmage, and court mage on the continent to come enjoy the new freedoms. And that’s going to make a lot of people unhappy.”

“I never thought of that,” Rustallo admitted. I wasn’t surprised, but I had the grace not to say so. He’s a strong fighter and a competent mage, but Rusty isn’t the brightest candle on the altar by a long shot.

Not so, Taren. “It will be worse than that,” the young prodigy pointed out. “Consider what will happen when His Grace – sorry, ‘His Majesty’ starts handing out fiefs to magi. There will be real magelords again.”

“I have thought about that,” I admitted. “In fact, that was part of my negotiations the last few days. There will be magelords, if we are successful. But they will pay a higher tribute to their overlords and they will owe a month of magical service in addition to a month of military service.”

Rustallo looked suspicious. “Is that fair?”

“It’s fairer than never being able to buy more than a cottage to call your own,” Taren pointed out. “Aren’t you the eldest son?”

Rustallo looked surprised. “Well, yes, the only son, actually. My dad’s a country knight in western Remere. But when I left for the Academy he basically gave up on the idea of leaving his property to me, because of the Bans, and letting it revert back to his baron upon his death. You mean . . . you mean I could inherit Woodsend from my father? Keep it in the family?” he asked excitedly.

“Indeed,” I nodded. “That’s the point, Rus: everything has just suddenly changed, thanks to that little passion-play you just saw. Everything.”

“Everything has changed . . . if we are successful,” amended Taren, thoughtfully.

“You are right about that,” I admitted. “If we go into Alshar and fail to keep the hordes at bay from the rest of the Duchies, then today will be an interesting historical footnote and nothing more. What we’ve won here is the chance to make the change, based on our abilities with the witchstones.

“So after you both get stinking drunk tonight – which I advise you to do – tomorrow we begin planning our route into Alshar and assembling our forces. We’ll have a lot clearer idea after the council meeting tonight about exactly which forces and how many we’ll have at our disposal. Rus, I want you to be my liaison to the Lord Marshal in that. Consider yourself my lieutenant, and you can gather the men at a decent staging area before we begin.

“Taren, I want you to speak with the Lord Marshal’s quartermaster about provisions and feed for the journey. And arrows. And a blacksmith. And a healer. Everything a small expeditionary force will need, and keep in mind that we’ll be moving quickly and lightly and we won’t have the time or the manpower to protect a long baggage train.”

“Master,” Hamlan said, interrupting politely with a cleared throat. “A messenger just arrived from Count Angrial of Alshar, bearing these documents,” he said, handing over a thick folio of parchment wrapped and sealed with His Excellency’s arms. I took them and broke open the seal, and began leafing through them.

“What’s that, Captain?” Rustallo asked, curiously.

“That, my boys, is something else my pretty face and charming nature managed to procure for us,” I said, pleased. “This is a warrant from His Grace, Duke Lenguin’s envoy to Castal, giving us permission to pretty much do whatever we want in Alshar with His Grace’s official blessing. That includes . . . the ability to draw upon the Ducal Treasury for up to five thousand ounces of gold, permission to trade out mounts at Alshari castles, and, best of all, a mandate to conscript what troops we may need to prosecute the defense of the Duchy.”

“But I thought we were going as Castali, not Alshari?” Rustallo protested.

“It’s both,” Taren explained, patiently. “Now the Captain has permission from both Dukes to wage war. And supplies. Captain, does Duke Rard know about this?”

“I don’t know why he should,” I observed, and then thought of the Family. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t. It shouldn’t matter; this was more of a contingency plan than anything. If Rard didn’t back us, I was going to use Lenguin’s desperation to get us some kind of mandate to act. Now we have the blessing of both Duchies, and no Censorate to worry about.”

“My lady is still waiting,” Ham reminded me, politely. I nodded and re-sealed the folio, handing it to Taren for safekeeping.

“I’ll be back soon, gentleman. In the meantime, have Hamlan fetch you anything you need. Ham, these are my sworn men. Please get them what they wish.”

Lady Isily was wearing a stunning light blue gown cut in an elegant eastern style, not like the more boxy dresses of Castal and Alshar. It suited her – if for no other reason than the neckline celebrated her bust like it was the New Year. She smiled at me wanly, and inclined her neck in a slight bow.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I sighed. “Last-minute instructions to my men,” I explained.

“We have a little time yet,” she said, and I offered her my arm. “You aren’t going to bring your staff or your hat?”

“Court’s over,” I dismissed. “I’ve got everything I need to meet the Duchess.” I offered her my arm, and she took it.

“You were magnificent, Master Minalan,” she said, softly, as I led her down the stairs.

“That’s what the miller’s daughter said,” I agreed, smugly. She blushed prettily.

“I didn’t mean about that – although that was pretty magnificent, too,” she said, uncomfortably. “I meant at court. I had no idea what she had planned, but I know you couldn’t have known about it. Yet you were able to adapt most admirably. And very quickly.”

“Well don’t think I’m about to forget about the prophecy you told me about. I don’t think your uncle is going to vanish from my life.”

“No, he’s well-known for his tenacity,” she agreed, reluctantly. “I bear him no great love, yet I confess I felt badly for him today.”

“Change is hard for people to contend with. For example, has not your life found new volume, now that there’s a witchstone in it?”

She smiled despite herself, her dimples exploding as we stepped into the afternoon sunlight. “It’s like I was only half-awake before I had it,” she agreed. “I got almost no sleep last night. I was busy going through every first-year cantrip I could remember, to see how powerful I could make it.”

“You couldn’t sleep after last night?” I asked, in awe. “I could barely keep my eyes open after . . . well, afterwards.”

“It always makes me energetic,” she chuckled. “One of the few pleasures of being a woman.”

“Yeah, Penny’s like that,” I grumbled. “I would be a quivering pile of jelly, unable to do more than breathe, and she was up making notes or completing the spell, or planning the next spell.”

“Well, apparently you recovered sufficiently to keep the Censor General on his toes. Mother is most pleased.”

“Yes, well, I am not particularly pleased with Mother. I had no idea that—”

“None of us did,” she agreed. “His Grace caught the whole court by surprise. I’ve been working with the Family for two years, and I had no inkling. But she’s very happy with you. Enjoy it – it doesn’t happen often.”

She took me to the same patio area at the top of the gardens, where a slightly different collection of ladies-in-waiting were waiting upon Her Grace. When I arrived they all burst into applause, and Her Grace stood and embraced me. I’ve never been hugged by a Duchess before. She smelled of wine and flowers and sweat.

“Well, Master Minalan, you acquitted yourself most satisfactorily,” she pronounced, pleased. “I couldn’t have coached you any better myself. Which is why you weren’t coached.”

“I might have appreciated some small warning about—”

“No doubt you would have,” she said, amused. “So would have the rest of the court. But that was impractical; surprise was absolutely necessary. The fact is that only a handful of people knew what was planned at all. Walk with me,” she commanded. “We still have things to discuss.”

One doesn’t argue with a sitting Duchess, even if you’re pissed off at her. I offered her my arm and we repeated our earlier winding path down the slope and into some of the alcoves and grottoes that had been built to foster conversation or the discreet embraces of clandestine lovers. The Rose Garden was full of those little chambers, where you could speak to someone without fear of being overheard . . . by traditional means.

Duchess Grendine was silent for most of the short trip down the slope, but she did seem far more at ease than she had been yesterday. As she was leading me into a particularly dense arborway, she finally spoke. “Whether you realize it or not, we owe you a great debt of gratitude, Master Minalan.”

“I realize it,” I said, evenly. “If I hadn’t presented the problem—”

“Then we wouldn’t have had the pretext upon which to act. Yes, you do realize it, don’t you? And how we—”

“The word is ‘used’, Your Grace,” I said, sourly. “You used me like a two-copper whore.”

“Yes,” she said, firmly. “That is precisely what we did. And we paid you far more than two coppers for your trouble, wouldn’t you say? Your expedition approved and funded, the Bans relaxed and nearly ended, your witchstones intact and ready to be deployed against the Dead God. And you got a lovely bed companion as a bonus – some men would be on their knees thanking me for that, alone.”

“Simpler men than I,” I grunted. “So you put her up to bedding me?”

“Not as such,” Grendine admitted. “I leave my Daughters to their own devices, Son. If she thought spreading her legs was the easiest way to accomplish her mission, I am not about to question her judgment. She did that on her own, and only told me afterwards.”

“She’s very nice,” I said, reluctantly. “And she resembles my . . . intended bride not a little. But where my pecker ends up isn’t really the issue, is it? Your bold grab for power is. I understand – now – why you did what you did. But I still feel as if I have been used.”

“You have been,” she agreed. “My advice? Get used to it. It is the prerogative of a monarch to use what tools are at their disposal to keep the realm secure and prosperous. Sometimes those tools get used up. You’ll discover the truth of this, since you will now be the commander of men in battle. And one of the hardest things to learn, I’ve found, is how to look a man in the eye and tell him how you are sending him to certain death and still manage to sleep at night.”

“So how do you manage that?” I asked, darkly.

“I drink,” she sighed. “Lots of wine.”

I could see how that might be helpful.

“But I am grateful for your role in all of this, Spellmonger,” she continued. “And if it’s any consolation, I tend to be more careful of my tools than others might be in my position. Good ones are hard to find, and excellent ones are impossible to replace. But I am not the only one who is grateful for the opportunity you have given us.”

She led me into an alcove off of the thickly-covered arbor, where His Grace, Rard IV, Duke of Castal and Protector of Farise stood eating an apple.

“Master Minalan,” he said, swallowing and clearing his throat. “Thank you for coming.”

“Your Grace,” I said, bowing. “Or is it ‘Your Majesty’?”

“I’m still a Duke . . . for now,” he said, chuckling. “Although, thanks to you, that may not be true much longer.”

“I am happy to be of service, Your Grace,” I lied. I guess my face couldn’t hide it.

“Oh, you’re angry about what we did to you, and I can’t blame you,” the Duke dismissed. “But one of the things about being a Duke is knowing when political expediency outweighs other considerations. After hearing what you told us about the Dead God, I knew that there was no way that the Censorate would let us use warmagi armed with irionite, even against the goblins – the institution is just too hide-bound and conservative. And there are still those in the East who irrationally fear some sinister plot by ambitious magi. But with your help I was able to staunch the power of the Censorate, and give us a fighting chance to defend ourselves. But I couldn’t have done it without you,” he assured me.

Oh. So it was all my fault.

“So I’ve approved your expeditionary force, for a couple of reasons. First, it’s good politics. By sending you and a few thousand men into northern Alshar, I look like I’m doing something. And sometimes that’s more important than actually doing something. At least to my esteemed brother-in-law and fellow Duke, Lenguin, who has sent me pleas for assistance . . . daily. Of course, he hasn’t moved his army out of sight of Vorone’s plentiful brothels, so I’m actually risking more than he in the defense of his realm by sending you to an uncertain fate.”

“So you don’t expect me and your men to prevail?” I asked, carefully, mindful about what the Duchess said about suicide missions.

“Oh, no, not at all, Master Minalan, you misunderstand me. I take you at your word about the foe, and about your ability to fight them. I fully expect you to strike a blow for humanity and do what you can to throw back the hordes.

“But I’m also a realistic man. No matter what we do here, we will lose western Alshar, and probably most of northern Alshar, at a minimum. At least for a few years. Which means we need a stouter defense until such time as we have the resources to chase the goblins back to their holes. So your mission – besides making me look good and making my brother-in-law feel better – is to determine the best means of a lasting defense of the realm using what is already on-hand. Which castles can we hold? Which must we hold? Which can be abandoned to the enemy without imperiling the defense? What will be needed to sustain such a defense? These are the questions I need you to answer.”

“That seems reasonable,” I nodded, warily.

“Thank you. In addition to that, I want you to see to making certain that there are clear pathways for refugees to flee, unimpaired. We’ll start building more permanent structures for them soon, and relocating them where we can, but we’ll need those people to drive back the goblins some day. And every one who escapes or perishes is one less the Dead God can sacrifice.”

A little cold-blooded of him, in my opinion, to view the peasantry of Alshar as little more than fuel for the evil fire in the west, but then again I’m a spellmonger and he’s a Duke. I suppose he has to be cold-blooded about some things. Good thing I’m not a Duke – I’d do a crappy job.

“I will do my best, Your Grace,” I assured him.

“I hope it’s good enough,” he grunted, tiredly. “It’s been a long day, and you have a lot of work ahead of you. This war council meeting is more of a formality to grant you your commission and such, but I’ll tell you now what you can expect to take with you: Sago has put together quite the little army on such short notice, and good mercenaries all. He’s even hired a team to handle your camp and supply. They’re already assembling at Cleston, on the commons, and they’ll be fully provisioned, armed, and mounted within the week. If there are any other needs you have, bring them to Sago’s attention and he’ll see it done.”

“That should be sufficient to begin with,” I agreed. “Might I ask how the summons goes? Whatever we do in Alshar, live or die, this will not be the end of the fighting.”

He grunted even louder, half-way between disgust and laughter. “In the Wilderlands, I’m getting about half of what I should. From the Riverlands, a quarter, and that, grudgingly. But I should have a force of twenty, twenty-five thousand before summer’s end. That should stop any offensive you fail to blunt, at least until the snows come.”

“You’ll need more,” I said, simply. “But do what you can. And strengthen your frontier castles stoutly, Your Grace.”

“I know my business, Minalan,” he dismissed. “I’ll get more men when the harvest is in and the word gets to the rural cantons and fiefs. By late autumn we should have twice that. I will be naming you a Special Marshal of Castal for the expedition, by the way for what it is worth. But there will be military captains of proven worth to command the men at your direction. It’s not that I doubt your abilities . . .” he lied.

I shrugged it off. I’m not even thirty years yet. I wouldn’t trust me to command three thousand men without a seasoned commander around, either. “That does not bother me, Your Grace, provided they know their business and are not too abrasive. And someone who has worked with a magical corps before would be helpful.”

“I’ll take that into account,” he nodded. “Makes sense. With only three thousand men, there is a limit to what you can do, of course. You don’t need to whip every goblin between here and the Mindens. If you can but make a good accounting of yourself in the field, then that will be enough for the moment.”

“And if I do, the Bans are lifted?” I reminded him.

“A formality,” Rard agreed. “As of now, they are suspended in Castal by Ducal decree. If you can prove your worth in our defense, then I can prove that the Bans are retarding our war efforts and should be dropped. Further, I’ll reward you, formally, to prove my word. Return from Alshar alive and victorious, and I’ll make you the first Magelord in three centuries.” Grendine nodded – they seemed eager to do that. I began thinking about ulterior motives from that moment.

“Your Grace is generous.” I would have said more, but I was in shock. When I wanted the Bans on magi becoming landholders and vassals, I had all of my comrades in mind, most of whom were from minor noble families who had lost out on their inheritance when they took their Mage’s oath. I didn’t have any personal aspirations along that route.

“My Grace is farsighted,” he corrected. “I’m risking a lot with this alliance, I hope you realize. Attracting the ire of the other Duchies is something I could do without. The only reason I do so is that I think it’s the best hope for Castal . . . and it furthers my own ends. But it will not be easy to convince anyone but the magi that this is a good idea. Not until they know what can be done with warmagi like you. And once they do . . . well, I’d prefer to have the most powerful warmagi in the world working for me. So making you a Magelord, sworn to me in fealty, is not as generous as it is farsighted.”

“Then Your Grace is gifted with both great insight, and great ambition,” I agreed. The sting from being used at court was starting to fade, as I began to be caught up in this man’s plans. He was very charismatic, after all, and his reign had been one of good governance (for the most part), one little war, light corruption, and great prosperity.

“More than you know, Spellmonger,” he said, staring through a gap in the arbor out to the busy riverscape, where fishermen and barges were starting to head to the port for the night. He looked up at me, slyly.

I was surprised. “There is an office higher than ‘king’?”

He smiled indulgently. “Nay, but there are kings, and then there are kings. My ambitions are greater than a mere title; I aim to transform the Five Duchies. So should you survive, victorious, you will play an important role.”

“Court Mage?” I asked, chuckling. “Master Dunselen is not nearing retirement yet, Your Grace. I would find it uncomfortable to displace the man. Unless you were thinking of deifying me, in which case my mother might take issue.”

“Better than Court Mage,” he conceded, chuckling. “I aim to make myself King of Castal. With your help, and the help of your men, I could someday be King over all five Duchies.

“And if you make me King, Spellmonger . . . I will make you Archmage.”

Chapter Thirty:

Blackmailing A Duke

Vorone, Late Summer

I’ve rarely seen anyone as angry as Duke Lenguin of Alshar, as I took control of his own palace away from him.

It hadn’t been easy – the place had great security, after all. And the Ducal Guard was far less bribable than I’d anticipated. But those facts didn’t mean much when I had seven competent high warmagi and one pretty little Shadowmage to assist me.

The warmagi had come in disguised as Nirodi archers – there was no shortage of fighting men around, and the livery of a hundred companies was represented somewhere in Vorone. And without the identifying silly hat or wands or mageblade, you can’t tell a warmage from a regular soldier. So I had nearly half of my “bodyguard” take the guise of the mercenary archers until I needed them. They were loitering around the “soldier’s quarter”, a temporary market that had sprung up between the regular barracks and the make-shift army camp, drinking and whoring like common soldiers . . . until I figured out what I wanted to do with them.

Besides Mavone and Isily, Delman, Reylan, Taren, Curmor, Rustallo and Master Cormaran had volunteered for the clandestine journey to Vorone. Curmor had finally made it to Tudry, and was eager to enjoy the comforts of civilization after spending so much time in the Penumbra, scouting. The rest were all irritated with Duke Lenguin for being such an indecisive and foolish leader, and wanted a chance to help. When I pitched my plan to them via telepathy, they were quite eager to assist.

So when the doors slammed shut, behind a group of guardsmen, and I made my bold statement to Lenguin, his anger grew markedly.

“You . . . insolent . . . churl! Guards, seize him!” he commanded angrily, pointing toward the men in palace livery who had just made it inside the doors when they closed.

Only, they weren’t guards, as everyone soon realized. They were my warmagi in stolen clothes and under illusions. When Lenguin commanded them to seize me, everyone stared while they took off their helmets instead, revealing wide grins or grim expressions, and then each of them slid one of the yellow baldrics over their heads and across their uniforms. Master Cormaran chose to step forward and speak, his deep voice augmented slightly by magic to make it more commanding.

“I suggest you listen to what Captain Minalan has to say, Your Grace,” he boomed in the crowded but quiet hall.

“You . . . dare!” he nearly screamed, his eyes wide and angry.

“Yes, Your Grace,” I said, as my men took positions around the room. “I do dare. I have to . . . because Your Grace has not seen fit to attend to the defense of his own realm.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, darkly, “did you not see the thousands of knights arrayed outside the city walls?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” I agreed. “So have your subjects. They have been seeing them sitting outside of Vorone for over a month, now, and nary a goblin to show for it. Meanwhile Boval, Ganz, Terrihall, Denal, Locare, Stut, Horane, Glanden, Bendin, Nandine, a couple of Northmarch towers, and Ishi-knows how many other of your western and northern fiefs are taken, and lie under shadow. Megelin, Green Hill, Timberwatch, and Fesdarlan are all fighting for their lives, not five days ride from here. Yet your mighty army still sits in the shadow of this palace, waiting, waiting, and waiting . . . for what are you waiting, Your Grace?”

“I do not have to answer to you,” he snapped. “I keep my own counsel when it comes to deploying my armies.”

“Then Your Grace keeps a fool for a counselor,” I shot back. “How much of your realm will you see devoured before you do your duty?”

“There are acceptable losses in any conflict,” he said, unsurely. “My counselors assure me that the Wilderlands fiefs are hardly worth the cost of re-capturing them, with the price of iron and timber so low after the campaign for Farise. No one is building ships right now.”

“The price of timber?” I asked, appalled. “The price of iron? What about the price of human lives? Your subjects, who on the new year make certain that ‘Gods preserve our Duke’ is the first thing they utter? Your subjects who fill your belly and your treasury?”

“I have an entire Duchy to tend to,” he said, his eyes flashing. “Goblin troubles come and go. The Duchy must survive.”

“You have half the Duchy you started with, Your Grace,” Mavone said, coming to my side. He seemed to have grown a yellow baldric, too. “What a sterling legacy to leave your descendants. If you have any, after the Dead God is through with you.”

“The Dead God that you stirred up?” he said, accusing me, his brows knit tightly. “It was in your fief that the attacks came – Bowel? Boval! That’s right! Where the cheese comes from. It is said you stole irionite from the Dead God, and he seeks to recover it and avenge himself, even if it means laying waste to all of Alshar to do it?”

“Said by whom, Your Grace? Anyone who was there?”

It wasn’t a question he was expecting . . . but then again, I don’t think Lenguin ever expected to be questioned. He had that oppressive sense of entitlement that so many nobles get. I wasn’t really fond of the Castali monarchy, after how they used me, but at least Rard and Grendine understood the delicate intricacies of power – how to cultivate it, and how to maintain it. They didn’t depend on their title to get their way, not in the entitled manner displayed by Lenguin. He sputtered for a moment, then dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

“Immaterial. It is the story on everyone’s lips. It is what the people believe. I wouldn’t expect a common-born spellmonger to know this, but here is a mystery that all Dukes must learn, if they will rule: what the people believe is far more important than what actually is factual—”

“Then the people are misinformed, Your Grace. The Dead God has been preparing and plotting this invasion for nearly a hundred years, ever since your ancestors sent House Brandmount to betray their trust and destroy their sacred lands and turn them into cow pastures. They’re after retribution, true – but not over irionite. They want our blood. All our blood, and all our land, and a Callidore without a single man upon it. If the people believe otherwise, and think that this is a minor dispute between a goblin and a spellmonger . . . they are sadly mistaken. And they may well pay for that belief with their lives.”

“Bold words, Spellmonger,” he said, darkly. “And you compound your arrogance with insolence – you dare interrupt a Duke?”

“I do,” I said, evenly. “When the Duke is talking nonsense—”

“Insolence!” he repeated, his nostrils flaring so hard I thought they might fly off his face. “I merely repeat what the common man is saying in the street!”

“When was the last time you met a common man, let alone asked his opinion?” I asked, a hint of disdain creeping into my voice. All right, there was more than a hint, and it was galloping more than creeping. I didn’t like this man.

“I do my best to stay informed about my realm, and that includes the concerns of the common folk. I get reports and dispatches–”

“And those reports are filtered through all of those courtiers who seek to steer Your Grace to their own interests,” I said, amusedly. “The common man could care less about his motivations – they just know that the Dead God has a half-million goblins on the march, and their Duke – who is charged with the defense of the realm – has been sitting on his arse watching tournaments and amusements while every day another thousand of his subjects die undefended and another fief falls to the horde. That is not entirely your fault, Your Grace, or completely the fault of your courtiers – the shamans of Sheruel have been attacking Vorone with insidious magic, for which you, Your Grace, are the ultimate target.”

“Me? Attacked by magic?” he scoffed. “Do you see any boils on my face, Spellmonger? Do I seem addled? Ill? I’ve never felt better in my life! Save for the profound anger inspired by my palace being taken over by brigands and rogues!”

“I said it was insidious,” I shot back. “It was no ordinary attack, Your Grace. Your Court Mage has warded the palace splendidly from a straightforward attack. So the shamans concocted a plan to avoid his defenses and strike where no one thought to protect. It was a powerful spell, cast by the foulest of means,” I said, remembering the horror of Kitsal Hamlet. “You are free from the worst of it now, since I had my men counter the work.”

“And pray tell me just what this supposed spell is supposed to make me do?”

“Simple,” I said, looking around at the crowd, now. I had an eerie sense of déjà vu, suddenly, that I was back at Wilderhall defending myself from the Censor General, for some reason. Must be something about belligerent Dukes. “The spell was wrought to compel Your Grace, specifically . . . to be utterly indecisive. To persuade you to keep your troops here, in this indefensible resort while all around you your castles fall and your people die.”

“That’s a lie!” he nearly screamed. “I am under no spell, nor have I been!”

“Well, that may be true, and it may be false,” I conceded, “and since we countered the sorcery, we can’t prove that it was there, even if you would listen to our counsel. But then, that’s not really important, is it? What is important, Your Grace, is that by tomorrow morning every peasant and burgher and tradesman in Vorone is going to know that you’re bewitched.”

“How?” he demanded.

I looked around at the room full of deceitful and duplicitous courtiers. “Firstly, because you cannot trust more than a handful of people within the range of your voice not to speak of this meeting, however it ends. Your ‘loyal servants’ will be spreading the gossip faster than a bowshot.”

I turned back to him and smiled, wanly. “And if they fail to give a complete account . . . well, I took the liberty of paying some of the many jongleurs who infest this town to sing of that very fact. In every tavern. Around every campfire. At every well and fountain in the city. In a fortnight, there won’t be a soul between Tudry and Wilderhall who won’t have heard of Lenguin the Indecisive’s ignoble capitulation to goblin magic. And next year they will speak of Lenguin the Last, final Duke of Alshar, as the goblins march east and south. If you are remembered at all, you will be remembered as the Duke who fell to goblin sorcery. But tomorrow, Your Grace, tomorrow it begins with the whisper.”

That had been Jannik’s inspired suggestion – while he had not been included in our closest counsels, he was smart enough to understand what was going on. He’d plied the pleasure houses of Vorone in his trade for months, and had many friends amongst the local minstrels.

“That’s preposterous!” he sputtered. “No one would believe . . .” he trailed off, a look of realization dawning on his face.

“That’s right, Your Grace,” I said, “they’re just as likely to believe that as they would a story about a spellmonger and a goblin quarreling over irionite. This story has the added benefit of being true, of course. What other explanation for your inaction could there be than sorcery?”

“I could not deny the possibility of such a spell, Your Grace,” Master Thinradel nodded, sorrowfully. Then that toothy smile came back. “Indeed, I shall make quite a point of not denying the possibility.”

“You betray me, Thinradel?”

“You betray yourself, Your Grace,” the mage said, coolly. “And with you, all of us.”

“By dawn it will be on everyone’s tongue,” I continued, taking visceral pleasure in the man’s discomfort. “The people will hear that you are bewitched into indecision, to keep you from leading your armies against the foe.”

“Which I – and my new Court Mage – will deny!”

“Deny all you wish,” I said dismissively. “And the more strongly deny it, the more you will confirm, in their minds, that you are indeed under a spell. And Your Grace, while my order is not given to portents or prophecy – we feel they bind us to the wheel of Fate – I do not need magic to tell you what will happen next.

“In a week the talk of cowardice will surface, only in whispers, at first. And then murmurs about your manliness will come. People may indeed question whether or not you are ensorcelled – but by then, the alternative to enchantment will be that you fear battle so much that you’d rather hide behind your palace walls.

“Then the talk of sedition will begin, and the wise among your nobles will not deny it, and then eventually rebellion – you have five thousand Tudrymen and Alshari peasants who are drilling themselves for war even now, without your leave or encouragement . . . what do you think they will believe?” I asked, raising my voice loudly.

“They will believe what I tell them to believe!” he pronounced angrily. “And I will hang anyone who says otherwise!”

“In the absence of firm, decisive orders from Your Grace, they are going to believe in the story of the spell. They will lose faith in your leadership, what little remains. They will see your executions as making war on your own people when you have foes at the gate. And in such a time of crisis it will take but one spark to start a peasant rebellion that will spread across all of Alshar.”

I looked around again – I had the audience enrapt. One lady of middle years and larger middle was staring at me, her eyes as wide as wagon wheels and a little spot of drool forming at the corner of her mouth. “And one of you – or many of you,” I said, addressing them in violation of court manners, “you will take up the cause yourself or risk being burned in your keeps. And another of you will join him. And yet another will see himself as a wiser monarch, and then the peasant revolt will turn into a full rebellion, into a civil war, perhaps.” I turned back to Lenguin. “All because you refused to rise to the challenge at hand.”

I’m glad Duke Lenguin wasn’t a mage – if he had been, his gaze alone would have burned me on the spot.

“What you speak is treason,” he said, harshly.

“Actually, I’m Castali, so it’s not technically treason,” I observed. “I suppose it would have been, had you not canceled my credentials as Marshal, but since you did, no, this is not treason.”

“Treason in deed if not in name,” he accused. I shrugged. I really didn’t care about that at the moment. “Let us assume you do unleash this . . . this damnable lie to the world, Spellmonger – what do you possibly hope to gain from it?”

“I’m hoping that one of your marshals will have the sense to see that the only way this can be avoided is to strike for the goblin armies at once. That would prove that Your Grace was not, indeed, enchanted. And that, Your Grace, is precisely what I want to gain. I could care less about your honor, your dignity, or your position – but you have an army sitting outside your walls, and I want to borrow it if you aren’t going to use it.”

“I am going to use it!” he bellowed, defensively. “When it is ready, and the time is right! It is a foolish commander who commits his forces too early!”

“And he is more foolish if the right opportunity comes along and he does not act,” I replied. “Your Grace, the time is now. Because there is a horde of ninety thousands of goblins descending on Vorone from the north, at this very moment, and if Alshar will not meet them in the field of combat then Vorone will fall . . . and then Tudry will be encircled . . . and then the hordes will march south to Falas and east to Castal.”

There was a loud and shocked gasp from the courtiers, most of whom had paid little attention to the news outside of court, and had accepted as truth the Duchy’s position that this was a minor goblin incursion. The idea that they might be in danger caused more than a few to start toward the doors, as if to pack or flee or both. But my warmagi were standing firmly in front of them, and would let none pass without my leave.

“You have placed me in an impossible situation, Spellmonger,” he snarled. “You seek to shame me into a course of action that my closest advisors have been warning me against!” He glanced for the briefest of moments toward Baron Jenerard, who was staring as wide-eyed at our exchange as anyone else.

“Perhaps your closest advisors are not your best advisors, then. But if you swear to lead your troops against the northern horde, I will promise not to unleash my minstrels,” I said, to a titter of giggles. That made Lenguin turn red.

“And now you seek to compel an oath from me,” he growled. “In my own palace, you try to extort my cooperation?”

“I’m a commoner,” I shrugged. “I heard that’s how things got done in court.” That provoked an even louder burst of giggles. I flashed a smile around the room. Yes, I can be charming at need.

“Your Grace!” one of the Censors – the big one with the bruises – said suddenly, coming forth from the crowd and taking a magnificently humble knee in front of the Duke. “I beg you not to listen to this outlaw’s words! He defies the Bans, and seeks to overthrow the established order!”

“Don’t you think we have bigger problems than that right now?” complained Rustallo. “Ishi’s eternal tits, the goblins are coming, and they aren’t going to worry about the stupid Bans!” Leave it to Rusty to burst out with the obvious at the most inappropriate times.

Only this time his outburst was met with a small but definite murmur of agreement. We were getting somewhere, then – at least amongst the court. That couldn’t be a bad thing.

“Your Grace,” the bruised Censor continued, sternly, “your brother Duke forsook his vows and suspended the Bans in Castal – I beg you not to compound his folly—“

“Oh, please spare us the righteousness!” Mavone said, offended. “Do you have a plan for saving the Duchy, Censor?”

“That is not my duty,” he said, stiffly. “My duty is to arrest, imprison, and prosecute those who would profane the Bans. The use of irionite, for example, is proscribed—”

“So why not do your duty?” challenged Mavone, striding forward, a path opening up in the crowd. He made a show of withdrawing his witchstone, adding a silent little cantrip that made it glow with unearthly green light that made it seem like a star in his hand. Show off. “Go ahead. Stand up, draw your sword, and take away my stone!” He even waved it around, like you would to tease a dog. More gasps, and suddenly there was a lot more space around Mavone. My other warmagi were enjoying the entertainment, but had not let down their watch. Mavone got within ten feet of the Censor. “Last time you tried to do that, in the south, you met with my comrade Azar the Magnificent. I’m assuming you took his stone?” he asked, amused.

The Censor blushed bright red, the parts of his face that weren’t already blue with bruising. Azar really had done a number on him – his nose couldn’t have started out that shape. His hand went to the hilt of his mageblade, Censors being one of the few positions allowed to be armed in the presence of the Duke. His comrade behind him strode forward, a little reluctantly, and stood next to his shoulder, a wand appearing in his hand. He didn’t look particularly confident. He had every reason not to be.

Lenguin raised his hand to stop them before they did something stupid. “Captain Farentine, stay. You too, Censor Landrik. For the moment.” He looked back at me, his beady eyes narrowing. “It appears that there are some magi who are willing to stand against the brigand Spellmonger,” he said, almost snickering.

“Aye,” Farentine said, scowling. “We heard about what you did to General Hartarian, and how you . . . persuaded Master Dunselen and even Duke Rard to violate custom and suspend the Bans in that Duchy. That may be his prerogative in Castal – may be,” he repeated, displaying some doubt about it. “But this is Alshar, you treacherous dog, and as long as I have even a single brother Censor to stand with me, I shall not yield my duty!” He looked resolute and determined.

Censor Landrik looked less-so. Two Censors against nine warmagi . . . you didn’t have to be a mathematician to figure out how that contest would go. Which gave me an idea, as I stared at Farentine’s nasty face. “Censor Landrik, you know the Bans have been suspended in Castal.”

The mage looked at me curiously, confused why I had addressed him. His wand never wavered.

“Yes? So?”

“So the Censorate is effectively ended in Castal,” I explained., “or will be soon. And the High Magi are under the protection of the Duke.”

“High Magi?” he asked, looking no less confused – and Farentine was looking livid. I’d forgotten that was a term-of-art of my men, not widely known by our colleagues.

“Magi with witchstones,” I explained. “I’ll give you one, provided you swear a simple oath and resign from the Censorate . . . right now. You have my word as a warmage and a high mage.” I paused. “And this will be the only time I make you this offer,” I warned.

Before I could count three heartbeats, he’d dropped his cloak of office at the feet of the Censor Captain and took three strides to stand with me, turned, and faced the Duke. “I quit,” he told his former commander. “If this spellmonger wants to fight goblins instead of torturing confessions out of hedgewitches, well, that sounds like a better job for me.”

“Traitor,” spat the Censor Captain. Landrik just shrugged.

There was a long moment of silence, and it was clear that Farentine was just waiting for the command to attack me . . . and die gloriously. But Lenguin eventually just gave out a heavy sigh. Still looking balefully at me, he choked out the words.

“Thus falls the Duchy, to a brigand.”

I did my best to look offended. “Really, Your Grace: I stole nothing but your dignity. I threaten nothing but your reputation. I ask no more than for you to do your duty and win glory and renown and the love of your subjects. I am no brigand, I am a warmage. Swear that you will lead the army north to contest the way with the goblins, and my lips stay sealed, you become hailed as the hero of the realm . . . and you have the full assistance of my Order.”

“So on what will you have me swear this dreadful oath?” he asked, resigned. I blinked. Did that mean I won? I almost didn’t believe it. “Would my sword suffice?”

That wasn’t uncommon – he was a knight, of course, as were almost all of the male nobility, whatever their additional titles. It was common practice to put some sacred relic in the pommel of a knight’s sword so that they would carry the favor of the gods with them into battle (although considering they were usually fighting other knights with their own relics currying favor with the gods, it was somewhat unclear to me how efficacious that was). But that also gave them some conveniently potent object by which to swear an oath. I assumed that a Duke’s sword had some powerful divine relic.

But then, a Duke would not hesitate to foreswear an oath he made as a knight, if it suited his purpose. He very well could be stalling me, trying to get me to go away and then march south with his troops and abandon the north altogether. I had another idea.

“Summon the high priests and priestesses of the temples to witness,” I said. “And you won’t swear on your sword . . . you shall swear on the Alshari Shard of the Crown of King Kamalavan.”

That brought another gasp. The Crown of King Kamalavan had been the only symbol of royal authority the barbarian chieftains of old had respected. When Kamalavan could not name a single heir among the five sons who contended for crown and kingdom, in a fit of anger the King had split his crown into five pieces, giving each one to a new Duke. In each Duchy it was a tangible symbol of the Duke’s authority, and was part of the regalia used to install a new Duke. When treaties were sworn between the Duchies, the shards were often present as relics for the oaths. To my knowledge, no Duke had ever foresworn an oath taken on a shard of the crown.

And if Lenguin made such an oath on the shard, in front of holy witnesses and his entire court, he would have to keep that oath. Or that was my theory. I was starting to learn that when you are dealing with Dukes, it’s hard to be certain of anything.

“Let it be done,” he said in a low voice, dripping with finality. “Summon the priests. Fetch the shard. And fetch my sword as well. I shall lead my army north . . . and fight the goblins . . . and perhaps perish in the attempt.” He looked up at me, anger in his eyes.

“But should I live, Spellmonger . . . we will have further words, you and I. You are Castali, and I know the other end of your bargain. If you are victorious, my brother-in-law will declare himself King and incite a war between the Duchies. So if I go to war and defeat the foe,” he said, slowly, “then I will go to war with my bitch of a sister when she tries to elevate herself and that thug of a husband above their station. That prospect pleases me more than a little.

“If I go to war and I lose . . . then her plans will be wrecked, and the goblins will be at her gates. And I will be gloating from the afterlife while they tear the flesh from her bones. Either way, I . . . shall . . . prevail!”

That was not exactly how I would have phrased it . . . but I suppose his motivations didn’t matter.

“As long as you ride to war and lead your armies, Your Grace, that is all I ask.”

“Then you get your wish,” he spat. “And may we both live to see each other on the field of battle. Then, Spellmonger,” he said, raising his voice, “then you shall see what comes of inciting the wrath of a Duke!”

Chapter Thirty-One:

A Lesson In Bureaucracy

Wilderhall, Midsummer

Archmage.

The word came out of antiquity, and was little more than myth and history intertwined to me. I didn’t want to be Archmage. I didn’t even want to be a Warmage, but I’d been given little choice. As I walked back to my quarters after the nominal war council, my head buzzing with my conversation with Their Graces, the word kept spinning around in my head.

Of course, Duke Rard didn’t know what he was talking about. The Archmage had been a temporal as well as a thaumaturgical power, a ruler of men as well as a commander of magi. For me to really become Archmage, I’d have to rule over all five Duchies.

The very thought horrified me. I didn’t even want to rule over one Duchy. Hell, I didn’t really want to rule.

I was muttering darkly under my breath when I felt the tingle of telepathic awareness. I sighed, paused in the darkness, closed my eyes, and opened the channel.

Who? I asked, being tired and valuing brevity.

Master! came Tyndal’s ‘voice’. Alya begged me to contact you, once she knew I had the capability. She and your mother . . . Master . . . they won’t stop arguing!

About what? Crap. Mother was a formidable woman. Alya was strong-willed and stubborn. I should have foreseen this.

About you! Your mother feels like you should move back here, to Talry, and Alya is dead set against it. I don’t really know where she prefers to live, only that it is not close to your mother.

Have they thrown things? I asked, my heart sinking.

No . . . they just have . . . discussions, he said, cautiously. Really loud discussions. And then your sisters started to get involved and—

Oh, dear Breega’s smoldering twat! I swore. What does my father say?

He . . . he and your brothers-in-law retreat to his woodshed when they get going. I’ve gone with them a few times, he confessed. I didn’t know what else to do!

You’re fine, boy, I said with a mental sigh. If Dad is running and hiding, then follow his lead. He’s had years of experience with Mama, and this happens every time one of us gets married. Only this time it’s her only son, and I’m marrying a . . . an Alshari peasant, in her mind, I bet. She probably thought I’d come home and marry a miller’s daughter or something.

Actually, she’s mentioned a young widow in the next village over—

Of course she did. Purposefully, to get under Alya’s skin. And how did she respond?

She suggested that if the young widow was willing to stand by your side against half a million goblins, she might have a chance at winning your heart.

He went on to describe, in gory detail, how each of my sisters got involved and how, with three of them surprisingly lining up in support of Alya, and now one of my nieces – herself at the cusp of womanhood and a busy-body besides – had said some catty things that had the entire house in an uproar. By now the original issue had been forgotten as a imagined slight and purposeful insult had blown it into something far larger.

My dad and brothers-in-law had almost been drawn into the fight, but he had wisely imposed a moratorium on the boys getting involved with a fight between womenfolk, and they had taken to haunting the woodshed. Poor Tyndal felt duty-bound to defend Alya, but he was better equipped to do so when the foe was a tribe of bloodthirsty goblins than a strong-willed matriarch in a power-struggle with a daughter-in-law.

Ouch. All right, here’s what you do: my sister Mirta, she’s supporting my mother in this, right? She’s always been Mama’s right arm, the most like her. That means she’s been the most dutiful and least rebellious – not like Urna, who’d swear white for black to spite her. But because she’s so dutiful, you can use that to your favor: go to her and remind her that it would be a good idea to have Alya’s bridal trousseau prepared for when I come home . . . or my shroud and funeral gown if I don’t. That should give her a little perspective, make her feel guilty, and push Mama to set up a trousseau for the future mother for her grandchild . . . and make her think about a funeral for her only son, all at the same time.

Master? Will that work?

I’m not done. Once you do that, then get the hell out and beg my father for a seat with the menfolk. And if Alya gives you any trouble about the disappearing act, tell her that I said it was necessary for your magical education and the furtherance of the war effort. And if she wants to get a message to me about that, then she had better hurry up, because I am marching off to war and an uncertain future.

There was a long pause before Tyndal answered. Master, that’s . . . that’s brilliant. And devious. You don’t play fair, do you?

I grew up in a house with five sisters, I explained. I learned how to play them off each other pretty early on. It kept me getting spoiled the whole time. Well, most of the time, I amended. If I’d played fair, I never would have gotten out of there alive. But you’ve just made me realize something.

What is that, Master?

That no matter how much danger and discomfort I have to face in the coming weeks . . . at least the gods have spared me enduring that inevitable spat. I owe you, Tyn, I really do.

There was another pause. Just stay safe, all right?

You, too, I replied. To be honest I’m glad you are holed up there in Talry right now. I just pissed off a really powerful mage, and that might be a problem. So if you see anyone show up in the village wearing a black and white checkered cloak . . . smear yourself with dung and hang out in a stable. Don’t try to fight them unless you have to, and if you have to . . . do your worst. Because they won’t hold back even a little bit. I explained about my confrontation with the Censor General, and the subsequent earth-shaking political developments – then told him to keep quiet about them.

That didn’t seem to make him feel any better, but I hoped it would keep things in perspective for him for a while. With the prospect of being pursued by the Censorate, perhaps a squabble amongst my relatives wouldn’t seem so daunting.

Only moments after bidding him good luck and finishing my walk across the darkened courtyard toward my quarters, I happened to run into the one person I least wanted to see in the whole world. General Hartarian was standing, alone, in front of the door to the tower, in full armor, his cloak cast back impressively.

I instantly began to hang some spells, but he held up his hands.

“Peace, Spellmonger, I’m not here to arrest you.”

I let the spells drop, half-completed, their unexpended energy making a weak flare in the air in front of me.

“All right,” I said, cautiously, “a truce, then.” I wasn’t too worried – obviously, he was an adept warmage, he’d have to be in his position. But he didn’t have a witchstone. I was confident in my ability to defend myself. Besides, I still had a warwand in my boot. “What do you want, if it’s not my head?”

He actually chuckled. “Taking your head wouldn’t undo the damage you’ve done, Spellmonger. It would be enormously satisfying, but I am a man of my word. In Castal, the Censorate is suspended. Elsewhere . . . “ he shrugged, as if it were out of his hands. “The fact is, whether you know it or not, you’ve been played for a dupe. Duke Rard is using you and this . . . invasion as an excuse to grab for power.”

“I know it,” I sighed. “That doesn’t change the urgency of the situation. If anything, I’m using him as much as he’s using me. While you and he are playing politics there are people dying, and I seem to be the only one trying to do a damn thing about it.”

“But you don’t yet realize what you’ve done, do you Spellmonger?” he asked, softly. “You’ve opened Belora’s Cave. You’ve helped overthrow the established order.”

“The established order wasn’t exactly serving my needs,” I replied. “Or the needs of the people.”

“Ah, the justification of every revolutionary,” he said, shaking his head. “ ‘The old is corrupt, in with the new!’ Yet few revolutionaries realize the consequences of their actions. You, for instance, feel as if you’ve released the magi from an oppressive burden. In Castal and Alshar, perhaps there wasn’t as much need for such dedicated enforcement of the Bans, but elsewhere . . . well, policing the magi and administering the examinations and punishing those who would violate the Bans, those are secondary functions of the Censorate. Would it surprise you to learn that after three hundred years, there are still those of Imperial lineage who seek to re-establish the Magocracy?”

Well, yes, actually, I’ve slept with one of them and I handed them all a couple of witchstones – why? I thought. But I had the sense not to say it. He had pledge a truce, but even a man of honor has his limits. “Why should I care about that? The Magocracy has been dead for well over three hundred years. It isn’t coming back. The Dead God is here and now.”

“But that does not mean that those diehards will not cause trouble,” he insisted. “Without irionite, they were a nuisance, a bunch of old men huddling in caves and plotting the ruin of the Duchies while smiling obsequiously and protesting their innocence to our faces. The Duchies don’t care about their plots – because the Censorate has always stood on guard against them. As long as they could not operate in the open, and they had no irionite, they could stay a nuisance. That was why we went after the Mad Mage and made ruin of all of Farise: they had agents there, where they could indeed work in the open outside of the Censorate’s control. That alone could be tolerated.

“But when Orril Pratt revealed himself with his witchstone, that was unacceptable.”

“But why?” I demanded. “It’s powerful, it’s true, but the magi used it peacefully for hundreds of years before Perwin fell.”

“It is because Perwin fell that it must not be used, Spellmonger,” he insisted. “And these mad fools with misplaced loyalties in their hearts to a long-dead empire would seek to use it again to unleash such devastation on Callidore. Have you ever heard of . . . the Forsaken?”

The way he said it, I half expected a peal of thunder to sound in the distance. “No,” I admitted. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Good,” he nodded. “For it is a closely held secret, and the Censorate has been charged with keeping it a secret for three hundred years. The Forsaken are some . . . powerful beings, I suppose, gods or demons or perhaps some powerful magi, who were locked away before the Inundation. The reason is lost to history, but I can’t imagine it would be a pleasant one. When Perwin fell, it was thought that they, too, were eternally imprisoned safe beyond the grasp of man. Yet . . . “

“Yet?” I asked, prodding him on cue. All right, despite my fear and anger at this man, I was curious.

“Yet, these scions of the Magocracy have hidden themselves for centuries, plotting to reawaken the Forsaken. Indeed, it is the focus of their cult, and has been since before Perwin sank. But they need irionite to accomplish the ritual. And the Staff of the Archmagi. And they must be at the Spire of Perwin.”

“Well, the Staff is locked safely away at a temple in Vore,” I pointed out. “And the Spire of Perwin is a long, long way away.”

“But not unreachable,” he said, urgently. “And if they have the opportunity and the means, they will not hesitate to perform their damned ritual. And then what, Spellmonger? Instead of one divine enemy of the human race, we get . . . thousands? Tens of thousands?”

“I’m far more concerned with the one staring us in the face than the possibility of facing more later. Because if the Dead God isn’t stopped, then it won’t matter if the Forsaken – who comes up with these names? – it won’t matter if the Forsaken want to dance on our graves.”

He sighed a great and heavy sigh. “Perhaps you are right. Despite what it may have seemed like in counsel, I do recognize that there is a grave danger in the west. And even as I curse you for imperiling the Bans, I do admire your passion in raising a defense. I’ve spent twenty years watching the Dukes ignore such perils in favor of pursuing their own ambitions. Some have paid with their lives. Rard . . . Rard is a smart one. Of all the Dukes, he has the best chance in three generations of establishing a monarchy, if the other Dukes will permit it. I wouldn’t have thought him capable, but this invasion provides him the perfect corridor to the great throne.”

“I had no idea he was going to do that, in court,” I protested. Hartarian looked up at me sharply.

“No, I don’t suppose you did – you were as surprised as I, I could tell. Rard wouldn’t have told you, that is not his way. He is a very cagey ruler. That wife of his is no fainting flower, either.” So Hartarian didn’t know Grendine’s alter ego as Mother? Interesting . . .

“That’s far above my position, General,” I said, carefully. “I don’t care about who rules what. My concern is for the gurvani and the Dead God. I was not exaggerating his power. Nor the necessity of matching it with witchstones and Imperial magic. It may well take every mage in the Duchies armed with irionite to defeat him.” I looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, General, you are certainly a formidable warmage in your own right. A warrior such as yourself would be of great use against the Dead God. And I do have other witchstones. Put aside this vendetta against me and my order, and I will take your oath and grant you one, and you may feel the rush of power on the battlefield such as you’ve never known.”

He smiled at me, almost bitterly. “You tempt me, Spellmonger, for shame. You tempt an old man at the end of his career with a second chance, a chance for glory and death in battle, when all I have to look forward to are a desk, hearings, examinations, and eventual retirement. You tempt me sorely with your offer of power.”

“Well, if the Censorate falls, then you’ll need another job,” I pointed out, remembering what Isily had told me about that prophecy. “You might be betraying your sworn duty . . . but you may protect all humanity by doing so.”

His eyes grew more bitter, and more steely. “Again, you tempt me. The power . . . don’t think it doesn’t hold an allure for me. But I shall not take an oath from you, though I pledge someday I will have a stone – your stone – even if I have to take it from your body on the field of combat.”

“You may find that harder to do than you think,” I said, flashing a quick smile I hope looked confident.

“No doubt I would. But I will not forsake my duty for power or position. It would offend my honor. And while I would be proficient on the battlefield, it would do you little good to win me over. Believe it or not, I am actually considered a moderate amongst the captains of the Censorate. There are those in the east who are far, far less reasonable than I. And those captains have considerable influence at the courts of Merwin and Vore. Between their Dukes’ ire at the possibility of ‘King Rard’ and the zealots of the east – who will not feel honor-bound to respect Rard’s suspension of the their order – you may end up delivering us from the specter of the Dead God only to see the Duchies burn in civil war.”

“The Duchies have fought before,” I said, shrugging. “But they won’t do as much damage to each other as the Dead God can do to us all. He’s my concern, not politics.”

“Ah, but everything is political, Spellmonger,” Hartarian said, laughing humorlessly. “Everything. You would be wise not to forget that.” He suddenly stuck out his hand, quite unexpectedly. “I ride with my men for Wenshar, where we will call a Council General, and gather all the captains to discuss this . . . development. It may be that they depose me and elect new leadership. It may be that they call for war. It may be . . . it likely will be that they will split without reaching consensus. But for you, Master Minalan, I bid you good luck and the favor of the gods on your campaign. If nothing else, I want to see you alive at the end so that we may bring you to justice.”

I took his hand and shook it. “I can think of worse fates,” I conceded, thinking of staring into the Dead God’s sightless eyes on the roof of Boval Castle.

Compared to enduring that again, a rope around my neck sounded downright homey.

* * *

I had eaten well at the war council meeting – it was more of a victory feast than an actual occasion to plan, and the kitchens had treated it as such. Roast oxen, pork, and fowl contended with a number of vegetable dishes and even some decently-baked rolls – and the wine flowed like a river after rain. But I had been too shocked at the day’s events to eat much, so when Ham appeared in the little common room with a tray of meat and cheese, I was extremely pleased.

“Your bed is turned down, Master,” he informed me, “and your clothes for the morrow are laid out. Your ewer is filled, your chamberpot is empty, and the same can be said for your fellow magi, Master. Oh, and that whore is back – I let her into your room.”

I almost smirked. “Thank you, Ham, that will be all. Oh, I think I’ll need another shave in the morning.”

“Of course, Master,” he said, taking his leave with a yawn. “And Master? I heard what happened in court. I wish I could have been there to see it with my own eyes.”

I nodded and sighed. “I guess it was entertaining, if you didn’t actually have to endure it. How did you find—oh. ‘Stable boys’,” I chuckled, answering my own question.

After he left I hung up my hat and took off my weapons harness and dropped them all in a pile by the door to my chamber. When I went inside, there was a single taper burning in the sconce, and my bed was definitely being warmed. Isily was stretched out under the blankets, propped up on one elbow, her figure making them into an appealing shape.

“That was impressive,” Isily said, seductively. “Really, Minalan, that was . . . amazing.” I didn’t really want to see her, after the day I’d had. She worked for Mother. But then so did my valet. And perhaps I could discover some information, trading on her new attachment to me. Oh, I know she was spying on me, too. I had come to expect that. And she might know something.

“Did you have any idea they were . . . going to do that?” I asked, as I kicked my boots off of my grateful feet.

“Make a play to establish a kingdom?” she asked, surprised. “No, of course not. I’m not certain anyone else in the Family did, either, actually, though I haven’t been able to discuss it. We’ve been busy for the last several weeks, especially in the south, but . . .” she shrugged – hard to do lying down and even harder to do and still keep the blanket covering her modesty. She failed at the last part. And she was naked under there. I mean, I was pretty sure she was when I came in, but her shrug removed all doubt.

And, apparently, it was cold in the room.

“Well, you knew she was ambitious,” I pointed out, collapsing across the foot of my luxurious bed. “Which, when you think about it, is odd for a Duchess.”

Isily sat up, which I appreciated even more, but shook her head. “No, this is about more than ambition, Minalan. This is about . . . well, she feels predestined. Like she was chosen by the gods to lead her people during this dark hour, or something like that.”

“Well, I can’t say the gods have denied it,” I sighed. “Damn her, she was right: she gave me everything I wanted, and more. So why do I feel so bad about it?”

“Well, she’s not very likable, is she?” Isily volunteered. “I mean, she’s a good leader, an excellent Duchess, and she’ll make a magnificent queen, if she isn’t assassinated. She’s an outstanding match for Duke Rard, and far, far more capable of running a Duchy than her brother Lenguin. But likable? The only people I’ve seen her show a consistent kindness to is her immediate family and some chosen servants. The rest of us . . . we’re just tools to her.”

“Yes, that’s it, I feel like her tool. And I’m uncomfortable with that, even if it gives me what I want. I could tell even when she appeared to be kind to me that she was just manipulating me, using me. Rard, at least, did me the courtesy of being straightforward with me. And now when I should be worried about the Dead God and the war in Alshar, I’m seeing assassins and spies behind every corner and trying to second-guess the mind of a devious Duchess.”

“Yes, poor Minalan,” she said, mockingly, brushing my hair out of my eyes. Which put my eyes in a very pleasant proximity. “Poor, poor powerful magi, with a pocket full of witchstones, the ear of a Duke and a Duchess and now an army at his disposal. Poor Minalan!”

“It’s actually more of an expeditionary force than an army,” I corrected absently, unable to look at her eyes. “But I guess I see your point. I just don’t like being a piece on someone else’s board.”

“Does anyone? Oh, maybe a few fools, perhaps, but we all like the illusion that we are acting free and independent of other forces. You, as a mage, I would expect would understand that as well as anyone.”

“But those are magical forces,” I countered. “The natural order of things: earth, air, fire, water, spirit, gravity, electricity, magnetism, light, shadow . . .”

“And you have yet to understand that such ‘non-natural’ forces as government and conspiracy and sovereignty and power and politics – politics most of all – are acting on you all the time? No less than gravity or oxygen.”

“I knew it intellectually, I guess,” I admitted. “But it seems so . . . unseemly.”

She giggled again. “It’s no more or less unseemly than the other cycles of life. It’s actually pretty simple, in theory: in order for our society to function, certain specialized rules need to be made and enforced so that we may achieve order, and order leads to prosperity, which is the highest aspiration for any society. Roads, castles, harbors, the post, who owns what piece of land, who has the right to fish in what rivers . . . as long as there are more than two people in the world, we’re going to have to have some system that allows us to grow and build and prosper without killing each other all the time. And for a lot of things, like building roads or digging wells or constructing a fortress, we can’t do these things alone and must find some way to organize ourselves to accomplish them. Make sense?”

I nodded, slowly. “Okay . . . I can accept that.”

“Well, once it’s established that the good of the society rests in part with its ability to organize to establish order and promote prosperity, then you have politics. Someone has to make the rules, be it Duke or Archmage or King or a bunch of unruly peasants. Someone has to decide which thing goes where and who can do what. That’s making policy.”

“Um . . . all right. I suppose. Someone has to decide.”

“Well, that decision-making is power. But it can’t exist alone. You can decide things all day, but if no one listens to you or enforces your decisions, well, you don’t have power. Correct?” she asked, leaning back on both hands.

“I can see that,” I said, nodding slowly. I was being hypnotized.

“So we have enforcement to support and sustain the deciders, the powerful ones, the policy makers. Enforcement means men with swords threatening violence in order to establish the deciders’ right to decide and have that decision executed.”

“So . . . power grows from the hilt of a sword?”

“Usually,” she concedes. “Or a wand. Or army. But the entity who can threaten the most violence to the society at large is usually the one who can enforce their decisions.”

“But the Duke’s men don’t go around hacking off heads to get their business done,” I said, shaking my head.

“They don’t usually need to,” she replied. “The threat is implicit: ignore the Duke’s laws, and his men will eventually come to get you and he will eventually render up justice. And it is through justice that the threat of force, on behalf of the Duke, that the Duchy enforces its laws.”

“That seems like an inefficient way to do things,” I pointed out.

“Efficiency is not always desirable in a government,” she countered. “Especially by the third important part of the state: the bureaucracy.”

“Yes, my least favorite part of the state,” I chuckled. “And I’m not particularly fond of the other two.”

“But it’s absolutely essential – more so than even the deciders and the enforcers. Without bureaucracy, there’s no way to keep track of the decisions and implement them through proper enforcement. The Duke can decide that all children under seven must attend a temple school, or all girls over fourteen must cut their hair, and the soldiers and knights under him are happy to start killing people to enforce it . . . but the goal of politics is to implement policy without the overt use of force.”

“You know, you’re really quite beautiful when you lecture,” I said, faintly. She smiled and tossed her hair. And continued.

“If there isn’t a bureaucracy to keep track of the rules, and also keep track of temple schools and children and fourteen-year-old girls, then the enforcers don’t know where and who to provide their force against. And randomly hacking truant kids or long-haired girls just isn’t going to make you very popular with the people you’re trying to govern.”

I sat up, suddenly surprised. “Is that important? Being popular with the people, that is?”

“Oh, gods yes!” she said, like I was an idiot. “Power always rests upon a decider’s ability to please the most people with his decisions. He might have an unpopular policy or hire a poor bureaucrat and be forgiven, but if a Duke started doing that all the time . . . well, there are rebellions for the nobles and revolts from the peasants. And an unpopular ruler isn’t going to attract the strength he needs to enforce his rules if he continuously makes poor decisions. So in a very real way his power rests on his ability to please the people. Or at least enough of them to keep him in power.”

“And bureaucracy pleases the people?” I asked, skeptically. Talking political theory with a naked woman has a lot to be said for it.

“Not in its execution,” she admitted, “but in its effect. You would miss it if it was gone, even if you’d never seen an official. We use bureaucracy as an intermediary between the State and the People. It serves to bring the policies of the deciders down to actual implementation. Take taxation, for instance –”

“Actually, I’d rather avoid it,” I quipped.

“Well, you can’t. Nor death. But paying all those enforcers and defenders of the state, and all those bureaucrats, and all of those workers building castles and roads, that costs far more than the Duke could pay on his own. So part of his decision is to levy taxes to spread the burden out amongst the people whom it serves. And that means he needs to know just who owes what, how much they have, and when they paid or didn’t.”

“I can’t think of anyone who’d miss the tax collectors if they were gone,” I mused, absently creating some sparkling magelights over the bed. It was a little like magically drumming your fingers. “My father always hated them.”

“That’s fine, that’s what they are there for,” Isily assured me. “Because your father could hate the tax collector and love the lord—”

“The Baron,” I supplied. “We lived in a baronial village. Almost a town.”

“And I’m sure that the baron – the local ‘decider’ – made sure that even if you hated the tax collector, he got his taxes collected, didn’t he? Even though everyone hates the tax collector. Because those taxes pay for the fortifications and the horses and the upkeep on all those things he needs to keep his lands safe. And the tribute he pays to his liege supplies the same, over a larger area. And thence to the level of the Duchy.”

“But wouldn’t it make more sense if everyone just paid for their own local things?” I complained. “Why should my father have to fund a castle some idiot noble a thousand miles away wants to build?”

“Because the castles and the knights and their men guard the Duchy, and not all fiefs are wealthy enough to afford to build decent fortifications,” she explained, patiently. “And some things, like the Duke’s Rangers, who ride the roads and the rivers and keep them safe for bandits, or the Lampmasters who keep the lighthouses on the coast, or the masters of post who speed messages across the land, the universities and colleges and schools of magic and engineering and the temples devoted to healing, the legal system, they are all expensive, they benefit the entire Duchy, and the cost should be borne by all. But that wasn’t why I brought up the tax collectors.”

“Why did you bring up the tax collectors, Isily?” I asked, admiring how her body looked under the magelights.

“As an example of how the bureaucracy serves the people, even if they hate it. The people can hate the tax collectors, even as they love the nobles who impose the taxes. And if the people get too angry at the policies – say, taxes – then the nobles can always hang and replace the tax collectors, adjust their policy – say, grant some generous exemptions – and proceed.”

I sighed. I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “So why do I need to know all of this?”

“Because, you idiot, you just walked away from the table with a huge helping of power, and you haven’t the faintest idea what to do with it.”

“All I want to do is fight goblins and defeat the Dead God!”

“And you think you can just wave your wand and it will be done? Seriously, Minalan, armies cost money. A man will stand and fight for his life if he has to, but if he doesn’t have to you have to pay him gold. And buy him armor and a sword and a horse, and then pay a blacksmith to keep his armor and weapons in good repair, and provide fodder for his mount, food for his belly, warmth for his bed . . . and where do you think that money is going to come from?”

I stared at her dully. I hadn’t thought about that. “Um . . . the Duke?”

“And where do you think he’ll get it? From his people. New taxes. And the only way you can make people accept a new tax is by proving that it’s going someplace that benefits them. That should be perfectly clear after the Three Temples scandal in Merwin.”

My blank stare caused a pretty eye-roll. “The Three Temples scandal? Three years ago? Everyone was talking about it?”

“Sorry, I was on an extended holiday in sunny Farise,” I pointed out. That took her aback.

“Oh. All right, the Duke of Merwin – not this one, but the last one – levied a small tax on salt in Merwin for the construction of three temples in Drenden. Only the temples never got built, and the tax continued to be collected. Well, after a while – over thirty years – some bureaucrat finally realized that the money had been collected, but never spent. And the need for the temples wasn’t as strong by then, since two of the gods fell out of favor and the third had a temple constructed by a grateful patron. But when the news got out, there were riots across Merwin because the Duke wasn’t planning on building the temples, nor was he planning on ending the tax. It was his father’s tax, after all, and he didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t collect the revenue.

“After six weeks of riots he changed his mind and ended the tax. He also donated the collected tax – which had been considerable – to Yttra’s temple houses for widows and orphans. But he – and every other Duke – learned a valuable lesson about taxation. If you don’t have something to show for it, then the people won’t tolerate it.”

“So I’m going to have to . . . raise a tax to pay for the army?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“No, no, the government does that. And the people will pay for defense, even if they don’t see the immediate results. They just have to know that if they don’t, well, they’ll wish they had. And that’s what your job is. You are to provide the glorious tale of the war against the evil goblins, the gorier the better. The people have to be scared enough to want to feel safe – and be willing to pay for it.”

I groaned. “This is starting to sound a lot more complicated than I thought.”

“Minalan, if protecting the Duchies from the Dead God is what you want to do, then yes, it’s going to be a lot more complicated than just raising an army. If he isn’t going away, you’re going to have to handle this institutionally. And we don’t have an institution to handle this. You’re going to have to build one.”

“You sound like Pentandra,” I said, miserably.

“If I recall correctly, she was pretty intelligent.”

“Like you’re pretty naked,” I agreed. “Smartest person I know. That’s why she’s organizing this order, I guess. She’s the one who suggested that fake livery for my warmagi. I suppose she understands all of this intuitively.” I looked at her thoughtfully. “So do you – a lot more than an ordinary mage would.”

She shrugged, which was mesmerizing. “My father was the Master of Revenue and the Paymaster for Count Blaine of Wenshar. I overheard such talk my entire childhood, when I was supposed to be just doing needlework, sitting next to my father and looking pretty. He was cultivating me as a wife of some official or lord when I came into my power . . . but I never forgot him explaining all of this to me, in between appointments.” She smiled, and dimple erupted. “It was one of the few times I think I impressed him.”

“I’m impressed,” I assured her. “From eligible maiden to ruthless magical assassin in . . . well, less than a decade,” I said, trying to estimate her age. “What I don’t understand is what you get out of . . . being a Daughter.”

“I get a position at court, for one thing,” she pointed out. “That’s not a common thing for a mage who isn’t Court Mage. I get to do work that matters, instead of being a common spellmonger—”

“Hey!” I protested. “The common spellmonger does do work that matters!”

“That’s not what I meant!” she said, rolling her eyes again. That reminded me of Alya, too. “I do work that matters to thousands of thousands, not just helping a farmer find a lost cow.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” I muttered.

“But what do I really want?” she asked, almost surprised at the question. “I get . . . I get to be important. I get to matter. I get to go to exotic places and do exciting things that my sisters, Yttra bless their bulging bellies, will only dream of. I get to bed handsome, innocent spellmongers with hearts of gold, who give me magical trinkets and intrigue. And power. Not yet, but someday. I will be a decider, not a bureaucrat. A player, not a piece on the board.”

“Ambitious,” I agreed. “And strong. And quiet . . . until you’re alone. Then you become a strategician.”

“I do my best work alone,” she admitted, shyly. “That’s why I’m a good Shadowmage. And why, some day, I shall have my power and I won’t have to share it with anyone. In fact, the witchstone you gave me is a step on that road, I think. I’ve never felt so . . . overwhelmed with energy before!” She reached out and pushed a lock of hair out of my eyes that wasn’t really obscuring my vision all that much. “So what does the humble spellmonger want out of all of this, if not power?”

“I don’t mind the power, I just don’t know how to use it. What do I want? I don’t know . . . wealth, the respect of my peers, a world without an abomination like the Dead God in it, to get back to my paramour and make her my bride, settle down in a cozy little shop somewhere and make babies . . .”

“I have heard that your paramour is a . . . commoner.”

“Most people are,” I agreed.

“You know you have realized an immense amount of power, both magical and temporal. That power can be delegated, and it can be shared. Are you sure she’s . . . the right person to share it with?”

“You mean . . . I shouldn’t marry Alya?”

She shrugged. It didn’t seem as pretty, this time. “I’m sure she’s lovely, but is she prepared for the kind of power that will naturally accrue to the Spellmonger’s wife?”

“I’m not even sure I’m prepared for it,” I said, sitting up. “Why would she be in any worse position than me?”

“I don’t mean offense,” she said, biting her lip. “But Minalan, if you are successful you will have every noble in the realm trying to marry off their daughters to you, to cement an alliance. If you are already married, that isn’t going to be possible.”

“So?” I asked, warningly.

“So,” she said, pushing forward, “you could compound the power you have with such an alliance. If you are a magelord, no house in all the Duchies would shy from having you an in-law.”

“Somehow I don’t think a marriage to some noble bint would suit me,” I said, evenly. “I love Alya. She’s wonderful. She’s smart, almost as smart as Pentandra, though not nearly as educated. She ran a very successful business in Boval, before the new management took over. There’s nothing ahead of me that Alya can’t handle.”

“So adamant,” she said, quietly. “You must love her. You’re very loyal to her, when a noble scoundrel would have seen the wisdom of my words and left her with a bastard as he pursued his own interests.”

“I do love her,” I said, insistently.

“Yet you are here in bed with a naked woman,” she observed.

“You were here when I came in,” I pointed out. “I’ve had a very long, stressful day, thanks to your uncle, I’m exhausted, I’m far from home in a strange place, completely out of my element, acting out of ignorance and making it up as I go. In two weeks I could be a rotting corpse on a battlefield or get my throat slit in some dingy corner of the town. I love Alya,” I repeated, “but she’s a long way away from here, you’re here, and . . . well, to be honest, you look a lot like her. Not that you aren’t beautiful in your own right, but I have to admit, I find you comfortable to be intimate with partly because you do remind me of her, and I’m homesick.”

She looked at me with an odd expression. “Minalan, I’ve bedded men I’ve been ordered to murder in their sleep, and told them outrageous lies to do it. I’ve done what I’ve had to, when I needed to get into a dungeon or bribe my way past a guard. I’ve taken masquerade as a whore a dozen times to complete my quest, and oft been forced to prove my trade. I’ve taken lovers on my own, from time to time, for love or sport. I’ve been told every lie that man can imagine to open a woman’s legs.

“But this is the first time I’ve ever taken a lover as a cure for homesickness, because I resemble his paramour.”

I studied her carefully. “And you find that mis-suits you?”

She glanced down, demurely. “In fact, I find it touching and charming, and very endearing that you would seek comfort with me whilst thinking of her. She is a very lucky woman.”

I had that to ponder while I slowly undressed.

Chapter Thirty-Two:

Preparing The Battlefield

The Timberwatch, Late Summer

The castle of Timberwatch had been designed to shelter lumbermen from the depredations of both the Pearwoods barbarians and the gurvani, but since both potential enemies were unsophisticated in how they attacked, the castle itself was pretty unsophisticated.

The keep was sturdy enough: a broad, square stone donjon four stories tall, with two large square towers at the corners facing the gates and rising to five stories. The third tower was at the tallest point of the hill the keep was built on, and it stood nine full stories into the air, four stories over the next-largest. It was also a round tower, and it was used primarily for scanning the horizons for foes or fire. There had been a lot more of the latter than the former for several decades, but the vast woods around the fief made quickly identifying the former a vital preoccupation for Lord Sigarlan of Timberwatch.

The keep was surrounded by three stout wooden palisades, creating a largish inner bailey and two respectably-sized outer ones. The crags and fissures in the rocky hill of Timberwatch had been cunningly employed to aid in the defense, making potential attackers fight on rickety bridges over gaping chasms, against steep rises in the rock, and the largest features had been incorporated into the defenses. Should an enemy wish to take the place, he’d have to fight through a punishing maze of rocky death and flung projectiles for his trouble.

Since the treasure of the Timberwatch could be kiln-dried and measured in board feet, there just wasn’t that much portable wealth around to tempt any respectable band of thieves, man or beastie. But it was green gold to Lord Sigarlan, a distant cousin of House Vetiny, and his men served the Watchtower night and day, alert for fire.

It was said that on a clear day you could see the furthest peaks of the Pearwoods in the east, clear to Castle Green Hill in the west, from Grimly Wood to the south to the long line of the escarpment in the north. It was tall enough that the men of the Timberwatch had sighted the first wandering bands raiding across the north and west weeks ago, and they had raised the alarm. The furthest villages of the land had evacuated behind the safety of the castle’s walls, and the knights had been able to patrol in force before the bands had crossed their frontiers.

That made the Timberwatch the best staging area for our defense. From the tower’s summit nearly every detail of the fields north of the castle was visible. The large village below the castle’s walls was half-deserted when we arrived, and the fields around it – which the Timberwatchmen had been lucky enough to harvest – were ideal for establishing an army encampment. The Orphan’s Band and Redshaft’s archers had arrived and were organizing the fields for the rest of the troops marching from Vorone and Tudry, digging latrines, building kitchens, setting up tents for a field hospital. The few Timberwatch villagers who remained were glowering angrily around the edges of the activity, but they weren’t interfering.

Lord Sigarlan, on the other hand, was using language fit to raise demons when we rode up to the village’s hall. He was a short, squat man with a wide face and a bushy gray beard and mustache that couldn’t seem to make up its mind which way to lay. He was armored, up to a chainmail coif, and he bore a broad bladed two-headed axe on his back, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to try to threaten Bold Asgus with it.

The mercenary captain was standing with his massive arms crossed over his chest, a patient look on his face, as the lordling swore and cursed about the imposition, about the lack of respect for his authority, about the horses destroying the fall gardens that were just nearing harvest. Asgus was flanked by a couple of burly Orphans with the large shields they favored, and none of them looked willing to negotiate with Sigarlan. There were four local knights behind Sigarlan with cloaks thrown back, their sword hilts showing, but compared to Asgus’ brawny boys they looked tired, ill-fed, and quite intimidated.

“. . . and that’s the last time I’ll have your men intercepting provisions bound for my castle, or you’ll have the blade of my axe to contend with!” he sputtered. “We’ve got the goblins licked here, I tell you – they know not to cross our frontiers, they fear our axes! We don’t need your help! Go find some lesser scrogs to push around, the Timberwatch is secure!”

I exchanged glances with my fellows as we rode up. “Asgus, is there a problem?” I asked. The big mercenary bowed, and his deep voice boomed out like a stampede of horses.

“Captain Minalan, Lord Sigarlan urgently begs a word with you about one or two matters of housekeeping in the cantonment he graciously allowed us to build.” He glanced at me. “If you have time, that is.”

“What seems to be the issue?” I asked, dismounting and pulling off my riding gloves.

“I wish to speak to the officer in charge, is the issue!” Sigarlan snarled. “This big lout just nods his head and says he has orders and his bully boys just go about their business like they own the place!” he said, scandalized. He glanced at my riding attire, and noted the wands in my harness. “So why am I talking to you? I must see the officer in charge!”

“I am Marshal Minalan,” I said, bowing nominally. “I have a warrant from Duke Lenguin to conduct operations against the goblins. Your neighbors, Lord Grimly and Margonas of Green Hill, had no trouble observing my lawful authority. So you can rest assured that I am in charge.”

“You?” he scoffed, the sneer of a petty man used to having his ass kissed by even more petty men. “You’re a warmage. Go hex something,” he said, dismissively. “I don’t care what crazy papers you have, you may not go through my lands without my leave, much less build an encampment!”

I shrugged. In my defense, he did tell me to do it. I waved my hand across his chest and sent tendrils of energy out to bind his arms to his side. “Is that better? Good. Now listen, my lord, and listen well: in as soon as five days every goblin in the world is going to come down that escarpment, and the first place that they are going to head for is, naturally, Timberwatch.” He struggled against the invisible bonds, his eyes bulging with anger and fear. I continued. “Now I have moved around the mountains themselves to assemble an army to face them and, gods willing, defeat them. It is unfortunate that this battle will take place on your lands, but it can’t be helped. It is the will of the gods that it should be so.”

“I don’t need your help to fight goblins, mage!” he spat. “I’ve been hunting the nasty little buggers since I was ten summers on!”

“You can’t face this many,” I said in a reasonable tone of voice, “and you can’t hold out in your castle. So you’re going to go back to that castle and prepare it to receive our wounded and serve as a refuge, should the day go against us. And in the meantime, you will lend me and my men every possible assistance. My warrant from Duke Lenguin is quite clear on that part.”

“Damn your warrant! I’ll take this to Lenguin myself, if I have to!”

“You need only wait three or four days, then,” I soothed. “His Grace rides to Timberwatch himself, at the head of an army ten times as large as this one. I’m sure he will listen to your list of complaints very . . . patiently.” I grinned humorously as Sigarlan’s eyes got even wider.

“His Grace? Rides here?” he gasped.

“Indeed. I assume that you will offer him shelter in your hall – oh, I have no doubt he’ll prefer to sleep in his tent, but he is your Duke, after all . . .”

“Release me at once!” he nearly shrieked, as his men looked back and forth at each other in a panic. “Release me! I have preparations to make for His Grace’s arrival! Fifty years since a Duke of the realm has sat at table at Timberwatch! Release me! You do what you must, but I must go prepare!”

I released the bonds with a wave of my hand, and he fell to the ground when they no longer resisted him. His knights pulled him up, and they headed back toward the castle without another protest.

“Ninety thousand goblins about to call his lands home, and he’s worried about the fresh linens,” mused Asgus, shaking his head. “I owe you a debt, Captain. I have been listening to that horrible little man for two days since we arrived. His men even pretended that they would hold the village against us until . . . they thought better of it,” he chuckled, diplomatically.

“My pleasure,” I assured him. “I never liked that kind of lord when I was a mercenary, myself, nor in Farise. Especially in Farise. Report, Asgus?”

“Captain, the mess halls are erected and we have scavenger parties ranging the local villages to bear back what they can. Twenty cattle found thus roaming were slaughtered, and ten hogs. Latrines are being dug, the healer’s tents and apothecary are setting up, and the smithies are already building heavier forges. The encampment is laid out by my lads, with this house serving as headquarters. His Grace,” he said, grimly, “will be offered the fairer camp site – or at least the flatter camp site – for his men.” I could tell by the way he said it that he preferred the sloped terrain, as any seasoned campaigner would. You don’t want to get caught in a sudden bog if it rains for nine days straight. There are times when being uphill counts for a lot.

“Very good, Asgus,” I nodded. “Have you selected a place for the magical corps? This battle is going to need one. And I have a big magical corps, for a change.”

“Yes, Captain, I received your orders. There is a large hay barn to the northwest of here, but well within our pickets. Most of the fodder had been moved to the castle already, so it’s empty enough. Will it suffice?”

“Probably,” I conceded. “I suppose I’d prefer something more sturdy, but I don’t think I’d like my host, should I try to beg a tower from Lord Sigarlan.”

“You are most wise, Captain,” he nodded. “I’ve scraped better lords off of my boot after seeing to my horse. The first two regular companies from Tudry will arrive tonight at dusk, it is reported. Four more march behind them. And you say the army at Vorone is coming?” he asked, eagerly. I couldn’t blame him. Every soldier loves to hear about reinforcements.

“I had to be very persuasive,” I said, casually, “but His Grace saw the merit to my arguments. He’s leading them, even. He swore to do so, on the Crown Shard of Alshar with every high priest in the Duchy witnessing the deed. Together, we should be able to put thirty thousand men on the field. Or more, perhaps.”

“More?” he asked, intrigued. “Then you are a wizard, indeed, Captain. Now, where shall I quarter the magical corps? Near to the . . . barn?”

“That’s probably a good idea,” I agreed. “Especially if there’s an empty farmhouse nearby.”

“There is, and I anticipated you might say that. I took the liberty of having a squad secure it and make it as habitable as possible. And defensible. I sent the other magi there already.”

“Have a few tents sent as well, if you can spare them,” I decided. “I think we’ll have more than even a large farmhouse could bear, and I’d rather sleep in a tent than a barn. I’ll make for there at once. Tell Rogo I’ll meet with him and the other captains after dark, tonight.”

“I have a room made ready for that purpose,” he nodded. “Good to have you back, Captain,” he added, quietly.

“Was Astyral not treating you well at Tudry?” I asked, surprised.

“He is a fair captain,” Asgus admitted. “But he is not the Spellmonger.”

I sighed and got back on Traveler. The burden of fame would take some getting used to.

The barn was big, all right, and painted the same gaudy yellow that all prosperous farmers in Alshar painted them. Supposedly it kept rats away, but the Remeran farmers who painted their barns red said the same thing, and the Riverlands farmers all swore that blue barns kept the sweatflies at bay. I’m sure that the folklore was based on some hedgemage’s old spell, or perhaps even a Narasi shaman’s – regional peasant magic is a whole specialty unto itself – but the nice thing about a big yellow barn, regardless of its vermin-repelling properties, is that it’s easy to spot.

In fact, the two-storey monstrosity of agriculture dwarfed the “large” farmhouse that sat in front of it. I was pleased to see that the Orphans were patrolling the perimeter of the homestead, and there was a squad of Redshaft’s men on the roof, bows strung and eyes scanning the horizon.

“It’s not quite the palace at Vorone,” Mavone said, dryly, as he rode within earshot. “But I suppose it’s dry.”

“Kind of the point of a barn, actually,” Curmor muttered at his friend.

“If we’re going to be using the barn as a staging area,” Rustallo pointed out, “where are we going to put all the horses?”

That was answered a moment later, when two Orphans ran up, challenged us, and once they were convinced that we were who we said we were, held our reigns while we dismounted. Then they led the mounts behind the barn, where there was a string of them already waiting. Quite a few of them.

Delman, Reylan, Taren, Curmor, Rustallo, Landrik, and Master Cormaran were with us – Isily had stayed behind in Vorone, to escort the Duke and his court mage as they led the army north. They all followed me into the barn itself, past a brace of guards with halberds. I was pleased to find Terleman at the door, smoking contentedly and looking smug. No one does smug like Terleman.

“About time you arrived,” he grunted, good-naturedly. “I’ve been here for two days now, waiting patiently . . .”

“Will it suit our needs?” I asked, as he escorted us inside. Ordinarily a barn is dark and gloomy, but a large, bright magelight was floating over the center of the vast space, illuminating the interior. There were four or five churls sweeping the straw from the center of the wide, flat dirt floor, and directly in the center there was a cluster of people working diligently on something.

“It’s not the best laboratory in the Duchy, but it should work,” he nodded. “The space is dry, flat, and reasonably well defended. I’ve already warded it to the rafters with anti-scrying spells, charms against fire, everything. The farmstead is empty, save for an old widow woman who refused to move up to the castle with her kin. She’s agreed to cook for us.”

“Who’s that?” I asked, curious, as I pointed to the industrious-looking group in the center. “Not Carmella, I know her, but the tall mage?”

“I thought he’d stick out,” Terleman said, revealing the reason of his smugness. “That’s Lanse. Lanse of Bune. Heard of him?” he asked, casually, as my jaw gaped.

Among warmagi, our reputations are everything. The more well-known you are for something, the higher your demand – and the higher your fees. Of course you have the poseurs who artificially inflate their abilities with exaggeration, and those who hire jongleurs and minstrels to tell tales of their remarkable powers. You know those kind when you meet them, because they can’t seem to shut up long enough about how great they are to actually cast any spells.

But then there are those whose reputations, though superlative, don’t do them justice. Warmagi so good at their particular specialty that they pick up quite a different type of reputation: one of extreme competence. Ironically, they rarely spoke highly of themselves, because they were so focused on honing their abilities even further that they couldn’t spare the capacity. Carmella was one, when it came to fortifications. Terleman was one, when it came to supporting an army. Master Cormaran was certainly one, a master of his trade who had reached the pinnacle of his craft, and pushed back its boundaries by his own professional ambitions.

And then there was Lanse of Bune.

Lanse specialized in symbolic magic. I mean, we all do symbolic magic, because magic is all about symbols, but within the endless realms of subspecialty, there is a very specific kind of symbolic magic known as carsetra grentarada in Old Imperial, which means thaumaturgic modeling. Dioramas. It’s a particularly favorite technique of mine, and a lot of warmagi employ it. The symbolic magic is related to the old poppet spells every village witch and hedgemage uses: make a doll of someone from clay or wax or cloth, add a toenail or a lock of hair, establish an affinity and do the right binding enchantments, and thaumaturgically speaking, the doll was the person. Stab it with a pin or heal a wounded heart, as above, so below.

Carsetra Grentarada has been used since the days of Perwin, and it’s a lot more sophisticated than poppet magic. You capture the essence of a place, rather than a person. It’s outstanding for casting spells through, safely behind the lines. I used it myself at Boval Castle, and I’d like to think I was pretty good with a model. But Lance of Bune was reputed to do things with dioramas that had even my most jaded colleagues speaking in impressed tones.

From what I had heard he had been born to a family of sawyers someplace called Bune. He had completed a full apprenticeship with a baronial court mage, then did further studies at two or three magical academies, before seeking out the most advanced masters of carsetra grentarada in the world and learning the craft from them. Since the best modelers become warmagi – because that’s where the money is – Lanse became a warmagi. And his skills were legendary.

He had magically sapped the outer castle walls of Helmsford Castle, in Remere, just after the Farisian campaign was over. That was no simple feat – it was an old Imperial fortress, considered impregnable. The story went that he wandered around the enemy’s territory garbed as a humble toy maker for weeks, picking up samples – testerata, if you’re taking notes – before retiring to a tower provided by his client, where he constructed a very exact diorama. It took two weeks, but it was, by all accounts, a thing of beauty. He had discovered an underground stream, and with the help of a water witch he had re-routed it under a corner of the wall and in three days it collapsed into a giant sink-hole. And that was without irionite.

“I had him begin a model of the battlefield as soon as he arrived,” Terleman muttered to me. “I’m good at carsetra. He’s brilliant.” Since Terleman had a pretty high opinion of himself, and he had proved he was good at carsetra at Tudry, I was impressed just by him being so impressed.

“How the hell did he end up here?” I asked, as I got closer to the installation. The other warmagi were similarly impressed, standing respectfully distant from where Lanse and two assistants were working.

“Carmella knows him, believe it or not; they did a few jobs together about a year ago. She sent him a letter inviting him to come join our hopeless quest. Thought he might be useful. Apparently he’s not as smart as he is adept. He came. Hey, Lanse! Take a break! Someone you need to meet!” he shouted.

Immediately all three of the warmagi stood and gingerly stepped out of the working. Lanse was by far the tallest of the three, a lanky frame that nonetheless held a lot of muscle. He had graying hair in a close-cropped peasant’s cut, and big blue eyes that seemed to see everything. Instead of armor or leather or robes or other finery, he wore simple un-dyed cotton pants and a matching tunic covered with pockets. He wore no mageblade, but he did have a sturdy-looking dagger hanging at his belt. He looked a little annoyed at being disturbed, but when he realized who I must be, he broke out in a big boyish grin.

“You must be Minalan!” he said, in a deep voice. “Everyone’s been talking about you non-stop since I got here. You’re the man with the glass, right?”

I was a little taken aback – I was used to magi either being obsequiously formal or subtly hostile to me. Lanse acted like we were just two villagers meeting at the tavern for the first time. Still, it was hard to take offense. He certainly hadn’t meant any.

“That’s what they say,” I nodded. “I take it you’d like one?”

“Well, yes,” he said, as if it was blatantly obvious. “The things I could do with a shard of irionite . . . but,” he said, digging into a pouch on his belt and taking out his pipe, “I wouldn’t presume to ask, until I proved myself. Terleman and Carmella said you were going to fight at the escarpment. So I started working on a model. Still a long way to go, but take a look,” he said, casually, as he broke out a dried cataflower and stuffed it into the bowl of his pipe.

I did. I walked to the edge of the working, next to a huge tarpaulin full of carefully-laid out tools, where a line of salt had been laid out in a wide circle around the installation. It wasn’t magical – that was just to tell people where they should stop walking without looking at their feet.

The center of the thing was a roughly sculpted contour map of the region. I could recognize the Pearwoods, the Timberwatch, and even the first slope of Green Hill. The road had been roughly sketched in, but the forests were only indicated by chalk for now. There were tiny flags and notes held down by stones here and there. A large rock served to represent Timberwatch castle, and someone had stuck a crooked stick behind it, held in place by two smaller rocks. I assumed Lanse would replace it with something more detailed, later, but at the moment it looked oddly obscene.

To a layman it might not seem like more than a complicated hole in the dirt, thirty feet wide by fifty feet long. But from what I could see, Lanse had rendered the entire vale perfectly. The proportions and the distances were exact. “What scale? One sixth?”

He nodded, as one of his assistants handed him a beaker of some noxious green beer from Farise. “It seemed like it would be the best fit, for the space we have. I’ve got two of my boys harvesting samples of timber and stone now, to fill in the details. But I think I’ve got the rest of it roughed in.”

“This will be perfect,” I said, smiling down at the metaphor of the valley despite myself. “I can see the slope, the three causeways, the fields, the villages, the castle . . . look, the riverbed – you’ll fill that with water?”

“I’ve got some coming,” he agreed. “Then we can start working on the effigies of the troops. I brought two chests of yellow knot coral, enough to do thousands at this scale. We have benchmarks laid already, and I have two more apprentices working on the architectural modeling. Then I can really start showing you what I can do,” he promised.

“You already have,” I nodded. “This is very impressive. No further test is needed. You get your stone, if you swear the oath. We need you, and this. As soon as possible.”

He grinned like I was joking, for a moment, and then realized I was serious. He got solemn, after that, and after I explained the details of the oath, and he made the vow in front of the witnesses, I presented him the largest of the stones I had hanging around my neck. I tried to give it some ceremony – I was elevating him to High Mage, after all. If I succeeded at all this, that could mean a lot in a future Kingdom of Castal.

He looked at it in wonder, and I gave him a few lectures on the hazards of overuse, and the process of attenuating yourself to the stone. He listened aptly, but already he was sinking his consciousness into the outer recesses of it’s shroud. I finally groaned and told him to go experiment for a while, because you really can’t resist doing that at first. His assistants knew their work well enough, and went back to it with trowels in one hand and individually-labeled rocks and clumps of dirt in the other. Not glamorous work, but necessary.

“Nicely done, Captain,” Terleman said, slapping me on the shoulder just a little too hard. “He’s an asset. Now let’s try to turn that into an advantage. We should be able to field thirty thousands, if we’re lucky and the Duke gets here before the horde. I’m not happy with those odds,” he confessed.

“No reason you should be,” I agreed, reluctantly. “But we may yet have other allies to depend on. In the meantime, we’ll just have to use some classy Imperial magic and show those fuzzy little snots the wisdom of being on the wrong side.”

The rest of the afternoon de-evolved into a magical war council. The primary topic of discussion was just what we could do to even the odds. With so many of us around, and such a detailed map available to consider, we started tossing around ideas to mess up the Dead God’s day.

The ideas ranged from the conventional to the extreme. It was fascinating watching them work together, making suggestions, criticizing ideas, and seeing things through the perspective of their own individual expertise. After an hour or so, I finally had one of the Orphans find a table and chairs, and a skin of wine somewhere. I sent back to Bold Asgus to beg a secretary to write it all down, and while we waited for it we had supper and got to know each other a little better.

The ad hoc council lasted far into the evening, and each of us gave Lanse a hand attuning each little section of the diorama, while he experimented with some advance runic techniques and made adjustments. I barely understood what he was doing. Carsetra has a set of symbols all its own.

By nightfall we had come up with a number of ideas. Some were common sense, once they were pointed out. Others were fiendishly clever, daring, and possibly a little stupid. Still others were disturbing in their potency and their effects, making me wonder at our own humanity for even considering employing them. I sent for more wine, and we talked and watched the digging and the sculpting and we tried not to think about the fact that we could all be dead in less than a week.

* * *

There was one other piece of business Asgus wanted to discuss, after the others left the room.

“Captain Minalan, there is the matter of the mercenary contracts . . .”

“Huh?”

“The occupation of Tudry, the training of the Tudrymen, the policing of the town, none of that was covered under our original agreement. It’s not a huge problem. We need to add a few variances and extensions and such, is all. As it is, we’re well over our original budget.”

“We are?”

“We are,” he assured me. “But the original extension provisions should cover most of that. If we’re going to be in charge of organizing and provisioning this larger army, though . . .”

“You think you can manage that? Really?”

Asgus smiled indulgently. “Captain Minalan, I have already sent for two other support units of the Orphan’s Band from the south and east. Another thousand cooks, furriers, sappers, and provisioners. They should start arriving within the week, along with the army from Vorone. With their assistance, I can keep this place organized, make sure everyone is fed, and run the physician’s tents with little difficulty. But . . . it won’t be inexpensive.”

“I don’t care,” I shrugged. “It’s the Duchy’s money. Do what you have to do, spend what you have to spend, just make sure that when the troops show up, they have a place to sleep, food to eat, and a place to take a crap. You do all of that and keep any fights from breaking out, then you can charge all you want.”

“The Captain is quite generous . . . with the Duchy’s money.”

“There’s only a very small chance I won’t be dead at the end of this,” I reasoned. “I’m not going to worry about budgetary concerns during a war.”

Asgus grinned. “Captain, I like the way you do business. I’ll have the new contracts drawn up and sent to your tent this evening.”

And he did. And then the Orphans really got to work. Once they had funds and clearly-stated purpose, not to mention authority to order the camp, they managed to prepare hundreds of campsites in preparation for the arrival of the Alshari army.

Two days later, the small village of Timberwatch had swollen in size, as new companies arrived from Tudry hourly. They were shown where to place their camps and ordered to begin preparations for a battle of truly horrendous proportions. And then they were assigned a labor detail for any one of several ambitious projects we had going. For days the place rang with the song of anvil and hammer. The wagons began arriving, as well, filling the southern fields with their stores. Tudry had been nearly emptied of food and fodder, and scavenging parties had picked every abandoned cot and hold clean to feed us.

The first elements of the Alshari army began arriving at Timberwatch from Vorone about that time, too. Two companies of light cavalry came in, and after seeing to their mounts and their quarters, I had them begin patrolling the lands south of the escarpment in force, replacing Redshaft’s archers. The captain of the vanguard, Sir Ysallant, was stiffly polite as he reported to me. Apparently not everyone in Alshar was pleased with my antics at court, and Ysallant was as close to openly scornful as you could ask without crossing the line into rudeness.

I didn’t care. It might not have been politically astute, but despite Isily and Pentandra’s instruction about such things, I was focused on winning the battle, not soothing the feelings of huffy nobles. Thankfully Bold Asgus was willing to step in and coordinate the disposition and ordering of the encampment, a task for which he was ideally suited. Sir Ysallant and his peers weren’t much happier dealing with a mercenary, but at least Asgus wasn’t a mage. The rumor that I had stirred up the goblins in the first place had penetrated the circles of the Alshari nobility where it stubbornly resisted the truth, and sentiment among the officer corps was decidedly anti-magi. They were here, and they would fight, but only because the Duchy was in danger and their duke commanded it.

It didn’t help that the warmagi were strutting around, enjoying their new-found power. Traditionally, we’re seen as support personnel, on par with teamsters, smiths, and sappers, not as fellow warriors.

Now even Carmella was acting with a new boldness that bordered on arrogance. She’d stilled the vocal cords on a man-at-arms who had something offensive to her (a temporary spell, but a terrifying one) and I had to speak to his captain. And when Azar showed up at the head of three hundred Megelini knights and men-at-arms, who looked upon him worshipfully and treated him as some sort of hero, it didn’t improve relations much. Especially when Azar expected everyone to share their opinion. The Orphans had to start patrols to police the chaos and stop brawls from breaking out, and I had to speak to Azar about provoking the Alshari.

If someone had time to brawl, they had time to dig, my old commander on the Farisian campaign was fond of saying. I already had the men building redoubts under Carmella’s direction, on the theory that the infantry-driven goblins, who had just figured out the rudiments of siegecraft, had never encountered battlefield fortifications before. We built six of them of rough-hewn timber and hastily-mined rocks in a rough line west to east, just within bowshot of the escarpment. We would fill them with archers and mangonels and use them as strong points to rally around.

And then there were the trenches. I feared they would do us more harm than good, when Mavone first proposed them – after all, trenches are great from keeping your enemy cavalry from charging. Only there weren’t any enemy cavalry to speak of this time. Mavone pointed out their utility for avoiding some kinds of magic – including a few kinds we were using – and I relented. A zigzagging network of trenches soon crawled across the rocky hills between the redoubts, complete with freshly harvested tanglewood bushes, hidden stakes within the brush, and a few nasty tricks only the mind of a bored infantryman could think up.

During those last, busy days I spent most of my day ‘talking’ to my magical subordinates via telepathy as they sought guidance, made reports, and took new orders. Mostly scouting missions to confirm what we thought we knew about the horde that was marching closer to us nightly. An army that size is almost impossible to conceal from scrying, but knowing there were things that only a man on the ground can observe that can turn the tide of battle. Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

As it was, the map I was using to chart where everyone was – enemy and ally – was showing a very disturbing trend. By the third day, it was clear that if the goblin horde didn’t slow down, and the men from Vorone and Tudry and elsewhere didn’t hurry, then we would be set upon long before we were ready. That was a problem. I couldn’t do much to speed up my side, but I decided to do what I could to slow down theirs.

Azar was still strutting around the camp, loudly declaring his desire for battle to any who would listen. It was annoying and obnoxious, but it did get the men stirred up. Some positively, some less-so. Terleman was too busy overseeing the preparations for battle to ride herd on him, and Mavone wasn’t willing to get in his way, and Taren was about the least confrontational warmage I’d ever known, so I finally decided to solve two problems with one stroke. I called he and a few others – Rustallo, the new high mage and former Censor, Landrik, and a couple of the more daring cavalry captains. Then I pointed to the big gold coin I was using to represent the horde on the map.

“I need you,” I said, determinedly, “to slow down this army.”

Landrik looked at me, eyes wide in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our forces are still coming in, and if the horde keeps moving as fast as it is, we won’t be ready to receive them properly. What if you take . . . say, a thousand cavalry and a half-dozen warmagi. Do you think you can slow them down? A day? Maybe a day and a half? Every hour you can buy us means another sword at the front. Unless . . . you don’t think you can handle that,” I added casually. That was precisely the thing to get my preening warmagi to attempt it, by challenging their abilities.

“Of course we can, Captain,” assured Azar. “A thousand men? Against ninety-thousand goblins? We’ll have to make sure we leave you a few to fight, I suppose, but it shouldn’t be such a great task.” He sounded as eager as a bride on her wedding night. Rustallo looked pretty pleased too, although Landrik was still struggling to imagine such a thing. While he was a trained warmage, he was also used to dealing with wayward witches and undocumented footwizards, not the prospect of a glorious death in battle. I tried to soothe him.

“You don’t have to defeat them, remember, you just have to slow them. As a matter of fact, avoid pitched battle at all cost. But there are all sorts of things you can do to slow down an army on the move. With magic, and a little imagination, you’ll think of something. But buy me a day. Two, if you can. And make them miserable. When they come down that escarpment, I want them tired, hungry, disoriented, and ready to run at the first clash of swords. Sneak like bandits, cast like adepts, fight like champions . . . but buy me some time!”

I got a mix of wolfish grins and worried looks in response, but it did remove the cocky element from the warmagi, and allowed the rest of us to finish our preparations. And there were a few.

Special orders of alchemical supplies from Tudry. As many pumpkins as our foragers could find left in the fields. Construction of artillery, mostly catapults and mangonels. A truly staggering amount of liquor from any source we could find it. Every drop of honey the Honeywood could supply. Wax in abundance. And that’s on top of the timber needed for fortifications, the tools needed to dig, the boots, clothes, and other supplies the thousands and thousands of soldiers needed. And the truly astonishing amount of provision required to keep them in one spot for any length of time.

And wouldn’t you know it? Azar and his raiders did far better than I expected. They bought me four days.

Five would have been better.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Taking Command Of The Expeditionary Force

Cleston, Midsummer

So I won. Hooray.

As bittersweet as the political victory over the Censorate was, and as much as I’d wanted to ride to the defense of Alshar, as I approached the ad hoc army camp on the commons of the border village of Cleston, I was starting to realize that my “victory” put me, once again, in physical peril. Only now I couldn’t even take comfort in my conscription: I’d volunteered. I’m an idiot.

Worse, it began to dawn on me, I was in charge now. I was the stupid, misbegotten moron with poor judgment that every soldier everywhere has had the luxury to curse under his breath. I was the captain of this army, the general officer in charge of its orders, its deployment, its supply, and its ultimate destiny. I even had a little gold badge and a portfolio full of parchments to prove it.

My gods, I thought as I rode Traveler to the sentry-manned gate. What have I done?

The Orphan’s Band was the heart of my force: a force of infantry, sword, spear and shield in well-made leather and steel armor. They were expensive mercenaries, but that’s because they were good. They also had archers, and more importantly they had the field hospital and kitchens that would heal and feed my men.

My men. When I was in the army in Farise, I’d always heard officers speaking of the troops possessively like that, and I’d thought it a conceit, as if they “owned” their men. Now I realized that the ownership seemed all one-way. How many of these men who had me to lead them would never see their homes and families again? How many would leave behind widows and orphans? How many would die under the mallets of the gurvani because I made a stupid mistake? The horror of the responsibility weighed more on my shoulders with every step my horse took, until it weighed on me like a cloak of iron.

I looked around the neat and tidy camp of the Orphans, rows of tents and campfires, clusters of shields and spears and helmets, men laughing and swearing and coughing and farting around the campfire, waiting for orders, waiting for wherever the whims of fate would direct them, waiting for victory or a valiant death, waiting for . . . for me. I was the one who would dictate their fates.

I knew I had it within me, I reasoned, as I turned toward the headquarters tent where I would meet Bold Asgus, Captain of the Orphans. After all, I had commanded men in battle before. I had run most of the siege of Boval Castle, and had managed without making too many idiotic mistakes.

But then I had been desperate. There had been no one else who understood the capabilities of the gurvani and their shamans as I did. And when Sire Koucey had taken leave of reason and nearly doomed us all, I had assumed power and directed the defenses in name as well as deed. The job had been easy, then: you see a goblin come over the wall or through a tunnel or breach, you killed him. When there wasn’t a goblin coming over the wall, you waited for one to come. That was simple.

But this wouldn’t be a defensive war, not really the same way a siege was. I would have to lead the troops to the enemy, not just wait for them to shimmy up the drainpipe. That meant finding them, and that meant scouts, and that meant scrying . . . and if I was wrong, then some of these men would die.

Hell, even if I was right, some of these men would die. That was a depressing thought. As I glanced at their faces as they made their way through camp, the oppressive notion that I would be the cause of each man’s demise led me to a kind of despair I hadn’t known about. It’s one thing to fear for your life. It is quite another to fear the responsibility of so many other lives.

I made my way to the headquarters tent just as a gentle autumn rain began to fall, and obligingly a groom came out to take Traveler’s reigns and lead him away after I dismounted. A guard helpfully opened the tent flap for me, and I went inside to a cozy little encampment.

A large, bull-like man was seated in one corner, another at hand with a lap desk. A third was dressed in cavalry armor and sprawled on the floor – the ground, that is – against a sack of what looked like beans. All three regarded me with some curiosity.

I didn’t know what to say, so I dug out my orders and handed them to the largest man.

“I’m here,” I said, quietly. “I’m . . . I’m your new captain.”

“Captain, is it?” the sprawling cavalryman chuckled. “You must be the Spellmonger everyone is talking about.”

“I’m Minalan the Spellmonger,” I acknowledged. “Although I didn’t realize anyone was talking about me.”

“Are you mad?” snorted the man with the lap desk. “You’ve got the whole Duchy talking – both of them! Marching into court and demanding an end to the Bans so that you can fight the goblins, and spitting in the eye of the Censor General, himself—”

“There was no spittle involved,” I corrected, quickly. “General Hartarian is a respected mage and a noble officer, dedicated to his charge. If I attacked the Censorate, it wasn’t because I despise it.”

That brought a chuckle from all three of them, during which the armored cavalryman stood and offered his hand. “Captain Kaddel of Wenshar, master of the Hellriders. Five hundred and four stout lances at your command.”

I took it. “Glad to have you, Captain Kaddel,” I said, trying to muster my courage. His grip was like a blacksmiths, and though his words were friendly enough I could sense the doubt behind them. “You have no problem following a warmage, then?”

Kaddel shrugged. “You’d have to be piss drunk, addled and blind to be a worse commander than some I’ve served. The Lord Marshal met with me day before yesterday to inform me who would be commanding. When Sago said a warmage, I thought he was jesting. But he vouched for your record. You were in Farise?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“The long march down the coast, yes,” I agreed. “And then the storming of the citadel.”

“Nasty work, that,” he nodded, appraisingly. I felt like I’d passed some sort of test. The first of many. I could tell Kaddel was an old campaigner, a man who enjoyed his work and had higher aspirations, but whose position and abilities had kept his ambitions in check.

“I am Captain Asgus, of the Orphan’s Band,” the very large man said, politely, coming to his feet. Though he wore only light armor and carried a plain infantry sword, I wouldn’t want to fight him in anything less than full plate . . . on a charger with a lance. His forearms were as thick as my entire thigh. Luckily he didn’t try for the same finger-crushing grip that Kaddel had used. “This is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Sardkis, the Quartermaster,” he said, nodding casually over his shoulder where the secretary interrupted his scribbling with a wave. “We were in Farise as well. And His Excellency, Count Sago, speaks very highly of you,” he added, kindly.

“For a warmage,” I added, and they all immediately looked a little guilty. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, I’m aware of how unorthodox this is. I’m a warmage, and you are probably circumspect about my abilities. In truth, so am I. This will be my first command. Count Sago and the Court specifically chose you and your men because you’re experienced, and won’t let me embarrass myself too badly in the field.”

“A commander who doesn’t think he’s Duin’s gift to warfare?” snorted the secretary, Sardkis. “I think we’ve been blessed, gentlemen!” That brought a lot of chuckles and broke through the formality enough so that Asgus called an orderly for a pot of tea, and invited me to sit and join them.

“So, I see two of you here – but there should be two more. Where are the archer captain and the captain of the Warbirds?”

“Redshaft is seeing his men quartered – they were newly arrived in the night, and even a small force needs a fair amount of seeing to. Best archers in Castal, for my money,” he added, grudgingly. I was shocked. The day a cavalryman has anything charitable to say about archers – much less mounted archers – is a day for a particularly juicy sacrifice at your favorite temple.

“And Sir Pendolan?”

“Sulking in his tent,” sighed Asgus. “Duin’s dong, he has spent half of his life sulking in his tent. He feels . . . less charitable about your specialty than perhaps Captain Kaddel and I do.”

“He doesn’t like serving under a warmage?” I offered.

“He doesn’t like serving under a commoner,” explained Sardkis. “Even though more than half his men are common-born, he feels slighted that he wasn’t placed in direct command.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” I asked, surprised.

“Nay,” sighed Kaddel. “He will perform when asked, and do it valiantly, as will his men. The Warbirds are professionals. He has served under worse men than you – we all have – but he bears Count Sago some significant grief, over his selection as Lord Marshal after Farise. And taking a commission from him is . . . galling.”

“Well, I can understand his feelings,” I conceded. “But I will not abide insubordination.” Well, I hoped I wouldn’t abide it. In truth, what was I supposed to do if my mercenary captains refused my orders? I’d have to resort to magic, I answered myself. And that could prove embarrassing to us both, depending upon the circumstances. I dearly hoped that Sir Pendolan would not force me to do so. I well-remembered how Sire Koucey acted when I usurped his authority at Boval Castle. Sulky knights are not a lot of fun to be around.

We talked about the complement of the units for an hour or so, listing particular strengths and weaknesses, until I had a better feel of who I would be directing. Asgus and Kaddel were quite helpful and encouraging, while Sardkis sat in the corner and made jokes while he made notes on the parchments and wax boards in the desk.

Captain Rogo, called “Redshaft”, leader of the Nirodi Mounted Archers showed up while we were chatting, and I immediately liked the man. He was tall, wiry, and clean-shaven, wearing a dark red waxed leather doublet, stout riding boots, and one of the impressive Wilderlands great bows over his back. At his hip were both sword and quiver.

“Rogo Redshaft, of the Nirodi Free Mounted Archers, Captain,” he said, bowing gracefully before squatting. “I’ll be happy to advise you in how to handle the . . . less competent elements in our force.” As harsh as his words were, they were delivered with a graceful humor that made the other captains laugh, rather than reach for their swords.

We went through two pots of tea by the time I felt I had a good idea of who was working under me. That’s when the advice began.

I asked for it, after all, so I guess it shouldn’t have bothered me. But Asgus, in particular, had plenty of suggestions about how I should command.

“Always act with confidence and assuredness, even when you don’t possess them yourself,” counseled Asgus, patiently. “If your men sense doubt in your orders, then they doubt everything else. ‘Tis better to be wrong decisively, than to be right and indecisive.” I nodded sagely. That sounded about right – and was close to the type of confidence you needed to project to a client unsure of whether or not your spells would be worth the money you charged. Confidence built you – uncertainty destroyed you, when it came to stingy villagers. And with the common soldier, apparently.

“When you come to a problem you cannot easily or readily counter, and you have no solution at the ready, then nodding thoughtfully while asking for opinions is always recommended.”

“I see you doing that a lot, Kaddel,” quipped Redshaft, which earned him a friendly scowl.

“You won’t need to excite the men to bravery,” offered Asgus again, “for these are mercenaries, well-used to danger and unlikely to flee from trouble. Unlike peasant levies. So waste not your words on these. Trust your men to know their jobs, and hold them thus accountable.”

“Pay careful attention to stores and rations,” advised Kaddel. “With a full belly a man will follow a captain into the pits of hell. Better you not pay them than not feed them. And be certain to hold your storekeeps accountable as well – there hasn’t been a Quartermaster yet who didn’t own sticky fingers.”

I figured I’d hear a protest from Sardkis, but what I got was another chuckle. “Truth,” he admitted. “We quartermasters profit mightily from our provisioning, which explains all of the fancy silks and gaudy jewelry, and my three country estates.” He was wearing a threadbare tunic with a plain leather sword belt, and common riding boots. “But the Hellcaptain is right: you should check my figures. You can read, can’t you?”

“Few magi cannot,” I agreed. “More, I can cipher arithmetic. I was told that His Grace had supplied the funds for this mission –”

“Three thousand ounces of gold were delivered into my trust last night,” Sardkis agreed.

“And we have nearly two-thousand men to feed. Each one will need about a pound of bread and a pound of meat—”

“Or beans,” offered Redshaft.

“Or beans to march in a day,” I reasoned. “And each mount will need a bushel of oats and fodder in a day, if they cannot forage. With the force at hand, how long could we remain in the field with what His Grace has given us?”

I could see the gears turning in the windmill of Sardkis’ head. “With our current force? Mayhap five weeks. Six, if we are fortunate in our foraging. Until we claim the Warbirds, that is. They eat enough for three.”

“The Warbirds – those are the other cavalry, correct?”

“Aye,” Redshaft agreed. “Sir Kaviel of Kelear and a thousand horse are now under contract with the Baron of Green Hill, for his eternal war with the Baron of Fesdarlan. You should have his new commission within your papers,” he said, gesturing at the bag I carried. “Once he sees it, he will be forced to quit his employer and return to the Duke’s service. Provided you need his service, of course. A lot of that will depend upon just what your intentions are, once we cross the frontier.”

“I’m not certain, just yet,” I admitted. “I have been given a lot of discrimination in how I do so, but my mission concerns protecting the Castali frontiers from goblin incursions.”

“Goblin incursions?” scoffed Kaddel, who was the best scoffer I’ve ever seen. “I heard tale of such, but surely those are all far to the west.”

“Not anymore,” I warned. “There have been reports of raids as far east as Tudry and Green Hill. Perhaps closer.”

“And the Alshari aren’t enough to handle them?” Kaddel continued. “Laggers!”

“The Alshari won’t be able to handle all of them, no,” I said, quietly, and told the briefest version of my tale. That made them all get very, very quiet, especially after I told them about the Dead God. They’d heard rumors, of course, but I was the first they’d spoken to who could put some facts behind the rumor.

“So that’s why the Alshari will need help – in fact, far more help than Castal will be able to give. I intend to take the fight to the foe, and press the goblins wherever I find them. But that will only work if the men will follow me.” I looked around to my subordinates questioningly. “They will, won’t they?”

“They’ll be hung if they don’t,” agreed Asgus. “They have all sworn their oaths to me, and to Duin. They know the codes. As long as they are under contract, they follow you as if you were the Duke, Himself.”

“Even your commanders are so bound,” nodded Kaddel. “Yet I would also caution you against taking that too literally. If you give me an order that will get my men killed for no good reason, then I’ll take my chances with the Duke’s justice, and Duin’s mercy. I’ll not slaughter my men to please you, Spellmonger.” It wasn’t a threat, or even a challenge, just a statement of where his boundaries lay. I couldn’t fault that.

“That’s ‘Captain Spellmonger’,” I corrected, “and if you would, I wouldn’t want you serving under me. But what recourse do I have, should some decline to obey, or do so in a way . . . well, you’ve commanded men,” I reasoned. “Surely you know what I’m trying to say.”

“Be strong and unyielding in cases of clear violation of orders,” Asgus advised after a moment’s thought. “Not that you will have too much trouble with this from the Orphans, but . . . well, sometimes the cavalry has been known to ‘forget’ important points,” he said, glancing at Kaddel.

“The cavalry? Pah! Be certain you give the infantry sufficient room for their sloppy attention to detail, Captain, else you’ll have hung the lot of them before we’ve marched twenty miles.”

More tea was brought, and I got to know my commanders. Asgus seemed the most knowledgeable about warfare in general, having been a mercenary since before he could shave. Kaddel had been raised as a knight and had taken up a career as a sell-sword only when his patrimony was insufficient, but he knew the craft of charging into battle well-enough, and seemed a tolerable companion. Redshaft was by far the least willing to brag, after his introduction, but he moved and spoke with a quiet confidence I often see in men whose competence exceeds their willingness to brag about it.

“So I take it this will be one of those wonderful ‘intelligence gathering missions’ we all love so much,” Kaddel said, his voice failing to disguise his scorn. “Last time we spent three weeks in central Remere, trying to find a peasants revolt that hadn’t actually started. The money was good, but I’d rather take half the gold and be able to cross swords on a mission.”

“It would be foolhardy to think a force as small as ours could be decisive,” Asgus reasoned. “But it would be a tangible sign of assistance from Castal to Alshar. Well worth the price of our hire, if His Grace can appear to be doing something.”

“What, with all of western Alshar in chaos?” Redshaft observed. “My men have kin beyond Tudry, and they say the news is dire. In my estimation we’re here to secure the frontier, and keep the refugees from flooding across.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to hear our mission from our glorious new leader?” Sardkis asked, pointedly. “If he says ‘make a show’, we make a show. If he says ‘go look like you’re doing something’, then we will. It’s clear that this is a political campaign – but only our commander knows for certain exactly what the goal is.” Then everyone was looking at me expectantly.

I looked around at them, stifling the feeling of panic that was arising in my stomach. Decisive. That’s what Asgus had counseled. I took a deep breath.

“Gentlemen, when we embark tomorrow across the frontier, we shall be going with the purpose of fighting the enemy wherever we find them, discovering their locations and dispositions, protecting the Alshari from them when we can, overturning their efforts at invasion when we are able, and providing what defense we can until the good Duke of Alshar can provide his own defense.”

That brought some chuckles, too. Duke Lenguin of Alshar didn’t share the reputation for quiet, competent leadership that Rard had built. He was younger, the Duchess’ younger brother, and not a natural warrior. Or a natural administrator. Indeed, if the Duke of Castal had any natural inclinations apart from fucking the Duchess, I hadn’t heard them.

“So we fight goblins,” sighed Kaddel. “Pity. No sport, there. No challenge. No honor. And damn poor looting. Why, I can make a mess of eight of them without sweating.”

“How about eight hundred?” I challenged. “With magical power you haven’t seen since the Mad Mage ruled Farise thrown against you? It’s not your bravery I doubt, Captain, or your puissance. But you do not yet understand the magnitude of the problem. Hell, I don’t yet understand the magnitude of the problem, and I’ve been living with it for months, now. No honor? There’s honor in defending the weak and poor against such savagery. No challenge? There are thousands of gurvani in the field for each one of your men, which leaves us at a considerable deficit. No challenge? I hope to the ears of the gods that is so. Nothing would please me more than a boring four or five weeks. But nothing would be more unlikely, either. The power of the shamans alone would tax the strength of any two Duchies. Add their vast armies and their growing knowledge of how we fight a war, and I see the greatest struggle of our lives come upon us.”

“You said magic,” Asgus said, politely. “These witchystones, they have. What can we expect from that? And how could we defend against it? I would hate for my men to get, say, turned into a bunch of rabbits.”

I considered. “What to expect . . . probably not more than you’d face from a single warmagi, should you face one. Though more crude. And as for magical defense, we’ll have to devise our own as we go, to counter their specific spells. Which I will do with all speed, once we encounter it. But the shamans of the goblins are not sophisticated, and do not use the same spells as my colleagues. Yet they know plenty of destructive spells, and have access to more power than you can dream of. In truth, we could face nearly any thing on the battlefield. Just about anything, with no real promise it can be easily answered. And this is not Imperial magic. This is gurvani spellcraft, and that has its own rules. Which we, largely, do not understand.”

“That’s not very reassuring Sp— Captain Minalan,” Kaddel said, uneasily. “In fact, you’re making it sound less like the serene walk through the woods I was anticipating.”

“It may well be the toughest war with the hardest battles fought in two centuries. You will not lack for opportunities to display your honor or your prowess.”

Kaddel considered. “Well, for that, at least, I’ll thank you. I suppose it will be a change from the same, boring old dynastic disputes.” If he wanted to think about it in those terms, I wasn’t going to dissuade him.

That begs the question, though, Captain,” Redshaft asked. “Just what can you do against them? Half the peasantry feel you are descended from the gods. The other half thinks you’re in league with the Dead God, himself. But all of them think you’re the most powerful magi in . . . well, a long time. So . . . just how powerful are you?”

“Red has a point,” grunted Kaddel, as he lit his pipe. “If we’re to be commanded by a warmage – and a bloody great one, from what folk say – what can you bring to bear on the campaign?”

I considered. “Besides being familiar with the Dead God, and the gurvani army? Well . . .” I looked around, trying to find something that would demonstrate my new-found powers. These mercenaries wouldn’t be impressed by suddenly-yellow roses or even a magical block of ice. An earth elemental would be impressive, but not in the way I wanted it to be. “Let’s go outside, shall we?” They shot each other amused looks but got to their feet and followed me out of the tent.

It was nearly noon, now, and the men were beginning to crowd the mess tent. The Orphans had the process down to an art. Back during the Farisian campaign, the supply wagons merely drove through our encampment and literally tossed bags of flour or koor nuts or rice or beans or dried meat out of the back, and we scrambled for it – and occasionally fought over it, cooking around our individual campfires.

The Orphans had a central mess tent between two wagons outfitted as mobile kitchens, with ovens and iron stoves augmented by cook fires behind them. Two more served as dry goods storage and a cold wagon for keeping cheese and dried meats cool and reasonably vermin-free. The men filed in at one end, presented their kits to the cooks, got a choice of bread or biscuit, some protein-rich stew, a spoon full of vegetables, and a mug of beer. They were probably the best army rations I’d ever seen. No wonder Bold Asgus was so huge.

“How much wood does the cook tent go through every day?” I asked, after watching them for a few moments.

As I figured, Sardkis knew to the copper. “Two-thirds chord, just for the cook tent, plus another third for every five-hundred more we serve.”

I went over to the ovens and inspected them. They were heavy iron affairs, not as efficient or effective as a true clay oven, but you could bake a lot of biscuit or hardtack in there in a short period of time. If you kept it hot. They were cool enough now, the day’s bake being over, that I could examine them in detail. The firebox below had to be stoked the entire time, and managed constantly, or you ended up with burned biscuits and highly unhappy customers. With swords.

The iron box was a quarter-inch thick, with a stone base inside to soak up the heat from below and turn it into crusty bread. I smirked. This was a spell that I’d been practicing in my head for days, now, in preparation for the day I could go back to my father’s shop and enchant his ovens. I withdrew my stone and held it in my palm, while I used my other hand to begin an enchantment.

It was easy to channel elemental energy now, and fire is the easiest element to call, if the hardest to control. But what I was doing was simple. I heated the stone as hot as it would need to be to bake bread, and then inscribed a binding rune. Before irionite, it would have taken me two days and the effect would have lasted a month, at most. Now I did it as if it were a simple cantrip. And the binding rune was far, far stronger than I could have managed without the stone. I exhaled.

“There. That stone is hot enough to bake . . . and it will stay that way, without a fire.”

“Really?” asked Asgus, surprised. “For how long?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask me in six months. But you won’t have to burn a stick of wood in here. That should save you—”

“Plenty,” agreed Sardkis, appreciatively. “Can you do that with the griddles, too?”

“Those are iron, so let me think about it, but I can probably come up with something. I can certainly enchant your kettles to produce hot water without a fire. Oh, and charms on all the wagons, proof against vermin, thieves, fire, charms to purify the water, charms to calm horses.”

“Well I’m bloody in love with you,” Sardkis said, nodding fervently. “You could save us hundreds on this campaign just in spoilage and wood.”

“So you’re good in the kitchen, Captain Minalan,” Asgus agreed, cordially. “Do your skills stop with skillets?”

“How about charms to keep sentries awake – hell, a spell to let them see in the dark like a gurvani, one that lasts for hours, not minutes. I think that will come in handy. Wards to warn of spies and sneak attacks. Scrying enemy positions with incredible accuracy. Affixing field fortifications so that attacks break on them like waves.”

“And gods hope we can keep the furries off your back while you’re doing all that pretty stuff, aye?” Kaddel snorted.

“I’m able to handle myself,” I said, my eyes flicking toward my right shoulder, where the hilt of Slasher protruded. “Either with the sword, or . . .” I searched for a good target, and spotted one, a large boulder next to an open latrine. I reached out toward it with my left hand and said the mnemonic for an offensive spell known as a draconara, or Dragon Fire.

It was a powerful spell that used an extravagant amount of magical energy, but the effect was spectacular: you create a cylinder of magical force, summon elemental energy in the form of fire, get the atoms excited enough within the cylinder to start exerting serious pressure against your magical construct, and then . . . you suddenly collapse the cylinder down to a tenth its original size. Except at the far end. That’s where the heated, pressurized gas expanded as plasma. Anything standing unprotected in front of that was staring doom in the face.

Before irionite, it would have taken me a month just to build and fill enough kabas of energy to accomplish it. After irionite, with most of the spell already hung and waiting to be activated, a few words spoken and a few seconds of concentration, and a lance of blue-hot flame shot forth from the vicinity of my hand and landed on the boulder in a magnificent display of violence.

It has its limitations. It’s only accurate for forty feet or so, and the flame dies quickly beyond that perimeter, but within that range you can ignite almost anything the plasma touches. It takes a tremendous amount of power, and some sophistication with the art to actually call into being and then control a magical construct like that. If you did it wrong and collapsed the field on the wrong side, you cooked like a sheep on a spit. It was physically exhausting to summon the energy and then bind it temporarily for any length of time. Doing it more than once a day . . . well, without irionite it would be unthinkable. With it, I could keep maybe two of the spells hung and ready for action without straining or enchanting the effect into a wand or something.

The advantages of the Dragons Fire were significant. The plasma burns intensely hot, in one focused area, And if you can collapse the cylinder with enough force, the blast alone is enough to knock the crap out of you, even before the burns get to you. And the sudden exhaustion of the plasma sears the air itself, creating an implosion and a most satisfying bang.

It sure impressed the hell out of the Orphans and the Warbirds. The top half of the boulder had a gouge in it six inches deep, and the rock around it was glowing and smoking. I thought poor Kaddel was going to soil himself.

I turned and tried to appear cool and calm as I surveyed their shocked expressions. “I can take care of myself, gentlemen. And I can bring a tactical advantage to the battle.

“But more importantly, there are twenty more warmagi who will be fighting along side us. Scouting, spying, and sniping, often out of sight, but my warmagi will be adding their strength to ours, and that does give us a significant tactical advantage. At least in my opinion.”

“Mine, too,” conceded Kaddel, respectfully. “You seem to have a decent head on your shoulders. You’ve been to the wars. And you can fling fire like Duin, Himself. I’ll follow you, Spellmonger.”

“This is a whole new kind of war we’ll be fighting,” observed Asgus, keenly. “In may different ways.”

“No, this is a whole new world we’re seeing, my friends,” Rogo said, shaking his head. “This magic, the goblins, the Duchies, we’ll be seeing it all change, and not for the better.”

“I’m less concerned about the social implications, at the moment,” I said, resolutely. “I’m far more concerned about driving the gurvani away from the Wilderlands, at least long enough to let the people escape. And kill goblins. A whole lot of goblins, any way I can.

“We’ll break camp tomorrow morning and begin heading west.,” I decided. “Once we cross the frontier, we’ll leave the Western Road and head north, northwest. I want to avoid being conscripted by Lenguin at Vorone, and I want to see just how far east the goblins have penetrated. If we leave Cleston by noon tomorrow, in a week’s time we can be at a little fief north of Vorone called Grimly Wood. From there we can reconnoiter, identify where the goblins are most active, and decide where we can be the most effective.

“And then we’re going to kill goblins, gentlemen. We’re going to kill thousands and thousands of them, until the earth grows muddy with their blood. You want a fight? Before this is over, I can promise you the biggest, nastiest fight you’ll ever wake up screaming at the dreams from.”

Chapter Thirty-Four:

The Gathering Of Armies

Timberwatch, Autumnal Equinox

The horde approaches. They will arrive at the edge of the escarpment tomorrow afternoon.

I read the simple dispatch out loud to Duke Lenguin and his officers, as they glowered in the village hall we were using as a general headquarters. Well, it the place where we kept the maps and gave out orders, and ran the regular army from. As the remaining units had trickled in from Tudry, and the vanguard of the column from Vorone had arrived, the Timberwatch village hall was where their camping assignments and field positions were dispatched from, with Bold Asgus running the camp housekeeping on one side of the hall while Captain Volerin kept track of what kind of troops were where, and where we’d need them when the goblins finally came down the escarpment on the other side.

I only showed up here when it was absolutely necessary – like when the Duke arrives with his staff and wants to speak to “the spark in charge of this midden pit”, after he deftly ignored the Lord of Timberwatch’s invitations for hospitality and wanted to get to business. Of course my real headquarters, and where the serious planning was being done, was a non-descript barn nearby. But as far as Duke Lenguin and his men, or anyone else who might be watching, for that matter, that was just where the warmagi kept their baggage.

“That’s the latest report from my scouts, Your Grace,” I said, diplomatically, when the Duke had demanded an accounting. “We’ve been paying very close attention to how quickly they’re moving, and in what force. But I trust my scout’s observations implicitly. The first elements of the horde will be descending upon us this time tomorrow.”

Lenguin glared at me, as if this was all my fault. “Why, we’ve only just arrived! Our baggage trains won’t have fully arrived until late this evening!”

Mavone looked amused, and picked at the yellow sash I had mandated all High Magi wear in camp. “Your Grace may request additional time from the horde’s commander, but I imagine the paperwork would be . . . lengthy.”

I had him and Astyral here as a kind of warmagi honor guard for His Grace, or a couple of thuggish sparks to watch my back, depending upon your point of view. They at least both knew how to behave in front of royalty. I wasn’t sure I did, but I kept it polite and businesslike and tried like hell to forget I was speaking to the most powerful man in the West.

Duke Lenguin scowled at the impertinence. But he didn’t explode. “I understand the tactical situation, Mage. I was questioning the preparation of the defenses. My engineer corps will not be able—”

“Begging your pardon for interrupting,” I said, smoothly, before the Duke started to like the sound of his own voice, “but Your Grace will find that we are in the advanced state or preparations. We have built six redoubts in a ring around the escarpment. We have fortified a second line of defense behind them, and then a fall-back position near to the camp and castle. And, as we have been able, the two nearby villages have been made into staging bases for flanking attacks, or to hold our flanks, depending on how the battle goes. We have constructed artillery posts and aid stations, as well as an elaborate ditchwork in the forefield.” As I ticked off each item, the Duke’s eyebrows went up, and his staff – mostly honorary commanders, high-born nobles who brought large retinues, and a few southern Barons who had been coerced to fight – began to see how serious we were about the impending battle. I continued, while I had momentum.

“We have been very busy – and very thoughtful – with the resources we have. Your Grace need not fear that we are unprepared, and in truth I think it would be best if your men were well-rested and ready for battle, instead of digging more ditches or hauling more rocks to the mangonels.”

“You . . . what?” he asked, surprised. “You’ve managed that much preparation? In only a few days?”

“I have very good men at my command,” I assured him. “And they are extremely motivated. Most are from Tudry, or seasoned mercenaries, or men from across the Wilderlands who fight for their homes, or to avenge their loved ones. They’ve all faced the foe and know how urgent the matter is.

“In addition, the warmagi of my order have been augmenting their efforts while we await delivery of some supplies, or prepare spells. It’s amazing how quickly you can construct a defensive work when the earth leaps up and assembles itself at your command.” I tried to sound smug, but the truth was such spells, while they did save hundreds of man-hours in digging, still mandated at least dozens of men with shovels and mattocks going behind the chaotic elements and making the holes and trenches they chewed into the ground into something useful for military defense.

I pulled out a freshly-inked map of the battlefield and showed him the tactical preparations. Lenguin was still angry, but he at least turned thoughtful for a moment. “And you don’t mind if the Lord Marshal inspects these fortifications and defenses?”

“It would be my honor. Mavone, if you would tend to that duty momentarily?” I requested. He smiled stiffly, and bowed toward the Lord Marshal and his staff of armored nobility.

So far, so good: I had the Duke convinced that I knew more or less what the hell I was doing. That wasn’t exactly true, but I certainly acted like it and that, it seems, was more important. Kind of like how you’d approach any client as a spellmonger: even if you don’t know what the hell the problem is, you always act like you do. Otherwise you lose the client because of your indecision. Penny and Isily hadn’t been idle, when they had been filling my ears with talk of politics and diplomacy. I’d just had to understand it in my own way.

“And what is this about our ‘assigned encampment’?” a lord in burnished steel armor I didn’t recognize asked, defiantly. “When we approached the pickets, a common mercenary instructed us to a camp as if we were peasants going to a fair and renting a booth!” he declared angrily. “The Duke of Alshar encamps where he pleases in his own realm! And he is not instructed to do so by a common sell-sword!”

Lenguin didn’t say anything, but I could tell that even though this was a minor matter, he saw it as a legitimate slight. This could be trouble. A noble might forgive much for the sake of military necessity, but in matters of honor they often don’t hesitate to resort to blood. Just think of him as an unsatisfied client, I urged myself, and took a deep breath.

“Your Grace, I assure you that we have selected the very best land for a temporary encampment, and chose the most comfortable and advantageous location for your personal quarters to ensure that no man of lesser birth would take from you what is yours by right. Of course you’ll want to have your officers around you, and we have made provision for that. We have prepared a secondary fence line to help ensure your personal security. We have already posted guards around it, to keep it pristine for your arrival.

“As you can imagine, organizing a battle this complex is going to be difficult, but I felt it prudent to keep mundane issues of housekeeping from impairing our ability to meet the foe on the field. Having duels of honor over campsites or water or firewood serves no one but the Dead God, and having men go without on the eve of battle makes us poor officers.

“Thankfully, the Orphan’s Band excels at this sort of thing. The latrines are already dug, and there are casks of fresh water and stacks of firewood laid out in allotments of one-hundred men to a cache. There is hay aplenty for your mounts, and oats as well. Many of the abandoned farms have crops in the fields, and we’ve managed to harvest what we could with what men we could spare. Though they are indeed mercenaries, many of the Orphans are of noble birth and have taken up an honest trade in arms rather than resort to banditry. If they gave you any offence due to their diligence to their duty, then the fault is mine, for I ordered them to direct you according to our plan.”

It was just like dealing with a disgruntled client, after all, I realized as I saw the expression on the Duke’s face change somewhat. Like convincing a man who wasn’t happy with a charm or spell that he just wasn’t looking at it right, that what he saw as a flaw was actually an advantage, and that if there was any tiny hint of inconvenience to the incredibly impressive action of the spell, I would humbly admit to being at fault – but to make the claim he’d as much as admitting his own pettiness and ingratitude.

“You seem to have anticipated our needs adequately,” the Duke finally admitted, unable to think of anything else specifically to complain about. I think that vexed him most of all. He still was far from happy with me for the way I had forced his hand at Vorone. But I’ll say this for Lenguin, once convinced of the necessity of riding to battle, he was committed. He seemed just as committed to seeing me squirm for my impertinence in making him do something he didn’t want to do. But I didn’t mind. He could hate me all he wanted, as long as he brought men and swords.

“That should allow your men more time to see to their equipment and rest before tomorrow’s battle, without awaiting the arrival of your baggage train,” Mavone pointed out.

Astyral added, “In addition, we have armorers and farriers in place, to assist with any last-minute repairs before the battle. There is a field hospital to the west of the village, well-stocked with bandages and herbs, and captained by the finest herbmother in Alshar.”

“And, I’m happy to say,” I mentioned, “Captain Astyral has procured a prominent Mage Healer, Master Icorod of Vendomere. The venerable healer has generously donated his services to our cause, for the cost of a witchstone. Master Icorod has been known to restore injured limbs to full function again, and even brought the paralyzed to walk after battle. With the power of irionite, he can heal all but death itself.”

That had been a major coup, and largely thanks to Astyral, who knew the old coot from his student days when he had considered taking up the trade himself. Magical medicine is a very rarefied discipline, but a specialty that’s always in high demand – and always at a high price. You can’t even get an appointment with a Mage Healer for less than a hundred ounces of silver.

Luckily, the allure of irionite was sufficient to get the ancient Master away from his lucrative practice in Falas to come north and work our field hospital. The seven apprentices he’d brought were likewise welcome. And when he’d heard about what I’d managed to do against the Censorate, he threw in a whole trunk full of healing herbs at his own cost.

I could see smirks and astonishment from the men behind him – his noble Captains, some of whom had been anti-mage back at Vorone. Apparently wars weren’t run this well, ordinarily. I know the Farisian campaign hadn’t been. I don’t know if it was because the Order was too preoccupied with the battle to screw up the war, or if warmagi are just naturally better at planning than feudal warlords, or if the emergent situation had allowed us to cut through the usual paperwork and politics and just get things done, but I didn’t much care. When I’d ordered a thousand large pumpkins assembled for the war effort, by the gods I got a thousand large pumpkins and no excuses.

“That’s quite foresighted of you, Spellmonger,” the unhappy Lenguin said. “Indeed, you seemed to have everything in hand. Which should come as a relief to Baron Nowlan, to whom I presented the honor of quartering the men, and to Count Haloan of Ewel, to whom I honored with preparing our defenses. And Count Gallanan, the Warden of the North, whose honor it is to order and lead the armies of Alshar into battle against the invaders. Only now you tell me that their services are no longer needed? Now please tell me, Spellmonger, just who made you the general commander of this battle?”

I blinked. “Why, you did, You Grace. I asked you to come north and fight beside me. I told you I would fight, regardless of what you chose to do. And thanks to the faithfulness of the Wildermen of Alshar, the competence of my mercenaries, and the diligence of the warmagi of my order, we stand far better prepared in our defense than . . . we might have otherwise.” The client was still bitching about how good the spell was. That happened, sometimes. Next they usually start trying to convince themselves that you secretly plotted to but the rats in the barn in the first place, just so that you could charge them for the expensive spell.

“I set you in command? You jest, Spellmonger. I have great lords amongst my staff, men with noble lineages six generations deep, who have a great deal more experience and worthiness to command than you, Spellmonger, or any of your power-mad sparks,” the Duke said, imperiously. Mavone snickered, damn him.

“I’ve had to suffer that one,” he said, glaring at Mavone,” the entire way here from Vorone. And now Master Thinradel is likewise becoming arrogant and forgets his station. The Duchess is barely speaking to me and prepares to retreat to the southern capital without me. I’ve had priests and priestesses harangue me at every opportunity about a ‘war of the gods’ happening on my very doorstep.

“My Lord of the Coasts protests this course of action vehemently, and whispers rebellion in the South if I do not desist. My northern capital is all but undefended, it’s been un-provisioned to supply this army, and now I find a common spark usurping my authority and acting in my name to order the defense of my Duchy! I’d heard that you were ambitious, Master Minalan, and had little respect for social order, but this seems all too cleverly engineered to put the fate and keys to my realm in your hands!” You put all those rats in the barn in the first place, didn’t you?

“Your Grace, this is a complicated situation,” I began, patiently. “While I can appreciate the political issues at stake, I can assure you that my prime motivation is not to gain honors or position for myself, but to win the battle. And ultimately the war. Who among your noble staff has the same dedication to that cause? For all of their noble lineages, who among your officers can counter the magic of the goblins’ army? Who knows how to fight them better than I? Who among them is better qualified to knit armed force and magical force together for a common purpose?” I tried to be eloquent – I really did – but my words weren’t soothing in the Duke’s ears.

Unfortunately Astyral, for all of his courtly manners, has a big mouth on him, and a head full of power. When he saw Lenguin’s sour expression and lack of a quick and ready answer, he didn’t hesitate. “In other words, if you want to see your pretty palace at Vorone again, Your Grace, you’d take our battle plan under close advisement, or you’ll be dead on the field.” He hadn’t journeyed with the Duke’s party like Mavone and Isily had – he had marched along with the Tudrymen, who had a universally low opinion of the monarch who had failed to rescue them from siege.

“Why, you upstart spark—!” Captain Ranalan said, menacingly. Astyral and Mavone were both fingering wands. “How dare—!”

“Enough!” I said, accidentally releasing a little magical discharge in the form of some harmless static electricity – that can happen, sometimes, when a mage is frustrated. I was looking at Astyral, of course, but also at the Duke, who had his hand on his sword hilt. The discharge made the non-magi take an involuntary step backwards and catch their breath. A few hand their hands on their sword hilts. I’d gotten used to seeing such displays – and they were far more colorful with magesight – when my peers got angry or frustrated, and subconsciously tapped into the power of their stones. I rarely did it myself anymore – but that tells you just how very frustrated I was.

And not just with the Duke. I had shorted manpower and magepower for other projects just so I could ensure Lenguin’s encampment was properly – lavishly! – appointed and supplied. Instead of gratitude, I was getting resentment and arguments about prerogative.

And Astyral . . . I had given the Gilmoran warmage command of the Tudrymen infantry in the center, men he’d commanded for over a month now in garrison at Tudry and who looked to him as their leader. All the warmagi had been strutting about, heady with their new powers, but he and Azar, in particular, had been acting like proper lords about their temporary appointed positions. Lords without charters or titles or authentic grants, and officers on the basis of field promotions alone – my promotions. And it hadn’t gone unnoticed that they were acting as lords even though they were expressly prohibited from doing so by the Bans, and that had inspired more than a few grumbles among the knights.

But I had had enough. We didn’t have time for this shit. Men were already dying.

With the dispatch I’d read to them had also come a more lengthy account of a third of Azar’s Megelini knights being wiped out by some new horror on the battlefield that sounded suspiciously like the trolls I’d been fearing. My most violent warmage had taken the battle to the goblin’s van, and contested every creek crossing and crossroad with ambush and booby traps. When his own force was pressed, he counter-attacked and lost almost three hundred cavalry in an extended skirmish. Worse, Azar now wanted to avenge his fallen comrades and save the day all on his own, instead of withdrawing and regrouping, as I’d ordered him to.

Thankfully, it’s hard to mis-read or misinterpret – or lose – an inconvenient order when it’s made telepathically. Being able to hold my subordinates to account to that degree made up for a lot of other headaches. But a dangerous warmage like Azar was picky about who he owned as his superior. He actually would listen to me, at least so far, when I’d ordered him to make an orderly retreat. I could only imagine what he’d tell Duke Lenguin, if he tried to take charge of the battle. But arguing in your head with Azar is frustrating.

I was tired, exhausted, and worried about a thousand more things than Duke Lenguin was, a thousand times more than he was. I was trying to be on my best behavior in front of a sovereign lord, but I didn’t like where he was leading the conversation. Otherwise all of the careful plans we’d made would be useless.

Coronet or not, I needed the man to do what he was told and not bring politics or pettiness into battle deployments. Or attempt to assume command and screw up the whole battle. Or threaten my subordinates because they weren’t kissing his ass just enough or on the right side. Because if he did, we were all lost.

Clearly, he wasn’t willing to see that. His jaw was set stubbornly, and his lips pursed daggers at me. With the highest military nobles of his court as an audience, he couldn’t back down and accept our ‘impertinence’ without losing honor in the eyes of his noble captains. Despite his splendidly gleaming armor, he looked like a petulant five-year old being told he can’t have a cookie. It was all too easy to forget his station and treat him like one. I tried to remember all Pentandra and Isily and Mavone had coached me about tact and diplomacy and tact. Gods knew some would be helpful about now.

The first thing to do was to dispense with the audience. If an unhappy client came with a bunch of friends to back him up about the anti-rat spell you put on his barn, the smart thing to do was to separate him from his support before reasoning with him. If Lenguin didn’t have to worry about his own court’s reactions, he might be more willing to listen to reason.

“Your Grace,” I said quietly, “if you don’t mind, there are some matters I must relay which are for your ears only, and which will answer many of your questions. If you would ask your gentlemen to see to setting camp and inspecting our defenses while we talk of strategy and enjoy a glass of wine, I think I can ease your mind. And of course I would value your insights and experience. Let your officers handle the mundane affairs and let your men rest from their long march, while you and I discuss the mystical and the tactical.”

Duke Lenguin paused, still glaring at me, but also realizing that he couldn’t turn down that polite request without seeming like he cared more for his dignity than he did his men and the battle. No soldier, no matter how poor a soldier himself, wanted proof that the men deciding your fate took that responsibility less than seriously. Lenguin finally straightened and sighed. No doubt he also feared that I might further embarrass him in front of the court, as I had at Vorone.

“Very well, Spellmonger. Baron, have my camp pitched where Captain Minalan’s men show you. I will be along presently, as soon as the Captain has briefed me, to inspect the site. Lord Marshal, see to these defenses these sparks are so proud of. And I’d prefer if my captain of the Guards, Sir Daranal, remains with me,” Lenguin said, pointedly. “If that’s agreeable to you, Archmage Spellmonger,” he added, sarcastically.

“Of course, Your Grace,” I said, as graciously as I could. Not only was the good captain leaning politically toward me, now, but he was as good as the head of the Alshari intelligence apparatus. The others were dismissed with a few curt words, the Lord Marshal taking over their disposition.

Hamlan brought wine – he had managed to turn my borrowed tent into a mildewed pleasure palace, complete with a real cot and a stool, as befitted my station. Mostly I kept my armor there. But he had also managed to find a decent grade of Castali red in someone’s cellar, and he poured for all of us. The Captain eyed him guardedly – I suppose it was possible that he was aware of whom Hamlan’s true mistress was – but he apparently didn’t believe that my manservant would stoop to poisoning on the eve of battle.

“Now, what is this about?” Lenguin spat, after taking a healthy sip of the red. “You made me come here, and bring my army, and now you wish to order me about like I’m some auxiliary?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” I sighed. “I am extraordinarily pleased that you came, and I maintain that it is in the best interest of you, your Duchy, and all the Five. But all the majestic showings on the field of battle mean nothing if we lose. As one of my captains told me when we first set out from Castal, this is an entirely new kind of war we must fight. Among many other things, it is a battle where magic will play a decisive role.”

“So you and Master Thinradel keep telling me,” he said, sourly. “And the priests, and the more spirited amongst my Wilderland knights. I am convinced. I am here, with my army, as you bade. But if I do not appoint one of the great nobles in my retinue to command the battle, they will rile, Spellmonger. Half of my force are levies from Wilderland baronies that have not yet fallen. If they are not seen leading this struggle—”

“They may lead their men into battle, Your Grace. I only ask that they do so at my direction. Surely it matters not to their honor where their blows land? Yet it could matter in the heat of battle, if they are poorly deployed. Name a great lord as nominal commander, if you will, but I am already named in your warrant as Marshal of Alshar. A liaison officer would be quite appropriate. I care not who takes credit for winning the battle. But in terms of our deployment and battle plan? Trust me, Your Grace, I have been studying the ways of our enemy since they made themselves known. If we were fighting another duchy, or a rebellious barony, I wouldn’t hesitate to yield command to a more experienced general – I’d insist upon it.

“But we don’t. I am the best leader, I’m sad to say, when it comes to fighting goblins. And that has little to do with my lineage, my nobility, or anything else but my abilities as a mage and my experience at Boval. And the loyalty of my warmagi, who have been fighting this war with every breath since spring. Please trust that we know what we’re doing,” I said, far more confidently than I felt. The rats will stay away if you don’t move the charms around. I paused. “If Your Grace has suggestions about how we could better deploy, I would listen to them eagerly. For example, the placement of the mangonels in relation to the archer companies’ fields of fire . . . ?”

The Duke looked at me curiously, and cautiously, and then glanced at the well-marked map and realized that I was seriously inviting a criticism that he clearly didn’t feel qualified to make. But he seemed to be convinced by my sincerity even if he didn’t like my conclusions. “Just make certain that the Lord Marshal is fully briefed about the battle plan,” he said, finally, an air of resignation in his voice. “And ensure that my staff and I are included in your strategic discussions. That includes Master Thinradel, the arrogant bastard, since he’s still the Court Mage. And the Lord Marshal, of course. If they finds fault with them, then I shall assume personal command, if I must.”

“As you see fit, Your Grace,” I agreed, although if it came to that I don’t think I could allow the Lord Marshal to take command. He seemed to resolve himself to the idea of me leading, at least.

And I was sympathetic to Lenguin, in truth. He was a young Duke, only a few years on the throne, living in the shadow of a storied father and a domineering older sister. Further, he had no natural talents that lent themselves to governance, such as a reputation as a warrior or an administrator or even as a patron of the arts and sciences. He liked to go hawking, it was said. And watch jousting and horse racing.

He wasn’t stupid – in fact, he was quite intelligent, once you got past the coronet and entitled attitude and met the man. But I had the feeling that he had felt in over his head since he came to the throne, and had only begun to make himself comfortable with the thought of ruling. Yet to my knowledge, he had never led an army in battle.

“But still . . . tomorrow . . .” he said, uneasily, as if on cue.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was originally expecting them three days ago. I sent some of my toughest warmagi out with a contingent of cavalry to delay them. Had they been insufficient to the task, your men would be arriving to watch the gurvani gnawing our bones. Six thousands and an unprepared battlefield against ninety would have been a slaughter, no matter how good my spellcraft. ”

“And it seems that we are still somewhat outnumbered,” he observed, glancing at the map I’d laid out. “Let’s see, three thousand mercenaries, three thousand Tudrymen, plus a thousand each from the baronies of Fesdarlan and Green Hill. Plus the eighteen thousand I raised at Vorone . . . twenty six thousand against . . . ninety?” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. They had us by over three-to-one.

“Every man of ours is worth five of their goblins,” Sir Daranal pointed out helpfully, fingering his mustache. “And the least of our knights is worth ten of theirs, Your Grace.”

“If we can manage to blunt their offensive, then between our valor and our spellcasting we should be able to demonstrate that we can resist the Dead God’s troops,” I agreed, encouragingly. “We have a powerful magical defense planned. ”The Duke studied me thoughtfully, and was clearly not convinced. But at last he sighed and finished his cup.

“Then I hope your sorceries can make up the lack,” he said, eyeing me intently. “Else, we’re all dead men despite our valor.”

“I am no fool, Your Grace. Even with our best spells, twenty-six thousand troops, no matter how well arrayed, will be hard-pressed to stand against them,” I acknowledged. “Yet there are . . . others who may yet rally to our cause,” I observed mysteriously, without elaborating. “Knowing how desperate the situation is, I have summoned additional forces.”

“Additional forces?” Lenguin asked, puzzled. “From whence?”

“From every place I could find them, Your Grace,” I answered, tiredly. “I know not who will respond, or how, or how many, but I’ve sent word for allies from as far as the cold vales of the Crinroc, to the north. While I refuse to prophesy, reason tells me is possible that we shall have perhaps another ten thousand, depending on who answers my summons and how quickly they move.”

Duke Lenguin looked a little relieved at that news – the hope of unexpected reinforcements is just as welcome to those in command as it is to the common soldier – and he trusted me enough, despite disliking me, to not ask any further questions about our potential allies.

“Then let us proceed on the course you have given us,” he said, a look of resignation on his face. “Though my counselors are against it, for the most part, I find I trust your judgment on this, Spellmonger. And do you know why?”

“I would love to know, Your Grace,” I nodded.

“For none of my officers, with all of their lineage and proud ancestors, ever thought to prepare firewood, water, and fodder for our troops in anticipation of our arrival. Nor construct redoubts. Nor prepare the battlefield ahead of the battle. I am impressed with your preparations, and will respect your wishes in how the battle is executed.

“But we shall all live or die on your plans, Spellmonger, so make them wisely. And hope that these mysterious allies you mention make their presence known sooner rather than later.”

With that he turned on his heel and left, Sir Daranel right behind him. I let out an unfettered sigh at his departure, and in moments both Hamlan and Astyral were at my back.

“Somehow I think he’ll be less enthusiastic about those allies when they actually arrive, than he is about them now,” Hamlan said, thoughtfully, when they’d left. “In fact His Grace may well express his gratitude in your foresight by removing your head, Master.”

“So long as he waits until after we’ve won the battle,” I agreed, tiredly, “His Grace can bloody well have it.”

* * *

I was headed back to the barn that evening to check on Lanse’s progress with the diorama when Azar and Rustallo arrived at a dead gallop, their horses lathered and winded. Both dismounted with the kind of smooth movement you develop when you’ve been living in the saddle for days, and their armor and travel-stained cloaks bore testimony to just how hairy it had been for them.

But both seemed excited, not exhausted. And they both looked as if they’d been relying heavily on magic to keep them awake and alert and energetic for way too long. There’s a kind of unfocused, dazed look you can get in your eye if you do that – I probably had it too, come to think of it.

“Their scouts are at the escarpment now,” Azar reported without preamble. “We hit their van one last time before we ran like hell over the causeways, killed a few hundred and got them fighting mad!”

“Where are your men?” I asked, concerned. The Megelini knights weren’t outstanding cavalry, but they were local and they knew this country better than most.

“They’re having their wounds and mounts attended to, Captain,” explained Rustallo. “Five hundred and fifty-five strong. Most will be ready for battle by morning!”

“Then it’s good we won’t have battle until the afternoon,” I nodded, evenly. “Good work, gentlemen. I take it you met these great beasts that Carmella was speaking of?”

“The trolls?” asked Azar, casually. “They’re huge, aye – some as tall as ten feet. But they can be slain as easily as a man, if you know how to use a sword and can reach their vitals. I took two myself!” he said, proudly, slapping his over-sized mageblade affectionately. “There’s probably twenty in their vanguard. They’ve been using them as artillery – they throw rocks the size of a man’s head. They’ve been using them to destroy villages. They’re strong, to be sure, but they aren’t invincible!” I could already feel a ballad of Azar Trollsbane coming on . . .

“They’ll be on the causeway guards soon,” Azar continued, excitedly. “If you can give me fifty fresh cavalry, we can defend the—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “the causeway guards have their orders. At the first sign of attack, they’re to withdraw and abandon the escarpment causeways.”

“But Captain!” Azar protested, as if the thought of giving up ground uncontested was sacrilege. “If we give them the proper manpower, they could hold those causeways until—”

“We have a battle plan, Azar,” I reminded him. “One which involves the goblins coming down those causeways freely. If they stay above them, then we give them the high ground. If we stay back enough to bring them down, then we face them on level ground. I thought you were clear about that?”

“I am,” he protested. “But Captain, we’ve been fighting these bastards for four days, and to give them even—”

“I know about your valiant efforts, Azar,” I reminded him. “I’ve been yelling at you about them for days, remember? You did an admirable job. But we’re going to need you for the main battle, and that won’t happen until tonight. You and your men get some rest, get some food, and prepare. Don’t worry, the biggest battle of your life is less than a day away,” I said, trying to soothe him. “You can die gloriously then.” He spat and looked angry, but didn’t protest further.

“Duke Lenguin and his column finally arrived from Vorone,” I informed them. “So stay away from their encampments, all right? Mavone’s been picking at them for days, now, the whole trip up here, and Master Thinradel has been almost insufferable with his new witchstone, so . . . try to stay around Spark Country. That’s the barn and the row of tents inside the pasture next to it. If you wander over to the Duke’s encampment, you’ll likely end up in a duel. And that’s strictly forbidden before the battle,” I reminded them, looking squarely at Azar, who looked guiltily away.

“Now, how did Landrik perform?” I asked, curious about the former Censor.

Rustallo looked pleased. “Very well, Captain,” he said, enthusiastically. “Since he got his glass, he’s been in the front line every chance he gets. The man doesn’t complain, and he gets along well with the others.”

“He’s good at location spells and disabling alarms and wards,” admitted Azar. “And he’s fair enough on foot with sword or wand. But not the ideal man for leading a small unit. He almost got his squad killed in the first surprise charge we did.”

“We all had to start somewhere,” I shrugged. “That he’s not a drunkard or a coward, that’s the news I wanted to hear. We’ll need him on the line. In fact, we’re going to need everyone we can spare from the barn on the line. When and if my . . . reinforcements show up, we still need to have a credible front or we’ll be re-fighting the same battle twice.”

“They’re coming?” asked Azar, surprised. “I thought they didn’t want to—”

“Which ones?” I asked, disgustedly. “Don’t worry, someone will show, and someone will help. I just don’t know precisely who or when. Damn politics!”

Rustallo laughed, and then got very serious. “Captain, there’s more,” the young warmage said, uneasily. “There are . . . humans who ride with the horde. Not many, but a few. There are not more than twenty horses in their whole column, but they are all ridden by humans, either slaves or . . . or Soulless, I’d imagine.”

“I’d heard that report, too,” I agree, darkly. “They shouldn’t be a tactical issue. Twenty isn’t enough to even be a decent scouting force.”

“The mounted men aren’t scouts,” Azar said, shaking his head. “They’re . . . well, commanders.”

“Commanders?” I asked, surprised.

“Aye, Captain,” Rustallo said, uneasily. “And the one in charge of the whole thing? I think you’ll almost recognize him.”

“The Dead God put a human in charge of his largest horde?”

“Oh, it’s not just any human,” Azar said, bitterly.

“Yeah, it’s your old boss,” Rustallo agreed, dully. “Sire Koucey. And he’s not looking so good.”

Chapter Thirty-Five:

The Battle Of Timberwatch Begins

Timberwatch, Autumnal Equinox

At dawn, all three causeways leading down from the escarpment were overrun. There were only token guard forces there, more observational than anything else. They retreated as planned, falling back to the redoubts below which were stuffed with archers. The goblins didn’t advance any further at that point – they’d captured the objective. Their force could safely descend now. And we had foolishly built our redoubts outside of bowshot, so they could descend without fear of volleyed fire. Foolish humans.

The vanguard of the horde, ten thousand quick-moving goblin infantry, had reached the causeway by noon, when they paused to rest in the heat of the sun. A sorcerous storm front of dark clouds overhead kept its brightness at bay, but even on the day of the autumnal equinox it was still plenty warm in northern Alshar, and the gurvani had been traveling hard. The main body of the horde began arriving two hours or so after noon.

It was a busy morning for us. The capture of the causeways marked the first step in activating our defenses and marshalling our troops. From dawn onwards there was a steady stream of infantry and cavalry making their way to the battlefield at pre-arranged stations between and to the rear of the redoubts. The Alshari heavy cavalry, the brave knights of the Duchy, were gathered on the left flank, five-thousand strong and led by the Lord Marshal himself. A second, smaller force of medium and light cavalry screened the right side, where the peasant levies from Vorone and the Alshari Wilderlands were anchored by two regiments of mercenary pikemen that Lenguin had procured. We were weakest on the right, by design.

And in the center were the bulk of the heavy infantry from Tudry, and the baronial levies from Green Hill and Fesdarlen. The Megelini knights – or what was left of them – held forth in front of the infantry with the Hellriders and the Warbirds on the left and right sides of the center, respectively. Within the center were the core of the order’s warmagi. There were at least two war magi on the flanks, in close enough proximity to their captains to relay orders and reports. But the combat-ready warmagi would be there, in the thick of it. That’s where I would be.

Behind the infantry were a thousand Remeran crossbowmen, which I would have gladly swapped for half their number of Nirodi archers. But every single one of Redshaft’s brave men were in the redoubts, sitting on bales and bales of arrows. If every shaft found a gurvani throat, then we’d scarce be left with any goblins to fight. The Remerans had taken the commission only reluctantly, and at the point of the Duke’s sword, but they had marched from Vorone with the rest of the column. I hoped they could be relied on, and was gratified to see each one bearing a short sword and buckler as well as their crossbows.

Scattered around the battlefield in carefully chosen positions were the artillery pieces: mangonels and catapults, a few arbalesters and one large Vorean-style trebuchet. The magical corps had spent a lot of time and trouble with that particular engine, and it was now perhaps the most heavily enchanted field piece in human history. Usually such devices are reserved for employing on a siege (or withstanding one) – but I had my reasons. Carmella was there, even now, overseeing its loading and firing. This had been her idea, originally. The best of the heavy infantry, the Orphan’s Band, were defending those artillery pits.

By noon, most of our cavalry had deployed to the field, and our redoubts were filled and secure. The stragglers soon closed in and filled in the gaps, and we were even able to serve lunch in the field. But those of us with magesight were intent on watching the rim of the escarpment, where a strong black line of gurvani began filling in.

The first sight of the enemy atop the ridge that morning made our men cheer defiantly and clash their shields. With a full night of sleep and fresh food in their bellies, morale was high. But as the day dragged on and that black line on the horizon got bigger and bigger – and bigger still – the cheers were replaced with a kind of uncertain grumbling.

Meanwhile, the magical corps was diligently finishing the last-minute details on dozens of spells, depending on our area of specialty. Some affected the battlefield conditions. Some affected the enemy. And some affected our own troops. To counter the uncertain grumbling, for example, I had a dozen minstrels wandering through the troops playing martial tunes and singing heroic ballads, along with some younger priests and some pretty priestesses, who distributed water and treats while a High Mage who wasn’t doing anything more important quietly cast charms to inspire resolve and encourage bravery – and discourage impatience.

Jannik the Jolly was instrumental in organizing the support troops to spread good cheer – and some fortified wine – around to bolster their spirits. In addition all of us warmagi took turns throwing some of our own emotion-enhancing magic, getting our men as ready to battle as we could.

I had far too much to do and never enough time to do it. Even with telepathic communication there always seemed to be one more thing to check, one more post to inspect, one more unit to speak with before things started getting intense.

I was checking the binding spells on the corners of one of the two central redoubts when, quite unexpectedly, Pentandra rode up with another rider.

“Happy Equinox, Barbarian!” she sang sweetly as her dainty little mare came to an impressive stop near the fortified gate. “I heard you were out here hanging the festive holiday garlands . . .”

“Penny!” I shouted, leaving my spellcraft half-finished as I put my stone away to give her a hug. “When did you get here?”

“Well, just now, of course,” she said, her derisive tone ringing familiar in my ears. “We rode ahead of the others to get here before the battle starts.”

“ ‘We’? Who’s this? Your newest paramour?”

“Master!” came a disgusted shout of a familiar voice out of the unfamiliar face of the other rider, a cloak-swathed man in traveling leathers, a mageblade on his saddle. Then I realized who it was – it wasn’t that the face was unfamiliar, it was just bigger than before and covered in a discouraged thatch of hair that might be a beard when it grew up.

“Tyndal!” I said, almost speechless. “Dear gods, boy, is that you?” It had only been a few weeks – all right, maybe a couple of months – since I’d seen my senior apprentice, but puberty hadn’t slowed down during that time. He’d grown an inch, at least, and started to fill out in his chest and shoulders. He carried himself more like a grown man now, and less like an adolescent stable boy, especially when he threw back his cloak, revealing a familiar yellow sash across one shoulder. Yes, he looked a proper warmage, I decided, ready to ride to battle. Then I had a sudden thought. “Alya! Is she—?”

“Relax, your rustic princess fair is safe with your parents,” soothed Pentandra. “I wouldn’t have brought the lad if she wasn’t. But there were a couple of Censorate men lurking around the barony, resisting the Duke’s edict, and looking for ‘troublemakers’. Since Tyndal was the only High Mage around, I assumed that they would be searching for him. And since he couldn’t lie to save his life, poor boy, and I didn’t want to endanger your family, I brought him with me. In truth, I doubt I could have made him stay behind.”

My apprentice looked guilty, but he also looked defiant. “Master, my place is here beside you, in battle!” he assured me. I had serious doubts about that – he was barely trained as a mage, much less a warmage – but then I knew that there were boys his age or younger out there in the host we’d assembled. He had as much right to avenge himself and risk death as they did, I decided. And he might just have acquired enough skill to survive the battle. Or at least stay someplace where I could keep an eye on him. I stifled the urge to chew them both out, realizing that we could all be dead in a few hours, and I grinned and welcomed them instead.

“I’m about done here – just a few last-minute issues I had to see to,” I explained. “But let’s head back to the barn and I’ll show you what we’re working on. And you can both be useful, now that you’re here. Tyndal, of course, will be in the lines with me—”

“Oh, thank you Master!” he said, happily.

“And Penny, you can stay in the barn and help coordinate with the battlefield magics. Your stone seems better suited to communication, anyway, and I know you can relay information without getting distracted or losing focus.”

“Well, of course!” she said, irritated. “But that’s all you want me to do?”

“That’s plenty, believe me. We have four separate waves of spells we’re planning, plus a couple of contingencies in case something goes wrong. If our timing isn’t just right, then we’ll get hammered. So I need someone I trust making sure it doesn’t happen like that.”

“And we’re working out of a barn?” Penny sniffed.

“Last time we were working out of a cave,” I reminded her.

“At least it was a magical cave,” she grumbled. “And we were naked.”

“And this is a magical barn – now,” I assured her. “Ever hear of Lanse of Bune?”

“The . . . modeler?” she asked, uncertainly.

“He’s a master of carsetra grentarada, perhaps the greatest living one.” Since I’d just met him and only recently became familiar with his outstanding work, I of course felt the right to be snobbish about it. “We’ve got him finishing up the battlefield diorama now.”

“So he’s good?” she asked.

I snorted. “He’s absolutely brilliant. Among warmagi, he’s the best. And since hardly anyone outside of warmagic uses carsetra grentarada anymore, that makes him the best in the profession. And if that doesn’t impress you, we have a Mage Healer too – with a witchstone, now.”

“Him, I’ve heard of,” she nodded. “He’d be a very good one to get to know, too – he specializes in blood. Which I think we’re going to see a lot of, today,” she added grimly.

I couldn’t argue with that, and for the rest of the ride back to the Barn we caught up on important pieces of news, such as Duke Lenguin’s mental state and Baron Jenerard’s public split with the Ducal court over the invasion and – most importantly – the state of the approaching reinforcements. That last piece of information was vital to how the battle would proceed. In a lot of ways.

We arrived at the barn and I had a couple of boys tie off our mounts before we were admitted inside by the guards. Tyndal, I was amused to note, stood behind me and to the left, like a bodyguard, and looked terribly serious about it. He also kept fingering the bag around his neck where he kept his shard, and kept practicing simple cantrips or runespells when he wasn’t otherwise occupied. He was as eager as a puppy to show off to me.

There was already a large group of warmagi and attendants present in the barn. Pentandra greeted Isily warmly, remembering her from school, and then greeted the rest of the Order assembled around the diorama. I introduced her to Lanse, who straightened his tall, lanky form long enough to bow over her hand, before asking her not to crowd the eastern end of the diorama with the hem of her gown, please.

As for the magnificent carsetra, even Pentandra was impressed. Arrayed before us was a near-exact re-creation of the field outside, from beyond the escarpment to the battlefield to the impressive Tower of Timberwatch, to the encampment and village where we ourselves were standing, all in perfect miniature. Rows of figurines, representing units of horse and infantry, lined up across the field behind tiny catapults and mangonels; the six miniature redoubts stood as big as birds’ nests in the fields, stuffed with tiny archers.

And over the escarpment, hundreds of little black figures teemed menacingly. I counted seven larger figures amongst them – those would be clusters of trolls – and a few little red flags that indicated the suspected presence of a witchstone, based on reports from the two warmagi I had scrying at all times. And then there were three or four yellow flags within the horde that indicated some item or person of interest, but lacked clarification or confirmation.

There were still plenty of figures out of place, I could see – such as the approaching reinforcements – but for now it was as accurate a display of the battlefield as you could ask for.

“That’s incredible,” Penny nodded, solemnly. “You are brilliant,” she added to Lanse, who just shook his head shyly. “So you can chart everything that happens right here?”

“Oh, it’s more than a chart,” Lanse said, almost sounding offended. “Each piece is made from pieces from that region, and bound to it through a complicated chain of spells. It’s the ‘as above, so below’ principal taken to its logical extreme: when something happens on the carsetra, it happens . . . there, as well.”

“For instance, if I had a spell that would shower the gurvani holding the causeways with snowballs,” I explained, “I could – with Lanse’s assistance – cast the spell on that section of the carsetra wanted affected, and they would be dodging snowballs from out of nowhere. Or if I wanted to work some big elemental spell, which is not unlikely, we could cast it here and have it manifest out there.”

“Without every getting exposed to unfriendly eyes,” added Lanse. “Or arrows.”

“Incredible,” Penny repeated, shaking her head. “And what do you plan to unleash on the goblins first?” she asked. “Something more substantial than snowballs, I hope.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of a well-thrown snowball,” I scoffed. “But no, we’re going to the other extreme. Once we get them down the causeways, that is.”

“What if they don’t want to come down the causeway?” she asked.

“Then they’re going to get very hungry, very soon,” Taren said, joining the conversation from his own section of the barn. The skinny, unassuming mage had assembled a breathtaking number and variety of offensive battlefield spells in his area, and looked very pleased with himself. “Think about it: an army of ninety thousand, give or take, needs a lot of food every day if it’s going to keep moving. They aren’t running a huge supply train, so that means they’re having to forage and raid for whatever they eat – and they can. Alshar is a rich country.

“But they can’t do it in one place, not without exhausting the food supply. They can only feed an army like that if it keeps moving. If it stalls, it dies,” he pronounced. “So they can’t stay up on that causeway indefinitely. In fact, the faster they get down, the sooner they can defeat us and start scavenging again.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” admitted Pentandra. “So how fast do you think they’ll come down?”

“I’d say they’re about ready to begin sending down the first advanced parties now,” Terleman said as he left a nearby table covered with dispatches and maps. “I’ve got Curmor in an advanced position, spotting for me. We’re giving them plenty of room to come down without being harassed, but they’re being cautious, damn them. Still, they can force their way down even against our fire, there’s so many of them. By dusk they should have gotten almost half of their troops down the escarpment.”

“They’ll attack before then,” offered Isily. “They won’t wait for their full strength.”

“When did you get to be an authority on gurvani military tactics?” complained Pentandra.

“You pick up a lot of strange things, out here in the frontier,” shrugged the pretty Wenshari girl. “But they won’t be able to control their warrior societies. They’ll be itching for a fight, and they just don’t have the discipline to hold ranks.”

“Just got word from Curmor,” Terleman said, gravely, as he shook off the remnants of psychic communication. “The first bands are headed down the causeways now.”

“That should put real combat . . . maybe three, four hours off?” suggested Taren.

“All right, that should give us enough time to ice the cake in time for the party,” I agreed. “Everybody get their final preparations done, grab a bite to eat, armor up . . . and for Ishi’s sake, don’t forget to pee!” I swore, remembering the uncomfortable battle of Grimly Wood. “From here on, I want Pentandra to be our central communication point, with . . . where’s Delman?”

“He’s our liaison with the right flank,” Terleman answered. “I’ve got him in with the mercenary pikemen.”

“Oh,” I said, frowning. “What about Reylan?” The Wenshari noble wasn’t the best on the battlefield, but he had clear wits and a good head for orders.

“He’s on scrying duty right now,” Terleman said, “but he’ll be off in another twenty minutes or so.”

“Then he’s to stay here and act as Pentandra’s second,” I ordered. “If you can’t get through to Penny, you contact Reylan. They’ll disseminate information to where it needs to go. Have the charms been disbursed?”

“As many as we could make,” agreed Terleman, reluctantly. “That is, seven or eight thousand. They’re going to the infantry in the center, and to the archers in the redoubts.” I nodded, satisfied. Cat’s eye charms – that had been Rustallo’s idea, of all people – had been made in great batches. They were basically small stones inscribed with a simple blue rune and an enchantment to allow the bearer to see in the dark like a cat – or a gurvani. It’s like a very simple magesight spell. We’d used a version of the enchantment at the Battle of the Lantern, but these charms should last over a week, not just a few hours. Of course they were also harder to make, but thanks to a little Imperial thaumaturgy we had produced thousands of them in the last few days.

“What’s the status of the Big Secret Weapon?” I asked. Taren glanced at Penny and then solemnly reported.

“The Weapon is prepared and primed for action,” he said.

“What ‘big secret weapon’?” Pentandra demanded.

“It’s a secret,” I explained, nonchalantly.

“Yes, but—”

“It’s the key to the whole battle . . . I hope. So I don’t want to jinx it by explaining it to you, all right?”

She looked at me thoughtfully, clearly annoyed. “You don’t want to tell me . . . one of the best thaumaturges you’ll ever meet – about a secret weapon—”

“Big secret weapon,” Taren corrected, helpfully.

“—big secret weapon, because you don’t want to jinx it?” she asked, incredulously. “You know magic doesn’t work like that! Except in folklore!” she sneered.

“It’s less about avoiding bad luck,” I confessed, “and more about not making myself look like a fool if it doesn’t work out like I planned.”

“So you won’t tell me because – let me get this straight – we’re once again surrounded by goblins and could be dead in hours, and you won’t tell me about your big secret weapon because you’re worried that I’m going to make fun of your plan?”

“You are pretty judgmental,” Terleman agreed, sheepishly.

“It’ll be more impressive if you don’t know about it beforehand,” offered Taren. “You know, without any expectation, you won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t . . . if it doesn’t.”

“You’re not inspiring a lot of confidence in this big secret weapon,” she said, darkly. “And why are you so worried about my judgment? I admit, I can be a little critical sometimes,” she understated dramatically, “but really, who am I to pass any kind of judgment on any work of warmagic?” she asked, defensively.

“Oh, maybe just one of the best thaumaturges he’ll ever meet,” said Terleman, matter-of-factly. “Not to mention his ex-girlfriend.”

“We were colleagues, not . . . romantically involved!” Pentandra insisted, rolling her eyes. “Fine! Don’t tell me, then. I’ll figure it out, don’t you worry,” she scolded. “Now, I’m going to need a chair and a table of my own, not to mention parchment, ink, quills, a servant, a . . .” she said, as she wandered over to an empty spot near the edge of the diorama. “And put it right about here, if you would . . .”

I let her get things ordered while I went over some specific spells with Taren and Hesia, and then took a psionic conversation with Carmella about placement of the trebuchet. I was about to confer with Landrik and Horka about some new nasty offensive spells they wanted to field test, when Terleman quietly approached my shoulder – which meant pushing Tyndal out of the way.

“Captain, word from the front,” he said, just above a whisper.

“Have we engaged their forward elements?” I asked, surprised.

“No, Captain,” Terleman reported. “I just got word from Curmor. The group from the central causeway is approaching within bowshot of Redoubt Four . . . under a flag of truce.”

“What?!” I gasped.

“That’s what Curmor’s saying,” Terleman said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He says there’s a party of about a dozen, half of them on horseback – it must be those turncloaks, or the Soulless. They’re flying a white flag on a reversed lance, and the leader has buried his sword blade in the dirt.”

“Well that’s about the last thing I expected,” I sighed as I crossed back over to the diorama. Right about . . . there?” I asked no one in particular.

Lanse was at my elbow in a moment, looking at something with magesight, then carefully floating a tiny horseman with a black flag over just between the fourth and fifth redoubts. “About there,” he said, after moving the piece back and forth almost imperceptibly. “Six horsemen, six goblins on foot.”

“And one white flag,” I nodded. “I wonder what they hell they want? Safe passage?” I quipped. Terleman’s face got distant, and then his eyes shot open.

“Actually, Captain, the enemy envoys have specifically requested a meeting . . . with you. By name. ‘master Minalan the Spellmonger, of Minden Hall’.”

“Well, they got everything right but the village, which doesn’t exist any more,” I grinned humorlessly. “They want to talk to me? Why me?”

“They failed to specify,” Terleman said, dryly. “But they’re waiting for you.”

“It’s not uncommon for enemy generals to meet over a truce, before a big battle,” reflected Taren.

“It is when the terms of engagement are ‘no quarter’ and ‘genocide’,” Isily said, sourly.

“I guess I should go out and see what they want,” I said, a little dazed. I hadn’t planned on this at all. “Um, maybe I should get changed,” I decided. I was wearing infantry fatigues – basically a tunic and pants of un-dyed cotton, held up with a stout belt – that were stained, worn, and not at all officer-like, much less general-like. “Oh, and someone should go tell the Duke, and see who he wants to represent him, and have Master Thinradel brought. As High Court Mage of Alshar, no doubt he’ll want to be involved. Isily, I’d like you there, and I’ll have Master Cormaran come along, too, but everyone else keep working. Tyndal, let me introduce you to Hamlan, back at my quarters. He’s an excellent manservant, for a spy. I think he can find something suitable for us both to wear.”

* * *

The region north of the redoubts and south of the escarpment had once been a patchwork of mediocre farmland, pastures, and stands of second-growth timber, but after a few months of neglect and a few weeks of intense military activity, it looked like a wasteland: strewn with abandoned cottages and sheds, felled trees waiting in vain to be split or sawed, overgrown brush and untended pastures grown wild, all sprinkled by the dead leaves that were just beginning to fall. The livestock and the wild beasts had long fled or been slaughtered, and only the birds remained – a whole flock of migrating black birds had seemed to follow the horde from the north, and were now settling in around the battlefield like they were watching some ghastly tournament. To liven up the atmosphere even more, a stiff, chill breeze was blowing down from the escarpment. Northern Alshar is pretty temperate, but at that moment it felt as if the frigid steppes were just over the horizon.

The baleful lighting didn’t help. The grim overcast sky bathed everything in a gloomy glow. As the truce party assembled, the “afternoon” light was no stronger than twilight, the sun hidden behind the gray cloudbank.

“Pretty day for a parley,” Master Thinradel observed, grimly. He was dressed in black leathers with a long black woolen cloak and mantle thrown over a tightly-fitting iron helmet. He wasn’t a warmage, but he had found a cavalry sword somewhere, and it hung from his saddle. He was, indeed, full of magic and mischief this morning – cocky and un-killable, just like every mage when they first begin to use irionite. Even quiet Isily had been possessed of a self-assuredness that no doubt put her ability to blend into the crowd at jeopardy. She was there, too, at my request. As a Shadowmage she was trained to observe detail in ways that most of us never consider. She was already hanging spells about herself and her mount, whispering incantations under her breath.

Master Cormaran had hung his spells before he arrived. The gallant old gentleman had dressed in dashing scarlet leathers with an ornate bronze and steel breastplate, a combed helm dangling from his saddle horn. His own magnificent mageblade was strapped to his back, but he had another in hand as well. The air around he and his chestnut horse nearly crackled with the enchantments that lay about him. He had come into his power as a High Mage splendidly, and his experience in warcraft made him an ideal advisor.

“Here,” he said, riding past Thinradel to hand me the sword. “I finished it last night. A new mageblade for the head of our new order,” he explained. “Your ‘slasher’ is a worthy tool, no doubt, but I wanted to try a few experiments, and thought you might like to test them.” He explained what the ornate, gently-curved blade could do, thaumaturgically speaking, and I was impressed. “The hilt is bronze, but can be gilded after the battle,” me mentioned, after going over the basic enchantments. “The grip is faroskin, it won’t slide or get slick from sweat. And I borrowed some brown knot coral from Master Lanse to line the pommel and hilt with.”

“Will that work with an object this heavy?” I asked, curious. Yellow knot coral is one of those substances magi prize – especially any kind of enchanter – almost as much as irionite. It’s one of the easiest substances to tie a spell to and be affected by the simplest of magics. Lance used a tiny sliver on the base of each of his figurines so that they would move and respond to the dictates of the complex web of spells he used for the carsetra. Then if you thaumaturgically tie a figurine to a military unit, when the unit advances, the figure will, as well, by its own accord. It sounds simple enough, but the potential applications of yellow knot coral in the hands of an experienced enchanter were beyond imagining.

By lacing the hilt of the pretty mageblade with it, it would respond to my magical commands – say, to go sailing across the room, or come obligingly into my hand – I had far more control over the new sword than I had over Slasher, and I’d carried that blade for years.

“More than enough,” he assured me, clapping his hand on my shoulder as I took the blade gingerly in hand. “It’s three quarters of an inch shorter than your old blade, but that’s because you’re built for a blade this size. And the balance is much, much better. Like I said, it’s just an essay, an experiment, and a crude one at that – but it’s also better than the steel you carry. Remember, tradition dictates that you name it the moment it’s blooded. Bear it in valor!” he commanded.

“I shall, I swear!” I said, very pleased. Everyone likes getting gifts. Getting a magical sword right before you go face down the emissary of the local evil dark lord is even better, let me assure you. I took Slasher out of my scabbard and handed it to Tyndal, who was still afoot – and very grumpy about not riding with me in the truce party. “You hang on to that for me, will you? You’ve about grown out of your old blade, anyway.” He beamed at me – his first mageblade was much shorter and hardly more than a well-built cavalry sword. I’d had Slasher since Farise, and had honed it well, both physically and magically. It was almost as noble a gift as Master Cormaran’s. I slid the new blade into the old scabbard, where it fit almost perfectly.

“So there are three – your pardon, Master Thinradel, four – High Magi in the party?” the old master asked, nodding toward Isily. “I would have advised more.”

“If they start more trouble than the three of us can handle, more magi would have just been victims. This way everyone can keep working up to the last possible moment.”

“His Grace was hoping you’d put on more of a showing,” the Court Mage said. “Of course, he hoped that the gurvani would be so frightened and awed by your powers that they’d turn around and go back to the mountains, so . . .”

I had to chuckle at that. “It’s more likely that the cowardly Baron Jenerard will show up in armor with sword in hand, ready to fight them.” Jenerard’s reputation had taken a dive amongst the Wildermen, thanks to his public reluctance to defend their lands and his preparation to flee. I didn’t like the man myself, and neither did Mother, so trashing his reputation further seemed like a safe bet.

“I think the rest of our party has arrived,” noted Cormaran, pointing down the rough roadway that had been worn in the earth since the construction of the redoubts began. There was a small party of armored cavalry approaching, led by Lord Andrien, Court Herald; Count Gallanan, the Warden of the North – whose job it was to defend the northlands from invasion – rode next to him, and behind them were the Lord Marshal, Sir Daranal the Captain of the Ducal Guard, and His Grace, Lenguin Duke of Alshar. Something else I hadn’t expected. Usually, a sitting duke will defer such negotiations to his Lord Marshal or the Warlord or the noble chosen for the task, not undertake parley on his own.

“Nine of us?” asked Cormaran, concerned. “That seems like too large a party to accomplish anything. And to have the Duke in such peril . . .”

“Hey, it’s his Duchy,” I dismissed. “If he wants to keep it, I don’t mind seeing him work for it a little. He’s as protected as anyone else in the army right now. More so.”

Lenguin actually looked like he was enjoying himself a little, but none of the others did. In fact, the aging face of Count Gallanan, the Bear of the North, looked ashen under his chain mail coif, and he kept muttering to himself as his eyes flicked back and forth across the top of the escarpment, where thousands of goblins waited and watched.

“Are we ready?” the Duke asked without preamble. “Marshal Minalan, I was given to understand that these beasts were barely capable of speech, much less intelligent negotiations.”

“Your Grace, the gurvani are individually each as intelligent as you or I,” corrected the Court Mage, authoritatively. “It is their culture that is backwards. Of course, they can learn and adapt quite quickly,” he added.

“We’re ready, Your Grace,” I nodded. “Master Thinradel is correct. They have studied our ways, especially warfare, and their tactics are changing. For example, in Boval there were really no riders amongst the goblins, yet the dispatch claimed that there were four of them waiting for us.”

“So let us not keep them waiting,” Lenguin said, sternly. “I want to defeat them and get back to Vorone before Her Grace moves south without me.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t want to inconvenience Her Grace,” the Court Mage said with a roll of his eyes. Lenguin’s eyes flashed, but even he was wary of confronting a new-made High Mage. And rightly so.

We lined up abreast, the Duke and I in the center, the magi riding on my side, the warriors on his. Little was said as we passed three battlefield sentries who challenged us, and then we came to the small clearing where the road widened, and four riders awaited us, guarded by four very nervous-looking Nirodi archers.

We rode to within twenty feet of them – the archers wisely moving to the flanks, where they could cover the emissaries without hitting their sovereign – and I gasped they came into clearer view.

Two of the horses bore two riders each: urgulnosti shamans, part of the Dead God’s elite, their fur limed to a ghastly white – all except their faces, around which the black fur had been preserved in the shape of a skull. The Dead God’s priesthood were all armed with short swords, mantled in wool, and each bore a smoothed shard of irionite, worked into a torus in some fashion that was unknown to me. Any one of these fearless priests could have dueled me toe-to-toe and given me a fight. I’d like to think I’d win, of course, but if two of them attacked me at once I’d start to doubt the outcome.

But they weren’t who I was staring at.

On the left hand center horse rode the largest gurvan I’d ever seen. Easily over five feet, he rode the destrier as well as any human lad, and the horse tolerated him for some reason. He, too, wore a woolen cloak, but under it he wore steel mail, and at his hip was a serviceable cavalry sword. A broad-bladed axe dangled from his saddle. The eyes that peered out from under the brow of his blackened steel helm were filled with cunning intelligence. This was a gurvan to be reckoned with, as close to a goblin warrior-hero as I’d ever seen. He was very intimidating, even holding the javelin bearing the peace flag.

But he wasn’t the one I was staring at, either.

Riding next to him was a human, an older man in battle-scarred black metal. His shield was likewise darkened and hacked and marred by many battles. The face within his helm, when the faceguard was thrown back, was as pale as I’d ever seen living flesh, and riven with deep lines. The beard was white and stained, caked with grease and dirt and blood. His mantle was likewise rent and tattered, just as his horse was scarred and battle-hardened.

The device on his shield was familiar, but had been rendered without color and with a few horrifying additions. My breath caught as I recognized the emissary, as we came within earshot.

I swallowed, hard. “Your Grace,” I began, taking a deep, deep breath, “May I have the honor to present His Excellency, Lord Koucey of House Brandmount, late of Lord of Boval Vale, and formerly your sworn vassal.”

Chapter Thirty Six:

Sire Koucey Returns

Timberwatch, Equinox Day

“My vassal?” the Duke of Alshar blanched. “Gods, the man looks dead on his feet!”

“All but dead,” agreed Master Thinradel. “He’s been . . .”

“ ‘He’ is sitting right here and can hear every word you say,” the hoarse voice of the old country knight rasped harshly. It was like hearing the man shouting through an empty sepulcher, and it made me wince. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Your Grace,” he said, and had the nerve to give a little bow. “Master Minalan,” he added, tossing me half the bow he gave Lenguin. “And I am now called Lord Keshgural, among the gurvani. It means ‘Repentant’, which I am. But for the purposes of our conversation, you may call me Sire Koucey, if it pleases you.”

“Undead or not, he is polite,” quipped Sir Ranalan.

“So you speak for the Abomination?” asked Lenguin, imperiously. He was good at that. It might have been the only strength he had as a ruler, but the man had been strongly blessed with it.

“It is my duty to speak on behalf of His Majesty Lord Sheruel The Glorious, Ruler of the Gurvani and all of their lands,” he said, reverently.

“You mean the Dead God?” asked the Count, dully.

“He is called that by some,” Koucey agreed. “But his title matters little. You know the one for whom I speak.”

“So speak, then,” complained the Count. “What does Sheruel the Glorious have to say?” he asked, sneering the title into a sarcastic insult.

“He instructs me to inform His Grace, Lenguin, Duke of Alshar, that his sovereignty over the region you call western Alshar, including the Minden Range, is terminated from this day on,” the old knight croaked. “Further incursions against that land will be seen as an act of war.” That brought bitter laughter from the Warden of the North.

“Oh, do go on!” he chortled derisively. He was a very irritating man, but in this case that played in our favor.

“Indeed,” Koucey continued. “Henceforth, the Duke shall send no men north of the river Pinder, or he and his realm will face consequences.”

“North of the Pinder?” scoffed the Duke. “That’s seven days ride south of here! You think we’re going to just hand you the northlands and ride away?”

“If Your Grace values the rest of Alshar, you will,” agreed Koucey. “Sheruel the Glorious demands not just the northlands, but all of the Alshari Wilderlands as well.”

“There are a great many people who live in those countries,” pointed out Master Cormaran, calmly, as if he was enjoying a friendly debate in a taproom. “Most of them won’t want to move from their homes.”

The goblin chief spoke for the first time, his voice even lower and more gravelly than Koucey’s.

“Then you might wish to advise them that they will not like their new neighbors!” he said in strong but heavily-accented common speech, followed with a barking laugh.

“This is General Kagal-Gharzak, my colleague,” Koucey said, nearly expressionlessly, as he indicated the gurvan. “He has military command of our army. He is the one who will order your deaths, should you fail to treat with us honorably.”

“I’ll show you honor -- !” growled the Warden, his hand on his sword hilt.

“Stay!” commanded Lenguin. “I shall not break a fairly given truce! So Sheruel demands I vacate the Wilderlands and cut my realm in half? And get noisy new problems on my new frontiers, in the bargain? And what does he offer in return?”

“Your life,” breathed Koucey. “And your family’s, spared. Your realm, diminished but secure. Your people, unhappy but alive. All you must do is withdraw and swear an oath to never affront our lord again.”

“Bend my knee to get half a realm? Not when I am still on my feet,” scoffed Lenguin, bravely. “Why, I’d be laughed out of the Coronet Council! They’re already calling it the Four And A Half Duchies!” he said, sounding scandalized.

It figured that when the entire realm was on the line that the thing that compelled Lenguin to act wasn’t the potential deaths of thousands of his subjects, the loss of the security of his duchy, or even the loss of revenue from the region . . . but threaten to embarrass him in front of his brother Dukes? That put some steel in his sword.

“You seem to be selling the colt ere mare is brought to stud,” observed Cormaran, thoughtfully. “While you certainly have a large army, that doesn’t mean it can defeat ours. We’re prepared to resist you. The outcome is in doubt.”

“In doubt?” It was Koucey’s turn to scoff. “They might not be riders yet, but there are over a hundred thousand gurvani warriors on the escarpment above! There are fewer than thirty thousand Alshari here. Fortified or not, cavalry or no, there is no way you can stand against us! You don’t have the numbers!”

“You have been misinformed,” I said, finally. “No doubt your shamans have been busily scrying us to see our strength, and they’ve likely even guessed it accurately enough. But while you pose and posture and try to intimidate us with your horde, a column of twenty thousand men march here from Castal, ready to join their lances to ours. Fifty thousand warriors of the Duchies? Against even a hundred thousand gurvani? I’ll take our odds,” I shrugged.

“What?” asked Koucey, confused.

“What?!” snapped the Lord Marshal and Duke Lenguin, in unison.

“They’ve been obscured from scrying by the High Mage, Master Dunselen, Court Mage of Castal, but they’ve been gathering at Wilderhall since before I set out from there. My aides inform me that they’ve been on the march a week, now, and while your shamans’ eyes were turned toward the Timberwatch and our preparations here, you did not seek to see if we had any more allies approaching.”

“Castal sends troops?” asked the goblin general, alarmed. “Why wasn’t this foreseen?” he demanded from one of the urgulnosti priests, who didn’t have a good answer.

“Castal is sending troops?” demanded Lenguin. “My sister? Why?”

“Castal sends troops? You lie!” accused Koucey.

I shrugged again. “You can believe me or not, but it doesn’t matter. They’re only a day away. If we can keep your army up on the escarpment until they get here, then we can keep you up there indefinitely – or until you starve, take your pick.”

“You can never stop our legions!” insisted General Kagal-Gharzak, his horse unhappy with the sudden shouting. “We will eat the brains of the Castali for dinner after we have broken our fast on the Alshari! All humani are equally tasty!” he said, savagely.

“So they do eat human flesh,” Master Thinradel murmured. “Interesting . . .”

“You shall never take Alshar away from its rightful lord!” roared the Lord Marshal, his horse trying to rear.

I watched Koucey’s tired old eyes narrow. “Your Grace, I had intended on giving you an honorable and peaceful way of sustaining your realm,” he said, sadly. “As your former vassal, I felt obliged. But now I warn you: you have yet to see the greater part of Lord Sheruel’s forces. Ten times this number of his people prepare for war in Boval Vale, and there are thousands more arriving at the sacred valley all the time. Alshar cannot defend against so many. For the love of your subjects, Your Grace, I beg you to consider Lord Sheruel’s offer!”

For just the barest moment, I watched the Duke as a cloud of emotion fell over him and he actually considered Koucey’s offer. Bend a knee and leave the field and keep about half of his realm – the rich half, even. Or possibly die here. It was a tempting prospect.

But whatever his other failings, Lenguin wasn’t a coward, and he was too greedy to give up what was already his to someone who hadn’t even beaten him yet. The moment – and the cloud – passed quickly, and his eyes became stern and cold. For a moment he resembled his big sister, Duchess Grendine, far too much.

“It has been considered – and rejected,” he said, his voice livid. “Your army is the one that invades my lands. I’ll be dead before I let you steal my Duchy from me!”

“Then so be it,” Koucey sighed. “I had hoped to avoid such unpleasantness, but . . . well, if you are committed, Your Grace, then I am not less so. Let us depart to our sides and face each other on the honorable field of combat.”

“I’ll see your traitorous head depart your shoulders and languish unburied until your brains are as full of maggots as your words are!” snarled the Lord Marshal. “You think your little furries can match our steel? The best warriors in the Duchy?”

“Obviously,” Koucey said, dryly. “In fact, my troops will consider it a high honor to eat the flesh of the best warriors of the Duchy, come dawn. As appalling as it is, they prize such morsels, and see your grand army as so much fodder. My legions are well-trained, well-armed, and prepared to contest the field. And do you forget how many sorcerers are at the command of Lord Shereul?”

“We don’t forget,” I said, evenly. “We have warmagi aplenty. And more on the way. By the time your lazy goblins manage to get down that escarpment, I’ll have almost a dozen,” I boasted. That earned the slightest look from Cormaran, who knew we had well over a dozen, now. And they were set up and ready to play out the day.

“Enough bragging,” growled General Kagal-Gharzak.

“Kagal”, by the way, is one of the few gurvani words I know. It means “great” or “grand”.

“If you will not yield, then you will die. It is a simple thing.”

“We will not yield,” Duke Lenguin said, coldly. “At best, I would permit your . . . troops to retreat back to that cursed vale and never pass beyond the Mor Tower again. That is, once every goblin east of the Mor was gone. But that is the extent of my generosity.”

I was surprised – it was the first hint of compromise that I’d seen Lenguin offer anyone. That could be seen as a grand diplomatic gesture, or it could be seen as weakness. Either way, it was an empty offer. The goblins weren’t going to march away peacefully any more than Lenguin was going to allow them to split his realm peacefully.

“We will take what is ours once it is soaked with your blood, then,” Gharzak pronounced, and spat at the ground in front of Lenguin’s horse. Man or gurvani, that was an openly insulting gesture. Lenguin glared at the goblin general, who looked the Duke up and down in open disdain. “I declare the right to your flesh,” he sneered, finally. “I shall see if the meat of a humani Duke is as sweet as I think it is.”

“You’re disgusting,” muttered Sir Daranal.

“And you’re about to die,” Koucey countered. “Very well, we have said what we came to say. Until we meet on the field of battle, then,” he said, saluting us all before turning his horse. Gharzak honored us with another juicy glob of spittle before he followed, the two horses with their urgulnosti riders behind. When he was a hundred yards away he raised a horn to his lips and blew a loud, low blast that sounded as ominous as is was intended to. Suddenly the line of furry black bodies in the distance went berserk with excitement, enough so that we could hear them from here.

“That went well,” muttered Cormaran.

“Actually, it did,” I said. “Surprisingly well. Although I admit part of the surprise was seeing Koucey again. I thought the Dead God would have executed him by now. To keep him alive in torment, fighting against his fellows – that’s a special kind of torture.” I watched as the four horses trotted across the former wheat field toward the distant toe-hold they had at the base of the central escarpment. Already the black line of troops in front of us was on the march, with legions more behind them ready for war.

“Marshal Spellmonger!” Duke Lenguin bellowed angrily as we turned our horses around. “You know that . . . that thing that used to be a man?”

“Aye, Your Grace, he was the last lord of House Brandmount, lords of Boval Vale. I served him during the siege but . . . I was unable to rescue him from the Dead God before we left.”

“And now he serves as their general? What kind of man is—was he?” Lenguin turned his steed and we headed back toward our lines.

“A decent commander,” I conceded. “Far more talented in his mind than in truth, yet not without some skill at arms and deployment. He lacks imagination and has only the most basic notions of strategy. He can lead in battle, but he isn’t the most inspiring leader – although with his new sponsor, inspiration isn’t likely to be much of a factor. And while the Dead God has no doubt drained his thoughts of all he knows of tactics and warcraft, he likely learned little he didn’t already know. I served with the man in Farise, which is how I came to his service. A decent warrior, a decent lord, but there are thousands here who could best him as either. Of course,” I added, “that was before the Dead God got a hold of him. Ishi only knows how his mind has been twisted.”

Lenguin paused a moment as we rode. “Then you feel your stratagems will work against them?”

“I wouldn’t have proposed them if I didn’t, Your Grace,” I assured him. I wish I felt half as confident as I sounded, but you never tell a client your spell might not work up front. That’s bad business. Oh, sure, you want to admit that there is a slight chance something could happen to interfere, but once they were sold on it you couldn’t let them doubt it for one moment.

His Grace looked thoughtful – or gassy, the subtleties of his expression were mystifying – before he finally spoke. “Then as you have knowledge of the man and the tactics of his troops, I shall leave the order of battle to you and your order,” he sighed. “But I want results, Marshal Spellmonger!” he demanded. “If I give command to you, you had damn well better win the day!”

“If I don’t, I’ll pay for it with my life, Your Grace,” I agreed. “And so will many more. But I have yet to see any serious obstacles to our plan, as of yet.”

“Very well,” he sighed. “In truth, we face a foe far beyond most of my ablest captains to counter. I would dislike ending my reign by being a goblin’s breakfast – the talk of consuming our flesh made me utter a prayer. Ghastly creatures. And enraging. I find I want to see every last one of them dead on the field.”

“I will do my best to oblige you, Your Grace,” I chuckled. It was perhaps the friendliest Lenguin had ever been to me. It must have been the stress.

“And lastly . . . what you said about troops from Castal, from . . . my sister . . . ?”

“I had to tell Koucey and Gharzak something to get them to speed up their attack,” I explained, cautiously and – I hoped -- reasonably. “If they lingered too long up on the escarpment, our men would be standing around in armor, just waiting in the sun, until nightfall. This way Koucey will be eager to press the attack before our ‘reinforcements’ arrive. It’s all part of the plan, Your Grace,” I assured him.

“I . . . see,” Lenguin said, after a moment’s pause. “And if he has his sorcerers scry for these reinforcements?”

“Then I assure you, Your Grace, they will see only what I wish them to see.” I said it with even more conjured confidence. Of course at this point it didn’t really matter if Lenguin was enthusiastic about the plan or not. Things were already too far in motion for me to try to stop them now. He was committed. What would happen, would happen, and there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it one way or another.

“I’ll take you at your word,” he murmured. “I shall return to my camp and prepare for the assault. Send word to me through Master Thinradel should you have further information.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” I said, bowing in my saddle, as he scampered off back to his impressive Ducal pavilion with the Lord Marshal, the Warden of the North and Sir Dunalan riding behind him. He did look dashing in his armor, I had to admit, as they scampered away. If you squinted your eyes you could almost see the majesty. But it was all show. Lenguin was, at best, a tournament fighter, unsuited for war. Pretty armor does not make you a warrior. And a coronet does not make you a war leader. As irritated as I was with the Duke of Castal, Rard was both.

“So,” I said, once the Duke and his retinue had departed safely out of earshot, leaving me to my magi, “what can you tell me about our foes, Isily?” The pretty Shadowmage rode her palfrey next to Traveler, allowing us to converse as we made our way through the maze of trenches and berms behind our line.

“Well, Sire Koucey is under a major enchantment, for one thing,” she said, without preamble. “A really, really big one. I couldn’t tell you more than that without arousing his bodyguards, but I think it’s safe to say that it’s the Dead God dominating his mind.”

“And he was truthful during our negotiations?”

“Utterly,” she nodded. “He was without guile, at least. His goblin companions, on the other hand . . . well, the General had several small enchantments about him, mostly for protection I think. But he and the others would do nearly anything to defeat us. Their hate was palpable.”

“I could smell it,” I agreed. “Anything else?”

She shrugged. “The shamans had what seemed to be a variation of Rendwenda’s Panoply hung on them.”

I snorted derisively at that. You learn that basic protection spell the first day of War College . . . and then you forget it. Because even though it was one of the first and most basic protection spells developed on Perwin that every warmage since has found a dozen ways around it. Most spellmongers and even some footwizards knew the spell, because it was useful against a non-magical opponent – say when an irate client was ready to beat you with a stick. But against even another regular mage, I could think of plenty of other spells I’d prefer to Rendwenda’s Panoply – but it did tell me a few things. “That must be Garkesku’s influence,” I decided. “I bet you even he knows Rendwenda. I bet you that when he was ‘exchanging information’ with his new colleagues, he assured them that this was what all the warmagi were casting for protection this year.”

“Isn’t that a good thing for us?” she asked, surprised.

“It’s a very good thing for us, if we’re right,” I agreed. “Rendwenda has plenty of weaknesses, and if that’s what they’re depending on, this might be a shorter battle than I’d hoped. If nothing else, it does little to protect them from . . . our little surprise.”

Isily looked thoughtful, which on her was just adorable. How is it that women look their most attractive when they’re putting the least amount of thought into it?

“I couldn’t help but notice that His Grace seemed surprised at the idea that Castal would want to help out,” she continued. “Do you think he’d really be that upset if Mother got involved?”

“He’d be livid,” I agreed. “He hates his big sister and her husband. I can’t see him being very happy about it unless there was no other option to save the Duchy.”

“Is there any other option to save the Duchy?” she asked.

“Not that I’ve been able to think of,” I admitted.

“I thought you might say that,” she sighed. “All right, I suppose I should . . .”

“Go look after Mother’s interests? Go ahead, Isily, but I want you back at the barn in two hours. It won’t take them as long as I’d like to actually descend the escarpment if force. Once that happens, it’s going to get . . . chaotic. I want you where you can do the most good.”

“I’m always where I can do the most good,” she said without false modesty. “But I’ll be there.” She kicked her mount forward without further discussion, which left me with Master Cormaran and Mavone, as we approached the checkpoint behind the trenches where Tyndal was impatiently waiting for me.

“Well played, back there,” Cormaran said as my apprentice spotted me and hastily began to mount his own horse. “Not just with that foul knight – with Lenguin. You seem to have a talent for this, Minalan. I never would have suspected that, when you came into my shop six months ago. I took you for an elaborate fraud,” he admitted.

“Oh, he is, he is,” assured Mavone, snidely.

“I wish I had been,” I chuckled. “That would have made things much, much simpler. As it is, I only have the barest idea of what I’m doing, I’m making stuff up all the time, and so far I’m highly amused than anyone is actually still listening.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the old enchanter dismissed with the kind of casual wave of his gauntlet that only an old campaigner can manage, “the fact that you’re willing to admit that puts you ahead of all of the other commanders I’ve served, most of whom thought they were the Wargod’s spawn and were usually dreadfully wrong. You’ve gotten your men and your magi into position, your foe into his, and now all you can do is sit back and wait for things to go horribly wrong.”

“That’s very . . . encouraging,” I finally said, after my tired brain worked through it.

“No, no it isn’t,” Mavone complained, unhelpfully. “It’s not very encouraging at all. If I’d had any idea that battles were this poorly organized at the senior level—”.

“That’s an awful lot of goblins,” Master Cormaran murmured to me, as we rode from the front. We had an appointment at the blue barn, but we paused at a rise far behind the line that was tall enough to use magesight to watch developments to the north.

“I’ve seen more,” Tyndal shrugged, earning him an impressed glance from Isily. “And there were a damn sight less soldiers around. After Boval Castle this is almost comforting.”

“They’re coming down fairly quickly,” I agreed, watching the sinister columns attack our field fortifications like angry ants. “Just as I’d hoped. Their finest troops were in the vanguard. The shock troops are pouring down. Half of the horde will be down by midnight.”

“Well, wield your new blade wisely, Spellmonger,” he said, ignoring the mouthy Gilmoran and nodding to where my shiny new sword hung over my shoulder. “Practice with it a bit, at least, before you bare it in battle. Remember the spells I showed you for it. And good luck! Now I’m off to my tent to prepare myself. I shall return to the barn shortly,” he said, and bowed in the saddle before leaving.

“I at least want a chance at some food,” admitted Mavone, picking at his yellow sash as he rode. “Breakfast seemed ages ago, and somehow I don’t think we’ll have too much time to dine once battle begins in earnest.” He nodded and wheeled his horse away toward the Duke’s camp, where he’d pitched his tent.

“Just you and me, now, master,” Tyndal said proudly as he swung himself into the saddle. At the beginning of the summer, he would have needed a stool. “How did things go at the parley?”

“Well, the war’s still on, if that’s what you mean,” I said, discouragingly. “They still hate us, and I’m not too fond of them. They’re coming down the causeways now, and should be engaging our skirmishers and the redoubts within the hour.” I watched his face go pale at that report. Then he took control of himself. “In the mean time, we have plenty of work to do. Back to the barn, I think, and then we can get started on the serious spellwork. I think I’ll – bide,” I said, as I realized that someone was trying to contact me by telepathy. I closed my eyes and counted on Traveler following Tyndal’s horse while I conversed.

Minalan? It’s Wenek, the shortish Alshari warmage thought to me.

Wenek! I was hoping I’d hear from you today. Any good news?

Better than expected, actually, he agreed. And worse, too. They aren’t thrilled that you bought up every drop of libation.

It’s for a noble cause, I said, after pausing a moment.

Don’t think I didn’t mention that with every other breath. I hate talking in public, but I said that over and over until I was blue in the face. I had to tell them what it was for, specifically, before they’d sell, and then at twice the price. And they were thoroughly scandalized. But they should be arriving now, if they haven’t already.

Carmella said they arrived last night – good work, too. Don’t worry about the cost, I dismissed. That’s the Duchy’s concern. Were you able to get their . . . cooperation?

In a matter of speaking. Some will help. Some won’t. I don’t rightly know which are which yet. Is that helpful?

About as much as any other report I’ve heard today. I took a moment to think. You’re at the designated area now?

I have been all night. There’s at least a couple of hundred with me so far. But the larger groups haven’t started coming out yet.

Keep me posted – and let me know if there’s any problems. Any problems I can do anything about, I amended.

While I was at it, I took the opportunity to contact Pentandra, mind to mind. Penny, the battle has begun. I’m headed back. Guess who’s leading them? My old boss, Sire Koucey.

The Dead God didn’t kill him? she asked, shocked.

No, he . . . rehabilitated him. I can only imagine what torments he put the man through. He seems hale enough, but it’s as if he’s haunted. It was eerie and sad.

Cheer up, Marshal Min!. You’re about to oversee the largest battle in Alshar’s history. That’s worth a historical footnote and probably a heroic ballad or two, regardless of the outcome.

That’s not the assurance I was looking for.

Just what were you looking for?

I wanted to tell you about Koucey, because it might be important. And I wanted to know how things were going back at the barn.

We’re ready, she assured me. Well, as ready as Lanse says we need to be. He’s gotten some of their senior officers identified, and his apprentices are building effigies. Same thing for shamans. But that’s detail work. The enchantments are done. We can start the fun any time.

You are taking notes on this, aren’t you? I asked, suspiciously. For posterity?

When I can, she admitted. But if you don’t have anything more meaningful for me, there are a bunch of people who are trying to contact me, so . . .

So shut up and let you do the job I gave you?

It’s so nice when you understand things. Like you could read my mind.

I broke contact with a snicker and spurred Traveler on. Tyndal followed dutifully behind me. “News, Master?”

“Just some updates,” I admitted. We were crossing the last ditch before the camp began in earnest, and I could suddenly hear the shouts of the goblins horde in the distance, even over the camp noises. Either they just got closer, louder, or there were more of them, but regardless we needed to get started, or the timing would be off and the whole thing could go into the chamberpot. “But the battle has started. Best we get to where we can do the most good.

Chapter Thirty-Seven:

The Battle Of Timberwatch

Timberwatch, Equinox Day

The goblins poured down the three causeways like a black river of venom, once their fell master gave the order. They came in legions of a thousand, at first, in rough but well-composed formation – and these weren’t spearfodder, either. While the skirmishers and scouts who had preceded them on the plains below the escarpment had been “local” tribal gurvani from the nearby mountains, these were the Dead God’s crack troops. And they were impressive.

They were large, for one, each gurvan of above-average stature. They were well-fed and well-muscled, and if the thousand-mile trip through the Northern March had disagreed with them in the slightest, they didn’t show it. They were well-armored, too, with most wearing boiled or waxed leather breastplates, and many wearing captured or goblin-made hauberks of chain or breastplates, and all of them wore caps of iron. There were many who bore captured shields, and many more who had round shields of wood and bronze with gurvani runes burned into their faces.

The few tribal clubs I saw with magesight were secondary weapons – most of the legions carried javelins, swords, and axes. They looked a little over-sized in their hands in some cases, but they didn’t seem to have any trouble wielding them. And the first three ranks of the vanguard wielded spears and pikes and captured lances, along with wolfish grins on their inhuman faces. That wasn’t good – there went my plans for the kind of undefended cavalry charge which had helped win the day at Tudry.

Everywhere the livery of the black skull on a green circle grinned in mockery of more noble devices: the legions bore great black banners, and the symbols of the Northwatch castles that had fallen to the horde had their ancestral arms defiled. The three daisies of the House of Baranden became three death’s heads; the wheel-and-axe of Willowreach became a green circle-and-bloody axe.

Every legion was kept in formation by officers wearing red scarves around their necks – handy, that. Sprinkled among the lines were drummers beating a methodical rhythm that drove the army forward. Between legions there were shorter lines of larger creatures – trolls, I realized, each one bearing a massive club and a huge bronze shield. They were cousins of the gurvani, I knew, once used by the great Alka Alon kingdoms as brute labor. Now they roamed the plains and forests in small tribes, and try to avoid human habitations. Only they could be trained to fight, apparently, and these half-armored giants seemed eager for battle.

After every three rows of infantry there came two rows or archers, and while their bows were no match for the great Wilderland bows our troops used, they were still formidable weapons. And with Koucey advising them, they’d probably figured out volleying by now.

I hoped he hadn’t gotten as far as overlapping fields of fire.

In the first hour of the battle hey went after the redoubts first, of course, with numbers Two, Four, and Five being attacked head-on by their enthusiastic legions. I’d expected that. The archers within had orders not to volley at them until more than half of their assault force was in bowshot, which put the leading goblin archers just barely in range of the redoubts when our archers began raining death down on them in sheets.

The volleys didn’t quite have the effect I’d hoped, sadly. Between the armor and the abundance of shields, though our archers took a deadly toll it was nowhere near as bloody as it had been at the fields of Tudry, and certainly nothing like the slaughters at the Battles of the Lantern and Grimly Wood. That was all right. We had arrows to burn.

But while their heavy infantry sought to counter the redoubts, the causeways continued to flow with more gurvani. Redoubt Three soon came under attack, although One and Six remained untouched.

It was about then that the goblins learned about overlapping fields of fire. One legion got bold enough to approach within a hundred yards of redoubt Four, using their shields (and the largest ones, taller than a man and of gurvani manufacture, were wielded by a band of trolls) to screen the arrows that flew so thickly from the central fortification. But that’s when redoubt Three opened up from behind their left flank and devastated them when they took them unawares. Between the two they hammered at the legion until it retreated in disarray, leaving a double tithe of dead and dying on the field behind them.

Every now and then one of the other legions would mistakenly brush up against that same stratagem and take some losses, but the goblins learned pretty quickly. What they didn’t understand was how to counter it. They could protect themselves from one side or the other, but not both – and that meant that they couldn’t force their way through the line of redoubts without exposing themselves to an awful lot of fire. They had to be defeated or destroyed, they couldn’t be avoided.

That had the effect of the leading edge of the horde beginning to pool up just out of bowshot of the redoubts, the area closest to the base of the escarpment in a kind of concave bend. The goblins who weren’t attacking the redoubts so bravely were concentrating themselves there as they sorted out and organized themselves again. There were a lot of them, and they were coming down than earthen ramp fast, and in good order. They had to go somewhere; for the first three hours that gentle bend in the contour of the land seemed to offer some limited protection from our archery, and that drew little black bodies like iron filings to a lodestone.

And that was completely by design.

* * *

“Master, you haven’t really told me what you’re planning to do,” Tyndal said, trying to hide the concern in his voice. “I want to help, but . . .”

“Believe me, there is plenty to do,” I assured him. “Even a half-trained mage is welcome today. The first thing we had to do was convince the goblins to come down the causeways fast, while it was still daylight. I had to convince them that if they moved fast they could get an easy victory. And it seems to have worked,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the menacing legions in the distance.

“And so now what?”

“Now we give them a reason to come at us aggressively. We need for them to get their shamans down to the front and concentrated in one place. We need to push them to where we want them on the battlefield. That’s the next part of the plan.”

Tyndal looked skeptical. “And how do you propose to do that, Master?”

It was my turn to shrug. “It’s not as hard as you think. You just have to give them a reason to go where you want them. In this case, it’s going to be somewhere they aren’t in danger of getting hit by our archers. Even with the better armor and bronze shields they’re taking losses.”

“They seem to have plenty in reserve,” Master Cormaran pointed out.

“Exactly,” I nodded, as we crossed through the last checkpoint before we got to the blue barn. “They have a multitude, which I don’t want to fight. So I’m going to divide them, first, and then only fight half of them. Half of them we can manage. I think.”

There was a pause as a stableboy came running up for our reigns.

“And they’re just going to divide themselves because you ask them nicely?” Tyndal asked, incredulously.

“They won’t have much choice in the matter,” I agreed. “The important thing is to make certain their best troops and their shamans are at the front, and most of the less able of their troops, the mountain tribes and such, are still in the rear of the horde. To do that we have to give them a tasty lure. Tasty enough for Koucey and that gurvani general to send their best equipped and trained forces against it. Those redoubts are going to have to be defeated, if he plans on marching any further. And it’s going to take his elite to do it – or at least try to do it. And its going to take his magical corps. So that’s what we do for the next few hours, draw them down the escarpment and get them to throw themselves at those redoubts. Then we go to the next part of the plan.”

We went inside while I explained some of the details to him, and while he was still doubtful he became more enthusiastic about it, too.

The barn was humming with activity as magi began to come in from the field or stir themselves from the spells they were crafting on their own. Terleman was busy overseeing the entire process, going over each mage’s role in the coming spells and inspecting the elements we’d need to cast them. For fifteen or twenty minutes I helped him out, going from station to station until I was happy that everyone was on schedule and unfettered by problems. Then we started to drift into position.

We were all crowding the diorama, leaving sufficient room for Lanse and his staff to weave in and around the thing to constantly make corrections. I took a deep, deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

This was it. After weeks of preparation, our battle plan would live or die based on what happened in this smelly old barn, and if it didn’t work the way it was supposed to then this smelly old barn was either going to be the site of some very impressive re-thinking or the most rustic mortuary in Alshar.

So far, things were going as expected: the three causeways were filled with goblins descending from the escarpment, where thousands more were waiting their turn. As they descended they turned to attack the nearest redoubts, continuing a running battle that had begun moments after our truce was over. The men inside those redoubts were being strongly assailed, but we had known that it would be rough, and they were all volunteers. A great many were archers, who demonstrated volley fire into the massed foe over and over again while the sappers and infantry were keeping the gurvani at bay with spears and halberds.

The Magical Corps had our own representative amongst the defenders: Hestia was in Redoubt Four, lending magical assistance in mostly a support role while she scouted the front for the rest of us warmagi. She was sending reports to Lanse every fifteen minutes or so, through Pentandra, telling him how each of the redoubts was doing and what the enemy was doing. So far that was just a lot of running up close to the redoubts and flinging javelins over the top and then running away before one of the Nirodi shot back on the goblins’ part.

Oh, there had already been a half-dozen attempts to storm the walls and force a breech, but the soldiers had been able to repel the invaders easily, each time. Losses so far were light, even when the trolls had begun hurling boulders at them. Carmella and Hesia had built them strong, weaving binding spells among the log palisades to make them as strong as stone. There were hardened shelters within each of them to provide a refuge from such missiles. Those redoubts were strong. They could take an awful lot of punishment before they’d be overrun.

Meanwhile, nearly a quarter-mile behind the southernmost redoubt and behind an extensive network of ditches and earthwork mounds, our cavalry and the majority of our infantry was massed, waiting for their signals. That’s where Azar was, with the cavalry, and Astyral, among the infantry. They made contact frequently too, but it wasn’t scouting as much as bitching that they were bored just standing around when they could see goblins just a few hundred yards away.

Even further back were the reserves, who were guarding the camp and waiting around and cooking and mending and such. Then over to the southeast was the Tower of Timberwatch, where I had sent my other apprentice, Rondal.

He’d arrived with Pentandra as well, after answering her summons and leaving the rest of the Bovali refugees for a fast trip up-river by boat. He was kind of scrawny, but he wasn’t cowardly – quite the contrary. The bookish young man had joined Penny just before she’d collected Tyndal, and I found out later that he had helped her significantly as they dodged around the Censors and their men who were searching for them.

I didn’t know Garkesku’s former apprentice very well, despite our weeks working together at Boval Castle. But I did know the lad had a better eye for detail (and perhaps a less-excitable nature) than Tyndal, as well as two years more training, and a lot better understanding of some basic magics that Tyndal hadn’t been exposed to yet. So I’d posted him at the only place where he could watch the entire battle unfold and report on it, the observation deck of the nine-story tall Tower of Timberwatch. From the Timberwatch you could see all three causeways and all six redoubts, plus the castle and the camp. It provided the clearest, most unobstructed view of the land. Plus there was a crew of trained spotters up there who normally searched for fires who could help inform him, since they knew the land better than anyone else.

But that left plenty of us to gather around the diorama. I’d had Ham and the other retainers (Penny had brought four, herself, and half of my colleagues had at least one) make certain that there was plenty of refreshment available, plus some soft blankets and a good fire outside. Magic can be very draining, physically, and having those things at hand would keep us strong. And we would need that strength.

I looked around the barn, brilliantly lit by magelight, and took a mental roll call as we began to assemble. These were the elements I’d have to control to execute the battle plan.

There was Terleman, my lieutenant and commander of the Warmagi of the Order, a serious-looking figure clutching his warstave like an Archmage and holding three conversations at once at any given time. He was armored and prepared for war, his mageblade and war wands strapped to his shiny steel hauberk, the coif thrown back to reveal his lantern jaw and determined expression.

There was Isily the Shadowmage, Master Cormaran, Master Thinradel the Court Wizard, three adepts of their crafts at hand, but I’d only worked with Isily before and not on anything more difficult than witchstone attunement (not counting the sex magic we inadvertently practiced). All three were still new at the use of irionite, but all three were very eager to use their new powers.

There was Horka, who’d finally come in from the front, covered with blood and black hair and grinning like a war god on holiday, his massive mage-blade already nicked and bloodied. He was eager to head back to the front where he could do more damage on a personal level. Like Azar, the big man seemed to delight in the song of battle. It just made me nauseated, usually. But then Horka could have that affect on you, too.

Carmella had finally been willing to leave her precious trebuchet long enough to join us. Today she was wearing non-descript waxed leather armor and a small steel cap, an artillery-officer’s garb. She looked intense, her long nose and dark eyes emphasizing the expression to the point of caricature. Carmella had poured every bit of craft she’d had into the construction of the trebuchet, and since quite a bit hinged on its successful deployment there was a lot of weight on her shoulders.

Two of the three Gilmoran magi, Mavone and Curmor, were on hand watching the battle unfold with interest. Only Mavone had donned their armor yet, but his countryman had the undergarments on, and both were bristling with weapons and warwands. Forondal of Scaford, Bendonal the Outlaw, and Sarakeem of Merwin, our three new recruits, were there as well, eager to get to business.

Taren had an entire corner of the barn for his use, and he’d used it well: he had dozens of offensive spells at the ready. He also wore a leather breastplate, along with steel vambraces and grieves, but hadn’t armored up more than that.

It was a large crew. Not quite as large as the one we’d used at Boval, but then again we had more jobs to do now.

“Is everyone about ready?” Terleman finally called, which meant he thought everyone should be about ready. There wasn’t any dissent, and everyone got quiet, so he looked at me, and suddenly everyone else was looking at me, too.

Oh, crap. It was time.

I cleared my throat. “I think we all know why we’re here—”

“A cock fight?” asked Mavone, with false eagerness. “That’s why I came,” he added. I ignored him.

“The first phase of the battle plan has worked more or less as we had hoped. The gurvani are pouring down the causeways as fast as they can. Lanse, how many have descended so far?”

The tall mage straightened from where he was adjusting the set. “About forty five thousand, as near as I can guess. Most of the better troops, too.”

“So that’s about half,” I said, nodding my thanks to him. He looked beat – we all did, of course, but he looked particularly weary, and he had perhaps the hardest job here. “Does anyone see any advantage to maybe letting more than half of their troops come down? No? Good. Then let’s proceed to the second phase.

“Taren, you’re the Operator, Carmella, you’re the Monitor. Mavone, Delman, and Master Cormaran, you are the Agents. The rest of us will provide power – except for me, unless I’m needed.” There were some nods around the room – compared to some of the other parts of the plan, this would be almost straightforward.

I’d chosen Mavone, Delman and Master Cormaran because they had a natural affinity with the element of Earth, and this was an earth-based elemental spell, so they were the best choice to be the Agents. Each of them took up a position crouching or sitting near to one of the three tiny causeways. There they began the preparatory meditations that would allow them to cast their spells.

Meanwhile, Lanse and his crew were chanting something while they maintained the link between the battlefield and the diorama. If that failed . . . well, then all of those nasty spells would manifest here, in the barn, and that wouldn’t be helpful and would probably be deadly. Like I said, Lanse’s job was important.

We all began to draw power from our stones and do the preparatory work needed to do a complex spell in concert. Viewed through magesight, the entire interior of the barn was lit up like a whirlwind of magical energy and spellsigns. I observed as each of the magi allowed the power to build, then form an apis to transfer it in a neat and orderly fashion over to Taren.

The shaggy-headed mage skillfully wrought the energy into a braid of power and began weaving it into a useful form. His hands passed gracefully through the air in front of him as he took one strand of power after another and added it to the thoughtform he was constructing, and his face was set in a determined expression.

Meanwhile Carmella was keeping a close eye on his body and Shroud to make certain he didn’t over-do it or take any dangerous risks. There’s always a peril in channeling that kind of energy, even without witchstones. There are dozens of magical maladies that could manifest if you weren’t careful. When you’re in the process of working with such titanic forces, it’s easy to forget that you are not just mortal, but physically frail. Even if you knew what you were doing there were dangers that your intent and focus keep you from seeing. Carmella was adept at monitoring, and she kept Taren’s body in good form while he worked.

Taren was good – among the best, for all of his youth. It only took seven or eight minutes before he brought the working to a climax and nodded to the Agents.

The three magi I’d detailed to handle the execution of the spell were in position, crouched over the diorama and ready to receive the awesome force that Taren had prepared. One by one he ‘threw’ the power through a specialized apis and the Agent caught it and activated their spell. Master Cormaran was first. He accepted the prepared energy and transformed it through his own spell, and then focused it through the medium of the diorama to focus on the eastern causeway. Then Taren turned to Delman and delivered his share of the power, and then Mavone. The rest of us wound down our power and watched the result on the diorama with eager anticipation.

The three tiny causeways on the model didn’t do much at first, as the spells weren’t instantaneous. But at the three distant locations, in three small earthenware pots we had buried deep within the dirt of the causeway, the components of the spell began to fuse together, opening a channel the magi could exploit. Each of my Agents pulled their consciousness through that channel and deep into the ground below the causeways, until they were able to discover and release the earth elementals that they had prepared.

I’ve mentioned this before, but an “elemental” is a kind of anthropomorphized projection of a mage’s will, using the natural energy and organization of the element to manifest a particular action. With water elementals, you could get the water to flow against its natural inclination if you could isolate it enough from a larger body of water – during the Farisian campaign, the Mad Mage had used them to attack the Castali, Alshari, and Remeran fleets when they tried to land troops. But one mage, however powerful and skilled, can’t run more than a few elementals at a time. Not if he’s doing anything else that requires thought.

But three magi, backed by a magical chorus all armed with irionite? We not only had utter control over the three slumbering elementals . . . thanks to our generous use of power and well-controlled execution, these elementals would be among the largest I’d ever heard of. You see, control of the elemental has nothing to do with its size – large or small, earth requires about the same level of control. It’s a matter of power, and we had energized this spell with a truly amazing amount of magical power.

Slowly we were able to see the effects on the model as the tiny causeways began to shudder and shake. All three Agents were bent over them, intent on their tasks, their fingers making tiny movements over the scene. First Master Cormaran’s target erupted, sending tiny black shadows of gurvani troops in all directions. The force of the eruption alone was profound and likely killed hundreds, but the resulting crater in the causeway effectively ended the descent of the horde from that side.

The western side – Mavone’s – was next, because he’s good and he’s a show-off. Mavone has always had a strong affinity with Earth, and he’s extremely skillful with control, so instead of erupting as Master Cormaran’s causeway had, Mavone’s split neatly in five places and tumbled to either side, spilling hundreds more goblins to their death in the process. The Gilmoran looked up after most of the damage was done, a satisfied grin on his face, then bent back to work to try to cause as much destruction as possible before the energy for the spell waned.

Delman’s causeway was the largest of the three, so it took longest to destroy. But the effect was even greater there because a large contingent of trolls was working their way down it at the time, and in their flailing confusion they seemed to do almost as much damage to their fellows on the way down the escarpment than the elemental had, itself. But as the tiny projection of the dust cloud grew and the chaos of the unchecked elemental power began to fade, the once wide and gentle slope that connected the Timberwatch with points north was transformed into a fifty-foot cliff and a thousand writhing, injured goblins.

“Well done,” murmured Master Thinradel approvingly. “That was amazing – I’ve never been part of such a powerful working before,” he admitted. “It makes me wonder at the true power of the Magocracy and the Archmage. Imagine the power of a full Covenant of magi, all armed with irionite, all well-schooled at their craft.”

“Indeed,” murmured Cormaran, appreciably. “I had always taken the legendary feats of the Empire to be mere myth, where time embellishes the original act to a point which strains credulity. The Raising of Mount Seradalae, for instance, or the Great Draining of the Foawlan Marshes. But I’m starting to believe we have only a faint idea what our ancestors were capable of, in their prime.”

“I believe you mean my ancestors!” Pentandra said with an unladylike snort. “Your ancestors were busy raiding our frontiers for slaves and doing unspeakable things to sheep.”

Cormaran smiled. “I stand corrected, my lady.”

Terleman, surprisingly, joined in the discussion. “We’ve grown so jealous of our craft and our prerogatives, and so bound and afraid by the damned Censorate, that we limit ourselves. Like a great painter worried someone will steal his vision, and so blindfolds himself, peeking between the folds and painting badly as a result.”

“How eloquent,” grumbled Horka, derisively. “It was a powerful feeling . . . and a heady one . . . but forget about the philosophical bullshit for a moment and look to the result. How many goblins did we kill?”

Lanse of Bune approached, wiping his hands with a rag. An assistant slapped a mug of that foul green wine in his hands the moment they were free.

“As near as I can tell, there are at least two thousand dead or injured in the strike,” he said, after draining half of the suspicious looking drink. “More importantly, nearly two-thirds of their force is trapped up on the escarpment. If I had to bet, I’d say that their shamans will be trying to repair some sort of improvised causeway, but it will take them a few hours, minimum, unless the Dead God intervenes. They’ll get down eventually, but not in any great numbers. That leaves between forty and forty-five thousand below. The bad news is, they’re all the best troops.”

“No,” I sighed, “that’s actually the good news. The bad news is that the first part of the plan worked like we planned, which means we have to do the next parts, which are far more risky and far more likely to go wrong.”

“But they’re more fun,” Horka pointed out, as if this whole exercise had been boring to him thus far. “Slaughter, mayhem, blood, magic – who the hell cares if we live or die? That kind of sport is a gift from the gods!”

I grimaced. “I, for one, care whether we live or die – I’ve got a baby coming, remember? I’m glad you’re enthusiastic, because we’re going to need that, but if I catch you taking any risks with the battle plan—”

“You have my obedience and my loyalty, Marshal Minalan,” Horka said, in such exaggerated tones that you’d have to know him to know he actually meant it, and didn’t mean it as a challenge. “But when do we get to the bloody part?”

I glanced at the diorama, where pools of little black forms were gathered around the base of each collapsed causeway, barely connected by small pockets of gurvani warriors. Each pocket was out of bowshot, but it was disorganized after the surprise attack, and cut off from the main body. And each clump of our enemy was only ten or fifteen thousand strong – three little armies, unable to support each other. Vulnerable. And within striking distance.

“Armor up,” I said, a million new considerations coming into my mind as I began preparing for the next phase of the plan. “We’re at the bloody part.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight:

The First Moves Of The Game

Timberwatch, Equinox Day

Most of the battle-oriented warmagi were filing out of the barn, and the more support-oriented warmagi were preparing for their next role. I needed a cup of wine and a bite before I did anything else – I couldn’t remember when the last time I ate was. Or slept. While I hadn’t participated directly in the spell, the stress of meeting my old boss on the wrong side of the field of battle and the continuing sparring with the Duke and his court and the impending chaos the rest of my afternoon promised, I needed a snack. And after my uncomfortable episode at the Battle of Grimly Wood, I had resolved to pay attention to my body’s needs before they reached a critical level.

I was about to start for the buffet table, when Hamlan appeared instantly with a roll of sausage and cheese surrounded by a twist of camp-biscuit, and a mug of strong red wine.

“Thought you might need sustenance, Master,” he said, deferentially.

“I’d swear you read my mind,” I nodded, taking the food gratefully. “I know I shouldn’t eat before battle, but . . .”

“I think you will have time to digest long before you draw your sword, Master,” he assured me. “By my reckoning it takes near an hour to walk from here to the redoubts, and not much less to ride, to avoid the fortifications and ditchworks. Plenty of time to settle your luncheon before some goblin sticks a knife in your gut and condemns you to a last few pitiful hours dying of belly-rot.”

“You know, I was almost going to commend you as an excellent manservant,” I said, between bites, “but then you had to add that last part and make me reconsider. Any news from Mom?” I asked casually.

“She says that she did as you asked, that things are in motion, that Dad is doing what you requested, and that she’s kind of pissed at you for ordering her around like that.”

I shrugged. “I guess I’m just her impetuous son,” I agreed, taking a sip. “But she might be rid of me soon, if this doesn’t go well, and in that case she’ll be even more vexed with me when she realizes that I was right.” I was about to go chat with Pentandra, who looked over at me expectantly, like she needed a conference, when Hamlan continued.

“There is more, Master. Mother says that there are rats at the camp, and that you should be wary. At least one has a taste for your blood.”

That took me by surprise – I expected to face death within the next few hours, but I had thought it would come at the hand of the gurvani. Getting warned about an assassin when you’re about to go into battle produces a strange sort of ironic anxiety that made you want to chuckle in appreciation of the gods’ sense of humor.

But it was perfectly plausible. Certainly King Rat had plenty of willing minions who could hide within the army assembled. A whisper into the right ear and one of his agents could shove a rat tail between my ribs and likely get away with it in all the chaos. That was disturbing. Of course Mother had her own agents within the army, too.

“Thank you,” I nodded. “Anything else? Then after you leave here, dig up a couple of stepchildren and have them keep a casual eye on my campsite, along with a couple of Orphans as guards.”

“I have already attended to it, Master,” he assured me.

Of course he did. “Oh, and two high magi who are to be admitted freely have arrived, my two apprentices, Tyndal and Rondal. Should they desire entrance, they are permitted full access.”

“That one is Tyndal,” he said, nodding toward my apprentice, who was chatting up one of the peasant girls who was serving. “And which one is Rondal?”

“He’s up in the Timberwatch Tower right now, but he’s about a year older and twenty pounds scrawnier than Tyndal. He squints a lot.”

“And how will he be able to prove his identity, Master?” Ham asked. “There are plenty of fifteen-year-olds running around.” That was true enough – many of them carried swords and spears and bows.

“He’ll be the one with the witchstone, threatening to burn you to a crisp where you stand,” I suggested.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Master,” nodded Ham, his eyes wide.

He scurried away while I wandered over to Penny, who looked a little sheepish.

“Um, Min?” she began. “I didn’t want to interrupt and distract you before the spell, but . . . well, I forgot to give you something.”

“Well, you did just get here,” I pointed out. Having instant contact with someone blurred the distinction between just “where” someone was to you, relatively speaking, and I had to remind myself of that. “What did you forget, and is it going to mess with the battle plan?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” she said, guiltily. “This is more of a personal matter. Um, before we left your charming and quaint little home village, Alya asked me to, um, deliver a message to you.”

“Alya?” I asked, suddenly interested. “What is it?”

“I . . . I don’t know, exactly,” she confessed, as she took a letter out of the folds of her robe. “Like I said, it was . . . personal. She did ask for some help in writing it, but I wouldn’t read the whole thing because it was between the two of you and I didn’t want to get in the middle.”

I stared at her just a little too long and realized that she was out-right lying to me. She knew exactly what the letter said, and was trying to preserve my privacy by pretending otherwise. Sometimes I think I’ll never understand Penny, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate her. She handed me a folded piece of parchment sealed with a simple wax blob.

“Thanks,” I said, absently, as I broke the seal, unfolded the brittle parchment, and read.

My dearest Minalan, it began.

All is well with me and the baby. The village midwife has checked and said that it was coming along perfectly and that it was a fine, healthy girl with a lusty disposition. Your mother agrees. I haven’t had much morning sickness and when I have been hungry it is wonderful that I wake up in a bakery every morning.

I can not thank you enough for the kindness you and your parents have shown to me in the last few weeks. They have done everything in their power to make me and Tyndal comfortable and feel at home here. I have heard every story of you growing up from your sisters and your parents. I feel like I know you better as a boy almost better than I do as a man. And I love both the man and the boy.

Yes, I love you and would be your wife, even if I have known you but a few months. The baby in my womb is a sign from Ishi that we are to be together as husband and wife. That is what sustains me when I lay awake at night with worry about you fighting the damned goblins.

But even if I did not love you I would be willing to be your wife. What you did for me and my people is a debt that can never be repaid. The Bovali would have been wiped out completely if you had not been so brave and willing to sacrifice for a people you barely knew. Rondal brings word from the south that the Bovali are faring tolerably well under Sir Cei’s leadership, but that they desire a new home and feel like strangers in the camps where they have been allowed to stay. Still, all are grateful and know their fates should they have stayed behind in Boval Vale. If for no other reason than duty to my people, I would pledge to be your good and loyal wife in repayment for all that you have done.

But the more I learn about you from your sisters and your parents the more I love you and desire you. The more I desire you the more I crave you. The more I crave you the more I worry for you and fear I shall never see you again. I pray to Ishi every night for your safety, and your sisters have taught me how to pray in the temple here. I yearn for the day when I feel your arms around me again. I ache for you laying next to me at night. Your family distracts me, but I cannot help but think of you hourly, with each churning in my womb.

I know you are busy fighting goblins and the Dead God, but I do hope that in your resting moments you can spare a thought for me. I am not ashamed to confess that I often feel sad at all that has happened, or that I feel out of place in your village, but I am safe and warm and well fed. Very well fed. I feel as big as a barn.

Also, there have been soldiers riding through the village or coming up from the riverfront barges many times, always looking for someone. Tyndal says that they are Censors, for they bear the black and white checkered cloaks. He has hidden in the wood sheds each time they come. Your father has talked to them a lot and has told them that he has not seen you in two years. They even put him under some sort of spell to ensure he spoke the truth, and threatened to slay him if he lied. The Baron intervened before they could do him harm and in the end they released him but they are still looking for you my love. Be wary. Lady Pentandra has been very gracious in helping get Tyndal out of here before they can find him, and she has been very protective of me and your child. Please thank her for her efforts. She is a lovely woman and I can see why you seek her friendship. I swear I bear her no ill will.

There is so much more I want to tell you but it will have to wait until I see you again. Until that time, may Ishi and Duin protect and save you, my love. Alya.

By the time I got to the end of the letter I was a twisted ball of emotions – love and affection toward the wonderful girl who wrote it, anger and hatred toward those checkered bastards who had had the nerve to detain my father, and a certain healthy lust at the thought of my intended. Suddenly I realized why Penny had lied about reading it, and I was even more grateful for her pretense.

“Thanks,” I said, hoarsely, as I folded it and put it away close to my skin, near to my witchstone bag. “She’s just checking in,” I dismissed. “And there’s some mushy stuff. Mostly it’s about my parents.”

“I figured as much,” she nodded, blushing slightly. “Anyway, I hope I didn’t err in not delivering it to you at once.”

“It was a love letter, not a military dispatch,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“This is Pentandra the Love Mage, remember?” she asked, wickedly. “I consider the former a higher priority than the latter – even on the eve of battle.”

“We’re past the eve of battle,” I pointed out. “We’re right at the brink of battle.”

“I stand by my priorities,” she said, defiantly. “Even better, it makes it that much more powerful.”

“Besides, I thought you were a Lust Mage, not a Love Mage.”

“Two sides of the same blade,” she shrugged. “The most powerful sex magic spells were done between passionate lovers, back in the Magocracy. It’s documented,” she defended. “Lust is easy to engineer, but when you add good old human passion into the equation, you can push your results far beyond their original limits.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I chuckled. “So, are you ready for the next part?”

“I’ve been talking by telepathy to everyone while I’ve been waiting for you,” she nodded. “Azar has the cavalry on the west flank in position. Astyral says that the infantry in the center is ready to withstand anything the goblins can throw at us. The east flank—“

“I know, I know, it’s not nearly as stout or nearly ready enough,” I sighed.

“Correct. And the Tower reports that the move toward the pocket in the center has begun from both sides.”

“I guess all they’re waiting for is me,” I realized. Pentandra snorted, which I found quite unladylike.

“Actually, they’re waiting for the other warmagi. Horka is leading a few to the cavalry in the west, and the remainder are going to strengthen the center. And yes,” she added with a wry snicker, “if you’d like to join them, you’re welcome to – but you’d better hurry. As soon as the warmagi are in place, the left will advance.”

“Then I guess it’s time to go,” I said, almost looking forward to the battle. I might die, certainly – but for a few glorious hours I wouldn’t be thinking about politics or supply problems or discipline or anything else but killing goblins – and that had an enormous appeal to me. “Tyndal! Have our horses brought around. It’s time to go!”

Tyndal and I joined Astyral and the other Gilmoran warmagi in the center, for no better reason than it was marginally safer for the foreseeable future – and if everything went into the chamberpot then this was the place where I could do the most good.

Delman was also there, trading jokes with the Orphans he’d gotten to know during the campaign. Even Reylan was there, donning his expensive gilt armor in the traditional Wenshari style. Reylan likes the bright-and-shiny approach. Delman, on the other hand, would have looked like any other mercenary soldier there, except for the quiver full of warwands on his hip and the mageblade on his back.

Over to our left, beyond the western redoubts, were nearly ten thousand cavalry, half of which were worth a damn. Azar, Horka, Landrik, and a few other warmagi were among them. Azar and Horka were both noblemen who had trained to horse since their youth, and who welcomed the chance to be in the largest cavalry charge in Alshari history. They were there mostly to counter any offensive magics thrown at them, but I knew they couldn’t wait to start the slaughter.

The warmagi were fairly close to the front line of infantry, about three rows back, when the field commander called for an advance. That was part of the plan. The center advances to pressure the gurvani center. Sounded great on paper, in a smoke-filled tent far from the nearest gurvan. But when we started our advance through the gap between redoubts three and four, I felt that mix of grim determination, excitement, and abject terror I usually associate with battle. I tried to let myself just relax for the few peaceful moments we had, letting my legs adjust to the cadence of the drums as they beat us forth. For a bare instant I was back at the War College, learning the simple discipline of the march in formation. That had been only five years ago, I suddenly realized.

I wasn’t able to follow the thought with anything more cogent because as we approached the gap, where dozens of small bands of goblins were skirmishing with the archers and footmen inside, the gurvani suddenly turned their attention toward us – and the air was suddenly full of javelins. That sort of thing has a way of dashing your stream of thought.

“Steady!” I heard the field herald relay. Around me a thousand shields went up. I didn’t hesitate to crouch behind a large one, myself, held by a stout-looking Orphan who was grinning wickedly.

“Heard it might rain today,” he remarked casually as a wave of javelins crashed around us. A few shouts and screams told me that not everyone had been so lucky.

“That’s one rain you don’t want to get wet in,” I agreed, as I saw a man two paces to the rear suddenly sprout a nasty looking black javelin from his calf, behind his grieves, pinning him to the ground. My protector nodded gravely as a field medic rushed to help.

“Duin’s favor upon you today, Marshal Spellmonger!” he chortled as the field herald called the all clear and we continued the advance.

“And on you!” I called over my shoulder as I prepared my first set of battle spells. Tyndal was nearly quivering behind me, Slasher in his hands. He looked so intense I had to do a double-take. He held the blade like he’d been practicing.

As the infantry advanced, the goblin center fell back, as expected. More and more of them were heading out of bowshot, now, because as soon as their shield bearers started running, they stopped warding their comrades and the Nirodi archers weren’t about to let a target escape. The gap was filled with plenty of little black furry corpses. When the field herald called a halt, just as we crossed through the gap, I knelt to examine a few, Tyndal beside me.

“This one was a skirmisher,” I remarked, as I used my new blade to prod one body that had taken a three-foot long arrow through the throat. “Note the light armor, just a leather jack, not even fastened. No helmet at all, and he’s got one of their clubs in addition to that knife and his sling.”

“This one wears steel,” he observed, toeing another dead gurvan over with his boot. He’d taken a shot in the eye and one in the thigh. The lower shot had punched right through the crude chain mail hauberk he wore, and the upper had gone neatly through the eye-guard of his steel cap. In his left hand was a short sword or long knife that he’d liberated from some northern keep, and in his right was a tilting shield bearing a loathsome device that used to be a candle and a sword. “He looks . . . bigger than the others, and the ones we saw at Boval Castle.”

“He is,” I agreed, as the Gilmorans gathered around. They didn’t have anything important to say, they were just curious. “In fact, he’s at least twenty pounds heavier than the skirmisher . . . and a good three inches taller.”

“How are they getting bigger?” Mavone asked, despairingly. “It’s bad enough that there are so many of the little bastards. We don’t need them to get bigger.”

“I agree,” nodded Astyral.

“Shall we put it to a vote?” Mavone asked, dryly. “How the hell is Sheruel the Cruel doing this? You can’t just . . . just . . . enchant someone taller. If you could, don’t you think Wenek would be at least eight feet tall by now?”

“If only we had a fully qualified warmage who was also a thaumaturge,” Astyral said in exaggerated tones. I sighed, pulled off my gloves, and got to work.

It didn’t take long. “He grew them bigger,” I said, after casting a few small preliminary spells. “They’ve had a protein-rich diet, and their mothers were . . . altered. If that gurvani general is any indication, they’re going to get significantly taller and more muscular. That’s clear from just the cellular structure. He’s tampered with the cell nucleus, somehow, and magically advanced traits in its essence he wanted, like breeding a prized warhorse.”

“And this one?” inquired Curmor, stepping between the ranks to where another large corpse lay. “He’s got to be at least twenty pounds heavier than that one. Barrel-chested, too,” he observed. I went over to look. He was missing half of his forehead, for some reason, but his body was almost twice as wide as the skirmisher, even before you added his bulky armor. “Dear Ishi’s brown left nipple!” I swore. “This one is just one big slab of goblin!”

“He’s a eunuch,” Curmor said, after staring at the body for a few moments. “That’s one way he’s increasing their size: they’re cutting off their balls.”

Everyone present visibly winced.

“That would explain it,” I agreed. “That and manipulating their essences, and I guess he plans on getting a man-sized goblin. One that can ride horses, I imagine, or at least be able to fight toe-to-toe with a human and have a chance.”

“This is all very educational and fascinating,” Mavone pointed out, “not to mention depressing and macabre, but it looks like that band up ahead is reluctant to quit the field.”

Sure enough, a group of about two hundred had rallied just within bowshot of the redoubts and was preparing to charge. We had about two minutes to prepare to accept their charge, but that was plenty of time. Between the Nirodi in the redoubts and the Orphan’s own very competent archers, less than half of the gurvani who had begun the charge completed it. And then they were hopelessly outmatched, outnumbered, and disorganized by their haphazard charge. Thirty seconds after they hit our shield wall, every one of them was dead.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Curmor sniffed.

“Didn’t even wet my blade,” I agreed, putting the shiny new thing away. “Now, all we have to do is taunt a much, much larger band to attack us . . .”

But they didn’t – I guess they weren’t that stupid. Most of the attackers around the redoubts retreated, some in good order, some less so, and formed a growing knot in the center, just out of bowshot. Our infantry built a shield wall from redoubt to redoubt across the gap and began taunting the gurvan from across the field, the way that soldiers do when they’re bored and scared.

I was hoping we’d make a juicy enough target to convince them to charge us prematurely, but once again, someone on their side wasn’t stupid. The moment they advanced against us, they’d be highly vulnerable to archery. Instead they continued to retreat to the safe pocket in the center, a pocket strewn with stumps and piles brush that made it very cavalry resistant and easy to hide from advancing archers. We’d dragged all of the brush and stumps from building the redoubts out there a week ago, and there were hundreds of great places to hide or seek cover.

It was close to an hour after we’d advanced that I had a psionic conversation with Pentandra.

Min, they’ve got almost thirty thousand clumped up in the center, north. They’re rallying.

I know. That’s the plan.

Well, no one told the gurvani shamans. They’re using earth elementals to repair the center and eastern causeways. And they’re good – I didn’t think they did much with the elements, but their earth spells are powerful. We’re taking countermeasures, but as long as there are that many shamans working on it –

I understand. There’s nothing we can really do about the eastern causeway—

—They aren’t focusing their efforts there, anyway.

—So I guess it’s time for Carmella to warm up her baby. See if she can discourage the repair effort. She knows what to do.

I’ll tell her. She’ll be thrilled to finally see it in action.

“What’s happening, Master?” Tyndal asked when I finished talking to Penny.

“We’re going to deploy the trebuchet,” I explained, excitedly. “If it’s half as good as Carmella promised, then this should be entertaining. Attend to the north, gentlemen,” I commanded. “Magesight might be beneficial.”

It only took a few moments for Penny to relay the instructions to Carmella, who was overseeing the firing. Then a shape flashed overhead in the late afternoon sun as the powerful engine hurled a missile from a hundred yards behind us to several hundred yards in front of us, sailing over the gap between the redoubts, over the fields, and landing just shy of the remains of the causeway. There it smashed a half-dozen of the goblins who were clustered around the construction effort, and threw their mates into chaos.

“A little short,” Curmor noted. “But impressive. I’ve never seen a siege engine fling a rock so far.”

“It’s no ordinary siege engine,” I explained, proudly. “It’s magically reinforced at every joint. The counterweights are magically augmented. There are charms covering every aspect of use, each one adding to the effectiveness of the whole weapon. Carmella things we can heft as much as five hundred pounds five hundred yards with it, if not more. Those little fifty-pound boulders they seem to grow around the Timberwatch like saplings, those she can drop into the Dead God’s chamberpot, had he seen fit to give himself an arse for his resurrection.”

As I spoke two more boulders went flying overhead, each one accompanied by a growing cheer from the infantry. They were both better shot, and landed precisely where they could do the most damage, sending dozens of gurvani to their doom in a tangled ball of blood, fur, and stone. Hundreds more abandoned the effort to restore the causeway until something could be done about the rocks.

The shamans responded by throwing a few rocks back at us, but none were as large or reached as far as those thrown by trebuchet. For the next ten minutes Carmella’s engineers launched rock after rock at the repair crews, until the whole area seethed like a stirred-up anthill. True, their efforts were crude to begin with, basically one long line of gurvani carrying rocks and dirt to rebuild the ramp. Our missiles, while spectacular, weren’t killing large numbers of porters, either. But it’s hard to keep a work crew on the job when they watch their comrades get dashed to pulp. Within an hour of the first salvo, the goblins stopped trying to fix the devastated center causeway.

After that, our spotters kept a careful watch for the center causeway, and if it looked like anyone was making progress toward re-building it, they got some more rocks dropped on their heads. We couldn’t do anything about the repairs they were making on the eastern causeway – it was too far out of the range even of the trebuchet, and it was by far the most sparsely attended means of descending the escarpment – and no one seemed to be trying to make repairs to the western causeway, but anything that happened in that center, we sent a few rocks at them. Otherwise, we left them alone. We wanted them to feel safe there.

That’s why, just before dusk, the cavalry on the western flank got the order to move. It wasn’t exactly a traditional cavalry charge, where everyone takes their horse up to a gallop, lowers their lances, and destroys anything unlucky enough to be in the way. Instead the cavalry units moved forward more leisurely, but relentlessly, sweeping any isolated pockets of resistance ahead of them. It was like a charge in slow-motion, with a few hundred troopers pressing forward, then holding, and awaiting another unit to move up to their flanks.

The goblins resisted, of course, especially the less well-trained skirmishers from the Kuline mountains. The more disciplined ones from Boval and points west retreated in good order in the face of that wall of lances, while their eastern kin tried to stand and fight, and mostly got trampled or speared for their trouble. A specially-designated unit of warmagi, led by Azar and Horka, broke away from the main body and captured the camp that had sprung up at the base of the westernmost causeway, defeating a band of nearly a thousand goblins who had been tasked to guard it.

I watched in detached horror as Azar’s men, mostly warmagi and Megelini knights, thundered over the crude obstructions the gurvani had begun to build and laid into the mass of black-furred hatred with lance, sword and wand. Azar himself stood atop the pile of logs the gurvani had tried to hide behind and used an extravagant and devastating number of spells to snipe at the retreating goblins, a savage grin on his face.

Oh, the most militant of my warmagi was having a ball. Azar’s men were eagerly hacking off heads and slaughtering the defenders while Azar and Landrik and Horka and the others were blasting, burning, and freezing whatever resistance didn’t easily yield to steel. I watched in fascination as Horka cleft four goblins through their midsections with one massive blow of his mageblade, then used his left hand to yank a wand and whip a magical tendril of force across another knot of resistance that made his foes contort with agony. To complete the demonstration of power, Azar used a battle staff to pick off unfortunate goblins above on the escarpment who had the temerity to lean over the cliff and gawk at his victory. Sometimes he’d get lucky and three or four would plummet down to their doom at once, while the men cheered fanatically. Show off.

Yes, Horka, this was the bloody part. Enjoy it, you bastard.

The ultimate goal of the cavalry charge was to push the edges of the goblin advance back on itself, forcing them more densely toward the bend in the center. As such it was ultimately successful. From the goblins’ perspective, I could see the allure. Cut off from their reinforcements and an easy means of escape, they consolidated their forces and prepared to dig in for a defensive battle while they found some way to re-establish contact with the main horde. By dusk the bulk of the goblin horde that had descended to give battle were bunched up just out of bowshot between the third and fourth redoubts – directly in front of the infantry.

Directly in front of me. Right where I wanted them. I think.

Most of my men had been milling around behind the shields of the resting Orphans they were among, snacking on rations, stealing sips of water or wine, and trading war stories and the like. When Pentandra confirmed what I could already see – that the gurvani were as bunched up as they were ever likely to get, I sighed into the gloomy twilight.

“All right, gentlemen . . . time to armor up again. The sun is going down and they’re digging in for a long night of running attacks. We’ve got work to do.”

They all gave a ragged cheer as I got in psionically got in touch with Pentandra.

If everyone is ready, lets go ahead and start this, Penny, I told her. And between you and me? I’m just as curious as everyone else as to whether it will work.

Chapter Thirty-Nine:

The Fire Elemental

Timberwatch, Autumnal Equinox Night

We got the idea for the grand spell, ironically enough, from the goblins.

Our goal for this battle was to kill as many of them as possible while facing fewer numbers than they truly had. Our biggest advantage had been our fortified position, choosing where to meet the gurvani horde.

We chose this spot, and this method, because when you’re going to slaughter a whole mess of goblins, then it’s much easier to do with magic when they are all clumped together, not spread out. The apparent respite from arrows made the central causeway area a natural place for them to congregate in under pressure. No matter how many rocks we threw at their work parties, eventually they would find a way to allow the fifty or sixty-thousand of them north of the escarpment to join them.

They knew it, and we knew it. They just had to be patient. Hell, they could get every goblin above to drop two fist-sized rocks down the escarpment and they could eventually have a ramp big enough to let even their trolls come down without fear of injury.

Until that time, however, they were essentially trapped in an ostensibly defensible spot. They were hopeful and defiant. They were well-trained and decently led. They had high spirits and the cavalry-resistant high ground. For the gurvani north of the escarpment, it was only a matter of time before they were able to join their forces and defeat us.

The ones below seemed less brash but more determined. Pressed into that bight as they were, they were densely packed enough to be the perfect target for a powerful offensive spell.

They had given me the idea for the spell on the battlefield outside Tudry. The shamans had put together a warspell that harnessed the power of two magically-spinning, contra-rotating discs of air to generate static electricity to produce a potent blast of lighting that had ripped through the mail-clad warriors that faced them. When your army wears metal, then lighting makes perfect sense as a weapon against them.

And when your army is covered with sticky black fur, the obvious elemental weapon of choice is . . . fire.

The entire army watched with interest as every catapult and mangonel – and Carmella’s massive trebuchet – flung wave after wave of pumpkins over our heads, past the front lines, and deep into the massed goblin infantry. A few at first, and then dozens, as the engineers found their range, but for a half an hour the dying rays of the sun over the mountains showed skies streaked with big round orange missiles being flung far further than the rocks we’d favored them with so far.

A full load of pumpkins weighed far less than the smallest of rocks we’d thrown, which extended their range significantly. Where our boulders had fallen just short of their front line, the pumpkins mostly sailed into the center front of the horde, near to a large pile of treetops and brush left over from the construction of the redoubts. At first the goblins shrank from the attack, as they would have the usual boulders we had been flinging. But as the first ones landed and exploded at the impact, they were revealed to be harmless. Soon the goblins were laughing loud enough for us to hear, as the contents was a mixture of honey from Honeyhall and alcoholic spirits from the Pearwoods.

They laughed at the missiles, and many eagerly shook off the sticky droplets and stuffed the raw chunks of pumpkin into their mouth – I’m given to believe that they were a delicacy to the gurvani. But they took little heed of the pumpkins, and a few even tried to rescue the shattered gourds and drink the contents. I was amused by that. The gurvani brewed meads and beer, but they didn’t have much experience with spirits. It didn’t take long for a few of them to get tipsy enough to begin cavorting, tossing around pieces of pumpkin and trying to catch them whole as they landed.

When I saw that happen, I figured it was time to start.

Give them the hot ones now, Carmella, I commanded my artillery captain psionically.

I pray to Ishi this works, she said in my mind, nervously.

Wouldn’t Breega be more appropriate? I pointed out. She is a fire goddess.

I stand corrected, she said with a mental sigh. I was always rotten at theurgy. Breega it is, then.

She’s my patroness, I reminded her. My dad is a baker. She’ll look out for us. Just aim for that big pile. Penny reports that there are a couple of shamans around there. And some glass. It would be nice to get that, and keep them from countering our spells.

I’m using that pile as a benchmark anyway. Here they go, she reported, and a moment later another flock of bright orange gourds took flight.

Only these were different. They had the same honey-alcohol mixture as the others, but mixed with the viscous brew was an alchemical kick: phosphorus. And other stuff. But mostly phosphorous.

We had bought, borrowed, or stole every speck of the stuff in every alchemist’s shop in Vorone and Tudry, ground it to powder, and mixed it in. That’s not easy to do – you have to work with it under water because it ignites in the presence of oxygen, or work with it in a magical sphere filled with helium, if you’re feeling exotic. We used water, because it was free and easy. But if it breathes gaseous oxygen, it ignites.

Which is precisely why we were using it.

When these pumpkins crashed dead center, about six rows back, into the huge pile of brush the gurvani forward command had employed as a makeshift redoubt, their sticky goo exploded in a shower that covered scores of gurvani. When the lumps of phosphorus started to dry it burst into flame as it came into contact with air. And when the flames began, the alcohol and the sugar began to burn. And so did the dried-out brush, pine logs thick with pitch, and assorted branches and treetops. And then the gurvani pelts began to burn.

Another incendiary wave crashed into them a moment later, and panic was starting to set in. Dozens of tiny fires broke out around their forward command. Now that there was live flame, the showers of sticky alcohol turned into cascades of burning death. One after another the goblins were frantically – and fruitlessly – beating their pelts to put out the fires.

At this point the blazes were mere nuisances, more potentially dangerous than actually harmful. But as the mighty siege engines we’d built flung more combustibles against that pile, the smaller blazes coming together began to ignite the dried wood in earnest. And the dried grass and leaves.

All right, the last wave, I commanded Carmella as the very last rays of the sun faded from the sky to be replaced by a new glow closer at hand. The final volley of hollow vegetables not only had alcohol and honey and phosphorus, it carried what little store of naphtha we were able to create, as well as clay pots full of pitch. The result was spectacular as more accelerants turned the central blaze into an inferno.

I waited until I could feel heat on my face from two hundred yards away before I started.

“All right gentlemen, you can begin,” I informed my fellow warmagi. They immediately put their weapons away and began building large spheres of force, as we had for the Battle of Tudry. Only this time, instead of removing the gasses to create a vacuum, my High Magi were filtering the gasses to permit only oxygen to fill their thaumaturgic envelopes. Well, everyone but Tyndal, who was too inexperienced at it and therefore was tasked with protecting us as they concentrated on their oxygen spheres.

That was going to take a few minutes to fill. In the meantime, I closed my eyes and cast my consciousness into the center of the fire in front of me. Ordinarily such a bold move would have been detected and countered by the shamans, but since they were trying to extinguish a hundred little fires and one increasingly large one, they weren’t paying attention. So I was able to send my focus to the very center of the blaze, the very hottest part, and cast my mind around.

I was looking for a fire elemental. Fire is the easiest element to invoke and the hardest to control, but the best way to control it was to harness the power of an elemental. Problem was, you couldn’t just light a hearth fire and call one forth. Fire elementals require a very complex and sophisticated amount of combustion to arise – after all, Fire is the element of change and transformation.

By its very nature, Fire represents the energy used for matter to transform from one state to another, and then to finally be converted to expressed energy. Therefore you needed a very hot or very large fire to provide the complexity necessary to coax a mere plasma into sentience, to transform a simple chemical reaction into living flame.

A fire, say, fueled by alcohol and sugar and naphtha – and goblin fur – would do. My consciousness descended into the very hottest point in the fire and I started churning the combustion magically. Soon I felt the first stirrings of a pattern that could be convinced to be aware of itself. I took a moment to appreciate it and acknowledge its potential, a natural thing of beauty that only a handful of people in the world have ever witnessed. A deep breath. Then I summoned a tremendous amount of power from my stone and fueled the spark at the heart of the fire, encouraging it into sentience and awareness. Kind of like waking a sleeping child.

But my child was there, and he was strong. The fuel we had planted there was dry, and it burned hot with the added energy from our missiles. The ephemeral entity within the flame organized itself, with a little mental help and direction. I used the classic Vorean Inferno invocation, visualizing the elegantly complex summoning sigil that would give the potential elemental the existential framework it needed to mature and activating it at the proper time.

What happened next dwarfed the other times I’ve used elemental magic. Earth and water elementals, and even air elementals, don’t require a lot of energy once they’re summoned. You can find earth, air and water everywhere, but fire is much different The sigil I used gave the elemental some guidance about how to be, in a far more sophisticated way than the other elementals.

But once I did wrap the potential infernal entity around my sigil, and activated the bond, the results were . . . dramatic.

“Dear Ishi preserve us,” Tyndal whispered in awe behind me. The other magi were either gawking openly or murmuring cautious enthusiasm. The infantry around us were openly cowed, their faces bright in the glow of the pillar of fire in the north.

“I have it,” I said through clenched teeth, as I felt the creature come awakem, surging with power. I raised my right fist, calling on it to rise majestically over the battlefield. I recalled the illusion of the fire demon I’d conjured in Minden Hall, so long ago – at the beginning of the spring. Tonight was the autumnal equinox, and I felt a decade had passed since I’d raised that specter. Compared to that unaided spell, the real thing before us mocked my earlier effort.

Of course the goblins were impressed.

Carmella, I need more, I called psionically. Keep it going steady, as long as you can.

We’ll do what we can, she promised. We have enough for twenty more salvos. The forward batteries have a little less. Say, forty minutes worth? If we manage it carefully?

Just do what you can.

I felt the surge of power as the elemental began to grow, burning hotter with every passing moment. I encouraged it to stretch, to reach out in every direction across the field, where thousands of goblins were writhing in pain or screaming in terror but all were burning, burning, burning. The skies above were turning black with the soot and smoke and stench of combusting wood and singed hair and burnt meat, and the screams and squeals of the foe filled our ears.

“Now, gentleman,” I ordered, quietly. “Pass the word. Just keep it up as long as you can, and remind the infantry to take cover.” I didn’t wait to hear the order acknowledged, but I could feel the massive bubbles of pure oxygen my comrades had built float toward my fiery offspring. In the mean time, I kept the elemental striking out in every direction, slapping one cluster of gurvani with one tendril of living flame while my mind led one on the opposite side toward another.

They were fleeing and screaming and burning, but they were dying, too, and that was the important thing. And as bad as it was, it was about to get a lot worse for them.

“Here comes the defense,” murmured Mavone nearby through clenched teeth. He was right – with magesight I could see a small cluster of what had to be shamans gathering strength to the east of the elemental blaze. Maybe four of them, out of the seven or eight who had gathered in the van before the bombardment. Each of them was trying to counter the furious blaze individually. I commanded the elemental to strike, and a jet of plasma erupted and swept half of them away, burning them to cinders where they stood. The others managed to survive, but their spellcraft didn’t.

About that time the first of the bubbles arrived near the pillar of fire, and at the mage’s command it ceased to keep its cargo pent up. About half a ton of compressed, pure oxygen was dumped into my elemental’s maw, propelling it outward in every direction as it feasted. Thousands more gurvani were caught in the blaze, their fur bursting into flame and sending them to a painful death.

Worse – from their perspective – was the enormous airless pocket around the fire which robbed their lungs of air or even worse, singed them from the inside. Hundreds of goblins died every second from asphyxiation. And as the globes of air arrived, another ring of fleeing gurvani would be caught up in the blaze.

It was a heady, godlike feeling, being in the “head” of that elemental. I watched as it sought to burn, burn, burn anything it could, and felt the primal hunger to consume that no living being can truly appreciate. Each bubble was like a fresh goad to combust everything in reach. It was intriguing, in a way, to see things from its perspective. To a fire elemental, there is no gurvani, no human, no sides in a war. There isn’t even the living and the dead. There is only fuel and oxygen, the burnt and the un-burnt, until all is consumed.

As anthropomorphic chemical reactions go, it was pretty impressive.

“Dear gods,” Mavone whispered, as the fourth and fifth bubbles burst near the same time, sending a huge wall of flame rolling out over the heads of the fleeing goblins. “You’re killing thousands of them! They’re running toward our lines in terror! They’re on fire, Min! Dear gods, they’re all burning . . .”

I don’t know how long it went after that. I got caught up in the experience and was indulging in as much wanton damage as possible, when Carmella contacted me again to inform me her last salvo of fuel was outgoing.

I sighed, and had the elemental flail about as far as it could reach with the last of its fuel and fury. It was draining – I fought the diminution of intensity as long as I could, but in the end there just wasn’t enough fuel to sustain the spell. I called for the last two air bubbles, and ended the spell with a dramatic and devastating explosion.

“That ought to convince them that we’re not playing around,” muttered Master Cormaran as he witnessed the dying blaze consume a last few victims.

“I think the goblins are quite convinced,” agreed Tyndal.

“It wasn’t the goblins to whom I was referring,” corrected the old warmagi. “A spell like this, regardless of the outcome of the battle, is going to be legendary. You just killed seven or eight thousand goblins and wounded thrice that number, with a little help. What lord in what castle could defend against such mighty sorceries?”

“Hey!” I protested weakly, reluctantly saying goodbye to the elemental and allowing it to slip free of the pattern sigil. I sank to my knees and gazed into the twilight to the north, where the imprint of that tower of flame was still floating behind my eyelids. Now it was just a vast field of perfectly ordinary flame. “That spell was hard as hell!”

“You think Lenguin knows that?” scoffed Mavone. “He doesn’t care how hard it was. It was possible. He knows that thing could have consumed all of Vorone Castle in half an hour. That’s going to make an impression.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I conceded. “Right now, I don’t care.” Tyndal pressed a wineskin to my lips which I thirstily drank down, and then a water skin for which I was even more grateful. I was dazed, the lingering memory of magic still clinging to my brain.

“It’ll teach those gods-damned Censors, too,” muttered Tyndal to himself in a dark tone. I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. I was getting more and more eager to hear the tale of their escape from my hometown.

“It suffices that it crippled their best troops,” I declared, after a moment’s rest. “Right now they are unorganized, panicked and terrorized. Their reserves are stranded above where they can only watch helplessly. There’s never going to be a better time to hit them.”

As if by my command, a dozen warhorns sounded around me, and every infantryman came to attention and readied his swords, shields, and spears. The bowmen formed up into ranks and prepared a volley.

“Are you really feeling up to this, Master?” asked Tyndal, concerned, as he helped me to my feet. I stretched my back and arms, making sure my armor wasn’t catching.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I lied to him, as the next horn blew, and everyone prepared to march forward into the shattered lines of the foe. I slapped my helmet on quickly, and my apprentice-cum-squire handed me my new mageblade. “As a matter of fact,” I said, grinning despite myself, “I’m kind of looking forward to it.”

* * *

The infantry marched steadfastly to where the goblin line had once began and paused just long enough for the archers to loose a volley at the survivors. They shouldn’t have wasted the arrows. Those who yet lived in that blackened, smoking field would be dead soon enough. Everyone else had retreated north, toward the escarpment and the ruined causeway. Someone on the other side was beginning to try to organize a defense, but they didn’t seem to be having much luck.

We stomped over smoking corpses and wounded goblins, their black pelts singed away to reveal charred flesh. Our men were pretty good about granting a merciful death, if they weren’t too preoccupied in the gloom. Night was falling, and the bizarre shadows concealed plenty of living foe.

Eventually the vanguard of the center’s infantry hit a hastily-dug shallow trench that proved to be the first organized resistance. About three thousand goblin infantry had tried to dig in, and had done so far back enough to avoid the worst of the incendiary attack. And despite their terror, there was still plenty of fight left in them.

Our front lines halted long enough to allow the middle ranks to catch up, and they put together a shield wall facing the trench. Then to the sound of our war drums we marched forward, archers picking off what goblins they could see in the gloom ahead. A brief spear duel followed, as we came nearer, and then the order to charge was given. The infantry, the Orphans at the vanguard, plowed over the goblin line four ranks deep with a vicious war-cry, carving a bloody furrow we were only too happy to follow through.

Past the trench, the resistance was fleeting – and sometimes fleeing. We encountered pockets of ten or twenty, and a like number of our warriors would square off and finish them while the next rank moved forward to take their place.

“Damn it!” I heard an infantryman curse. “Can’t see a gods-damned thing in this!”

“Magelights!” I ordered, realizing the penalty we were fighting under. Gurvani are nocturnal. A little light would be a distraction to them and light our way. In moments a dozen floating spheres of illumination hovered overhead while the spearmen skillfully took apart the poorly-formed shield walls of the goblins. Oh, it wasn’t all victory – there were plenty of stubborn defenders who took a toll on our ranks. But for fifteen minutes, the field was ours.

Then their reserves got committed. We were on the wrong end of an infantry charge, and suddenly there were little black bodies everywhere trying to kill us. I blooded my new mageblade immediately, and slew two more before the first gurvan hit the ground.

The new sword was lighter and better balanced than Slasher had been. It felt like I could maneuver it as easily as pointing a finger, and for a few frenetic moments I experimented with various strikes, the gurvani obligingly supplying plenty of targets. The edge parted flesh like fresh fallen snow, and went through bone like it wasn’t there. The point sliced with the barest pressure.

I must have been grinning when the second wave hit, because Mavone was in front of me at one point, a warwand in one hand and a dagger in the other, backing away from seven or eight goblins who were advancing.

“A little help?” he asked, dispatching one with a wand and delivering a wicked slash across another’s throat. “Or are you too busy being entertained?”

I chuckled and pointed the mageblade at the mass of goblins he faced. A whispered command gave the sword mental permission to loose a spell, and four of the furry little bastards cried and fell to the ground as if every bone in their body had broken at once – which is what the spell did.

“Impressive,” Mavone shrugged. “But inelegant. And you missed one.” He threw his dagger expertly through the air and landed it in the throat of the last goblin, then summoned it back to his hand magically. “See, that was elegant.”

“Asshole,” I said, rolling my eyes. About that time another wave hit, and we got swept apart.

At some point Tyndal and I were fighting back to back with the closest friendly faces at least a dozen paces away. We were piling up bodies pretty quickly, but there always seemed to be more, and they didn’t lack enthusiasm.

“Don’t you wish you’d stayed with Alya and my parents now?” I huffed as I took a little furry hand off at the wrist with a flick of my blade.

“Are you joking?” he gasped back as he impaled not one but two goblins on his blade at once. “I’ve been looking forward to this all summer!”

“Well, Happy Equinox, then,” I muttered, and decapitated my next victim before he got close enough to use his short, jagged blade on me. “Duck!”

I’d seen a shape looming in the shadows over his shoulder, and the lad was smart enough to listen to me. I almost wasn’t, and missed the tree trunk that had lashed out at us.

“Troll!” yelped Tyndal hysterically as he turned to face the beast. He stared up at it in wonder – twelve feet tall, it looked like an overweight gurvan whose face had been stretched out by hooks in all directions. Most of what I knew about trolls fell under the category of legend, but I did know that they could die. I also knew they didn’t do so easily.

The troll’s mighty swing buried the head of his club in the dirt at Tyndal’s feet, but the tree trunk whipped into the air as quickly as if had been a slender willow stave. The brute howled angrily and tossed his weapon from hand to hand while goblins swarmed up in his wake.

“How do you propose we do this, Master?” Tyndal asked, wide-eyed in terror.

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Start at the ankles and work up?”

The creature’s head was six feet in the air over mine, his beady little eyes flashing in rage. I knew there was a brain somewhere up there, but it wasn’t going to be easy to get to. Nor was he being a cooperative target – he proved able to maneuver with blinding speed, as he took two steps to the left and batted the head clean off of one of our infantryman from Tudry.

“Uh . . . I’m open to suggestions,” I said, suddenly wishing I hadn’t wasted the bone-breaking spell on the goblins. In retrospect Mavone could have figured something out, and it really would have come in handy now. At least to break his shins and get his head somewhere we could strike it. He was wearing a jousting shield like a breast plate and if he had a neck he was hiding it, so a head shot was about the only thing that might take him out. And I was out of prepared offensive spells.

Just then a squadron of heavy infantry approached us at a jog and slid into defensive positions around us with practiced ease, shields raised, spears out. Orphans, of course. I’d been continuously impressed with how well they fought, especially compared to the levies from Tudry. I was even more surprised to see Bold Angus, their captain, leading them.

He took off his helmet and nodded a salute, then peered up at the rampaging troll. A few brave spearmen were trying to pin him down, but their shafts were no match for that club. You just can’t parry a tree trunk.

“Troll, eh?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, we were just discussing the best approach. I was thinking a paralysis spell, see if we can slow him down. Then maybe if we can surround him with spearmen—”

“Not with those bloody goblins protecting his flanks!” pointed out Delman, who arrived breathlessly, his blade stained with blood and hair. “There’s more coming, and another bloody troll, too!”

Tyndal groaned in despair. I took a deep breath. “Tyndal, you remember that wand you used back at Boval? The one that was over-charged?” He nodded. “I’ve got an idea. If we use a depleted warwand, and each of us—”

“How long is that going to take, Marshal?” Captain Asgus asked, nonchalantly.

I shrugged. “A few minutes. I’m sure he’s not going anyplace.”

He shrugged back. “That seems like an awful long time. And I have a pressing engagement elsewhere. So why don’t I just take care of him now, and move on?” Without waiting for an answer, he gave a couple of curt orders to his men as he dropped his shield and traded it for two short-hafted axes one of his men carried around in a bag of weapons. Before I could even formulate a witty response he was prepared. He nodded, and two of his men crouched, their own shields overlapping to form a crude but effective ramp.

Asgus didn’t even take a breath, he just started running, yelling, and launched himself up the ramp, an axe in each hand, until he was in the air at eye level to the troll – who was clearly not expecting the attack. Hell, neither was I.

I watched in fascination as Asgus swung both of his axes at the same time at the perfect moment of his downward arc. Both blades bit deeply into the forehead of the monster and there was a loud “click!” as they met somewhere within his brain. The troll’s forehead exploded in blood and hair and greasy brown brains, but Asgus wasn’t quite done. He planted his feet on the monster’s chest and rode his body down as it realized it was dead and fell. He ended the masterful move by decapitating a pair of gurvani who had been in his way, before dismounting the massive corpse.

“Or, we could do that,” I muttered to myself.

“Hope you don’t mind, Marshal,” Asgus called over his broad shoulders as he took a defensive stance against another knot of goblins, his men hurrying to cover him. “I just thought it might be more expedient to just kill him, instead of spending all day figuring out how.” He grinned broadly. “No extra charge!”

“There had better not be!” I shot back. “Trolls were in your contract!” I looked around for the next wave. I didn’t have to wait long.

I don’t know how long we struggled in the darkness, trying to cover as much territory as possible and push what was left of the goblin army back against the escarpment. But while we were enjoying some modest success, the cavalry to the west was getting hammered, I learned from a psionic dispatch from Penny.

Azar’s trying to hold them together, but a bunch of trolls is throwing rocks at them, big ones, and that’s spooking the horses. Apparently Lenguin wants to attack in force with cavalry, but Azar is maintaining the hold as ordered. Lenguin is mad about that. He thinks that his household guard could defeat the trolls. Azar thinks they’re just trying to lure them into a trap.

I’m with Azar on that, I agreed, when I had a moment to think. Let him know I support him. The last thing we need is a headstrong Duke leading a cavalry charge against trolls in the dark.

I’ll tell him, she assured me, and was gone. I hacked a couple more goblins apart as they broke through the front lines before she came back. Problem, Min.

What?

Lenguin is insisting. He’s forming up three hundred cavalry and plans on gallantly charging with lances. His Lord Marshal is egging him on, too.

Gods damn it! I swore in my head. I told that son of a whore no!

That’s the problem with Dukes, she quipped. They think they run the place.

You tell Azar to keep Lenguin in check – that’s a direct order! Getting harassed by rocks might be annoying, but shifting the lines and exposing your flank to the gurvani is a lot more annoying. And deadly.

Another pause, and the warmagi and I rallied for a brief but furious assault on a score of goblins who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Tyndal took a savage cut to his forearm in that skirmish, and it might have gone badly if I wasn’t there to mitigate it magically.

Min! Penny’s mental voice said, screeching with alarm. Lenguin says you should stop giving him orders in his own Duchy. He’s going to charge!

“Damn it!” I swore out loud. The moment he does, he’s going to get creamed!

That’s what Azar keeps telling him! He isn’t listening!

I surveyed the field around me, where small groups of infantry danced and dueled with goblins under shifting magelights. They didn’t really need me here. I caught three or four warmagi by eye and gathered them to me in a corner of the battlefield no one else was currently using.

“Let’s pack up, gentlemen,” I said with a sigh. “We need to go keep someone important from doing something stupid. And it may already be too late.”

Chapter Forty:

Timberwatch, Equinox Night

By the time we got there, it was indeed too late.

It’s not that we dawdled. I collected every spare warmagi around me, gathered a bodyguard of Orphans and summoned a dozen mounts from the light cavalry used to pass messages from headquarters to forward command in the conventional way. That should have made things go more quickly, but as we tried to thread our way through the devastated battlefield in the near blackness of night, every step forward became an exercise in treachery. Twice we were ambushed by goblins hugging the shadows. We let the Orphans deal with them – the warmagi were already exhausted with our efforts, and the night had just begun.

It took more than an hour, therefore, for my little team to finally get to the rear of the western cavalry. They had advanced to the base of the western causeway, but the constant sniping from above and the hit-and-run attacks in the dark had taken their toll. The problem was that while wrecking the causeway had kept large numbers of goblins from advance or retreating, the gurvani had lowered ropes and gotten enough infiltrators down the slope to keep our cavalry irritated.

The trolls were the worst of the foe. They didn’t seem to have any problem lowering themselves down the escarpment, and once they made it to the bottom they became instant rallying points for their smaller cousins. There were a lot of shamans who had made it, too, and our heavy horse had borne up under near-constant irritation from the dark priests of the Dead God. Azar and Landrik and the other magi who had attached themselves to the cavalry were doing an admiral job with defensive magic.

But around two hours after dusk, a troop of a half-dozen trolls and a couple of hundred goblin skirmishers had begun tossing rocks the size of two-pound loaves into their midst in an effort to lure them out. A few hotheads did just that – mostly younger squires and men-at-arms who wanted to gain favor under the eyes of the Duke.

The goblins would wait for a squadron to go charging off into the darkness, then they would throw those weighted tangling ropes at the feet of the destriers and bring them down, hard. If the ropes missed, then the trolls would lumber out and smash the knights with large iron rings in their hands. One punch could snap a mount’s neck.

That kind of skirmishing had been going on – and increasing in intensity – while I was playing around with fire. While both armies had been entranced by the pyrotechnics, the goblins had kept up their nuisance tactics until one of their rocks dashed out the brains of Count Loso, a personal friend of the Duke’s, and that’s when things got complicated.

Lenguin ordered his troops to attack the trolls who lurked in the shadows. When Azar and Horka, my two senior warmagi, objected to breaking with the battle plan, the Duke ended up pulling rank. Observers claim that he was just bored of sitting around in armor in the middle of the night while others were fighting, and had delusions of striking a decisive blow. His reasoning was that the sudden appearance of the might and majesty of the Duke of Alshar in the midst of the enemy would strike a mortal terror in them.

He was forgetting, of course, that the goblins and trolls he faced would have a hard time being impressed by a thin man in pretty armor after being in the presence of the Dead God.

Azar cursed and cajoled and stormed against the idea. Horka silently glowered and fingered his mageblade and tried to look menacing. Landrik stood on his dignity and the responsibility of a soldier to follow orders. But none of that mattered to Lenguin. Just before midnight, as the waxing moon was cresting the mountains in the west, Lenguin led a thousand of his horse out into the night against the trolls. Most of them, the cream of the Alshari Wilderlands, would never see the sun rise.

We arrived on the scene just after the trolls and goblins launched their counter-attack. Their strategy had been to separate the horse squadrons into smaller and smaller groups, and slow them down as much as possible. Heavy cavalry are one of the deadliest troops in war, but only if they stay in formation and can gain sufficient speed. At night, in broken country against an uncertain enemy – and with abysmally poor leadership – getting split up into easy-to-swallow pieces destroyed what tactical advantage the Alshari had. They were massacred in a dozen small skirmishes, where their lances and swords were little use against ropes, hooks, and trolls.

I watched in horror with magesight as we galloped into the night as a troll nearly fourteen feet tall smashed the face of a massive warhorse and killed the poor beast on the spot. The mount rolled on his rider, pinning his leg, and while he had managed to draw his sword and hack futilely at the troll from his prone position, that didn’t stop the monster from reaching out with one mighty claw, grasping the knight’s helmet in his palm, and plucking it from his shoulders, head and all, like a boy might pick an apple.

I was saved from having to figure out how to fight the troll when he took a lance in the eye from a particularly skillful charge by the lone knight left in the skirmish. The man had drawn his sword and delivered a slice across the troll’s broad back while his destrier stomped goblins into the dirt. A hail of arrows from the Orphans who accompanied us finished the rest of the enemies, and we were able to add the knight (Sir Festelan the Brave, a landless Alshari who was fishing for a fief somewhere) to our rescue party.

He was the last Alshari we saw alive for a while. Or the last human, period. We did come across plenty of bodies, though, bodies smashed to a bloody pulp and stripped of their valuables. We found plenty of goblins, too, but we expected that. The Alshari Wilderlords might have been stupid, but they weren’t cowards, and they were very good at fighting, even on foot. And every now and then a couple of stragglers would pop up and one of us would burn them down where they stood. It’s not so easy to sneak up on someone when they can use magesight to see in the dark.

“Which way, Marshal?” asked Master Cormaran, as he began making passes in the air that helped invoke a map of the battle. It was bound to the great diorama, so it was as accurate as it possibly could be. “It looks as if there are pockets here, here . . . here and here,” he pronounced, thoughtfully. “Lenguin – or what’s left of him – could be in the middle of any of them.”

“Bide,” I said, and contacted Azar directly. When Lenguin took off on his fool errand, what was he aiming for?

He mentioned wanting to breakfast on that largest howe, to the east, southeast, the one with the three elms on it. But he could have gone off to Duin’s dungheap, for all I know. He’s about as piss-poor a commander as I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen some real winners.

What he lacks in command abilities he makes up for in pure arrogance, I observed. But if we don’t rescue him, then we’re looking at a dowager duchess ruling Alshar for the foreseeable future. And Her Grace makes His Grace look like a beacon of reason and wisdom.

You make a compelling point, Azar agreed. Tell you what: my lads have this post in hand, why don’t I come east with a team while you come from the south, and we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.

Are you sure you can be spared?

Nothing is going to happen here until the infantry withdraws from the center, and that will be hours from now. And the hard part is over – the rest is just straightforward cavalry tactics that not even this lot could muck up.

Then bring whom you can spare . . . but I want at least one High Mage present with the cavalry.

I’ll make Horka do it. He’s been getting on my nerves for the last few hours.

Just don’t make him sulky. You know how he gets.

Well, I won’t be here to see him sulk, now will I? See you presently.

“We’ll head for that cluster of them, near to that string of hillocks,” I said. “Azar says he was heading in that direction, originally. It’s as good a place to start as any.”

“It’s also the largest group,” Cormaran pointed out.

“All the better,” Mavone said with a wicked chuckle, fingering the blade of that dagger of his.

We proceeded north cautiously, picking up two more stragglers along the way. One was the ashen-faced Sire Geston of Grimly Wood, his armor rent and his head bleeding under his chainmail coif. He didn’t look nearly as lordly, now. Apparently Sire Geston had seen a troll up close, which was a lot different from stomping nasty goblins to death on the back of a horse. The troll had killed the rest of his party, but Sire Geston had been knocked unconscious and left for dead. We found him wandering, dazed, holding onto his two-handed axe for dear life.

Not long after we came across an dismounted squire who had been separated from his household, half-frightened out of his wits and far more verbally grateful than Sire Geston had been about his rescue. He pointed us in the direction he last saw the Duke’s household riding, and we followed a trail until we heard sounds of battle. I had Mavone scout ahead for us – he had picked up a fair amount of shadowmagic while haunting the Duke at court with Lady Isily, and he had already a profound knowledge of being sneaky. He came back ten minutes after he set out.

“There are thirty or forty knights at the top of a rise,” he reported, softly, after padding out in a black cloak by foot and returning so stealthily he sidestepped our pickets. “Most of their mounts are dead, but I saw Lenguin’s personal banner still flying, so it’s probably him. They’re holding a couple of trolls and two hundred or so goblins at bay by holding sway at a tight point, but they’re not going to last long with that many damned scrugs pawing at them. And Min . . . they aren’t skirmishers. They’re eunuchs, armored and armed with swords and spears and halberds.”

“Bide,” I said, and contacted Azar. I think we found them. Two rises to the west of that big howe. They’re holding out on top of it, but they’re getting hammered. How far are you from here?

We’re to the north and a little west of there, now, he replied. I’ve got Landrik and two dozen Megelini knights with me. I explained what we were facing, and he agreed to hit the troop moments after we did. They wouldn’t be expecting a sudden attack on their flank while facing Lenguin’s gallant armored fools. And they damned sure wouldn’t be expecting two attacks on their flank. Even with trolls, they were going to have problems.

“Master Cormaran, you, Delman and Mavone prepare to discomfit our enemies with confusion and panic spells, and don’t spare the power. Tyndal, Astyral and Curmor drew swords and joined me in a more direct attack with our Orphans and stragglers. Even dumpy old Sire Geston looked determined and brave as he drew his sword and followed us in assaulting the rear of the goblin band. He hefted his greatsword and plunged after the rest of us as we charged, making noise far in excess of our numbers. Cormaran’s spells went off just before we hit, so that our little attack set off a panic that soon led to chaos, as the goblins turned to face us.

Mavone was right – these weren’t skirmishers. These were medium infantry, almost as tall as humans and well-armed with crude but effective steel weapons. And they knew how to use them. Far from charging in and sweeping the heads off of the first half-dozen, I ended up dueling mageblade-to-axe with a determined gurvan with a helmet shaped like a fox’s head. It took me almost two minutes to eventually wound him enough to make him fall back. Meanwhile, Tyndal had taken out four of the foe. Embarrassing.

“Trolls to the right!” called Sire Geston, gruffly. To his credit he didn’t run, and steadfastly backed up the squire and Cormaran as they prepared to meet the beast. The squire had picked up a fallen spear and was keeping the troll at bay – barely – while Geston took broad swipes at it with his greatsword. That was to keep him busy while Cormaran found the spell he was looking for, had the time to cast it, and blasted a hole in the monster’s massive face.

Just as the first troll fell, the second batted the squire twenty feet away with one sweep of a massive hammer. He was preparing to take out one of the Orphans when he collapsed to his knees, a smoking hole in his back. Azar had arrived. He finished the kill with an elaborate flourish, impaling the troll’s massive head to the ground with his mageblade. Other magi spread out behind him, and a rough-looking band of country knights began a short charge into the goblin’s ragged line.

The second flanking maneuver of the skirmish proved decisive, which was good, because our first attack into their flank had been hot, but hadn’t moved them from their prey. For five hard minutes we were stabbing and slashing and blasting, tearing into the goblin infantry as hard as we were able. Cormaran sustained a nasty cut on his left hand, Tyndal took the flat of a goblin blade across the face, bloodying his nose. Delman took a wound in the thigh a moment later when a lucky spear snuck through.

Their vanguard, as stout a band of goblins as I’d ever seen on the field, had locked shields and lowered spears against the knights on the hill. When we attacked, they turned through their troops and lined up to face us without breaking formation, which I found quite intimidating.

Azar’s team (which included Master Thinradel, who had ridden to the front the moment he heard the Duke was in danger) turned that well-ordered rank into a chaotic mob who didn’t know which way to turn. The stout wall of shields I’d faced had disintegrated, and suddenly we were fighting man-to-goblin. In that kind of melee, even being larger than their intact brethren didn’t help the gurvani. We were just too big, and too powerful individually. I was starting to think that our counterattack might actually relieve the Duke’s party before they had any reinforcements wander along.

They were relentless warriors, for their stature. They fought hard and smart, and they had some idea of what small unit tactics included. As Azar thundered into their rear, effectively giving them three fronts to consider, they hunkered down and pressed the fight. I slew one goblins after another, hitting any convenient target of opportunity with my new blade. I battled one proud specimen with a halberd until I removed his arm at the shoulder. Delman blasted his comrade before he could attack. Then one hideous creature leapt on my back and tried to slit my throat.

He had apparently been too close to my fire elemental, because as his fangs got closer to my face I could see that he had been hideously burned on his left side. The smell of cooked meat and the stench of singed hair filled my nostrils as I scrambled to get a purchase. Mad with pain and rage the eunuch gurvani was unrelenting as he whipped a long curved knife toward my throat. I had to use a spell to accelerate my time sense to the point where I could throw my opponent over my shoulder, and then impale his throat on the tip of my mageblade. A twist of my wrist and a fountain of blood later, I was able to slow back down and search for my next target.

This was almost too easy, I remember thinking, as I saw Tyndal nearly cut a gurvan in two with Slasher. Someday I’m going to wise up and quit even thinking such foolishness. The gods hear our thoughts, it is said, and they have a twisted sense of irony. Which that day, they did.

Because that’s when the shamans revealed themselves.

Three of them, two country-bumpkins and one of the urgulnosti priests, each with a witchstone in hand. When they saw they faced warmagi they didn’t hesitate. Sorcery started flying through the air fast and furiously, with Cormaran using the last of his warwands to attack while Azar threw big dazzling bolts of something nasty. Delman diverted his attention from his leg long enough to deploy a powerful shielding spell, because Delman has excellent resources and good judgment.

The shamans started with simple but powerful blasts of magical power, but as we defended against them and counterattacked with more sophisticated spells, they began getting more desperate – and more daring. Twice I nearly lost a limb to one of their common concussion spells, cast at far closer quarters than a human warmagi would have attempted. Something that looked like spinning blades of light nearly took off my head. Astyral was dueling with the priest, his mageblade against the gurvani’s scythe-bladed staff. Then Mavone used that flying dagger trick of his and robbed his Gilmoran kinsman of the kill.

Master Cormaran took the second shaman right after that, one handed and heaving for breath. Azar took the third after Master Thinradel used an unusually potent series of flashes and bangs to distract him. Thinradel was no warmage, but he had good instincts. Azar took his head with another flamboyant move, spinning to deflect a blow by another goblin before cleaving clean through his neck.

That’s kind of a rule-of-thumb of professional warmagi who specialize in combat: if your opponent attacks you with a sword, use magic. If they use magic, use a sword. Only a handful of people in the world could handle either form of attack, so it was a pretty safe bet. These shamans, for instance, while adept at the kinds of destructive magic that was useful in battle, didn’t seem to have much regard for armor and weapons, counting on their infantry to screen them. You peel away their guards, and they’re just as vulnerable as any non-combatant.

“Azar!” I called, as he stopped spinning. “Carve us a path up the hill! Landrik and Tyndal, you’re behind!” I tried to order everyone else who wasn’t busy fighting for their lives into some good order to press our cause, and eventually we were able to push our way up the path, leaving dozens of bodies in our path. At some point fortune turned to our favor, they had enough and broke. I suppose without trolls and shamans to back them up, the gurvani infantry weren’t yet ready to die to the last gurvan. They fled to the north, leaving only a small rearguard to cover their retreat.

While we were dealing with the stragglers Master Thinradel pressed on to the Duke’s party, where he found a thirty-man remnant of the Ducal Guard and Lenguin’s household, and where he found Lenguin himself with a head wound.

The Duke had finally been blooded in the war that had taken a quarter of his lands in half a year. He’d fallen from his horse when it fell prey to one of those thrown tanglers, and when he’d arisen, his right shoulder dislocated and his left wrist badly sprained, he’d faced off against three gurvani. To his credit, he managed to draw his sword and slew two before the third nearly brained him with a warhammer. Master Thinradel treated him for shock and cast a charm against inflammation, and tried to keep him awake as best he could. He was still conscious when I saw him, illuminated by magelight on a horse stretcher, the left side of his face bloody.

“That will teach me to ignore my Marshal’s advice,” he croaked. “In truth, I did not believe your tale of danger to the realm, but if anything you understated it. If it had not been for your stubbornness, I see now that we would have been destroyed. You have the realm’s gratitude for that, Marshal Spellmonger, and for more. Of all of my warriors in all of my armies, it was the Warmagi who came to my rescue. That shall not be forgotten. You have my personal gratitude for that. If I live the night, then anything you ask in my power shall be granted.”

“I’m not the kind of man to extort favors from a battle-weary liege,” I said, watching the pupils of his eyes go into and out of focus while we spoke, “but if you still feel such gratitude by the light of day, well-rested and your wounds tended, then we will speak of such things. Provided I live the night, Your Grace.” He gave me one last wry smile and then collapsed back on the stretcher. He wet himself, too, I noted. Not exactly the sort of detail they include in epic poetry.

On the way out, one of the Orphans who was keeping guard approached. “Milord Marshal, we searched the bodies of them scrug shamans like you instructed, and we got three of their witchstones. But one o’ them scrugs is still alive. Just knocked out. I was gonna send ‘im on, but then I thought I better ask you.”

I considered. “Bring me the witchstones, and keep his separate. Bind him and hoodwink him and bring him with us. It’s about time we interrogated a prisoner. Good work, Ancient. See Hamlan about twenty silver as a reward.” I didn’t stay to watch the process, I just put the two stones from the dead shamans in my pouch, but wrapped the other one and tucked it away in another pocket.

We withdrew from the field in good order, safely back behind the lines. Azar and Landrik returned to the cavalry on the western flank to shore up their defenses against further assault, while Master Thinradel and the rest of us escorted Lenguin and his battered knights all the way to the healing tents, where the healers pounced on him. Master Icorod himself took over his care, and in the gleaming light of his witchstone he began to repair the damage to the Duke.

“Now what, Master?” asked Tyndal, exhaustedly. I checked the horizon. It was only just past midnight. I had been up for longer than twenty-four hours, I had been using magic almost constantly, and then fighting ferociously. I’d used the charms to refresh myself so many times that they were starting not to work anymore – there’s only so much a human body can take.

“Now we go back to the barn, debrief Penny and Terleman, grab a bite, a drink, and a nap, and we go do it all over again at dawn.” I was suddenly stricken by a yawn that no amount of magical power could have stopped. “But a nap most of all, or I’ll be dead on my feet.”

I got three blissful hours of undisturbed rest on a hay bale in the corner of the barn while others watched the action. Before I let myself sleep I made sure that everything was under control. An hour after midnight the infantry in the center had penned up the twenty-five thousand goblin infantry that remained after the fire elemental and subsequent attacks. The cavalry on the western flank were doing an admirable job policing the front, after Lenguin’s disastrous assault. The eastern flank had remained largely untouched. The bulk of the horde was still stranded above the vanguard on the escarpment, throwing down ropes and such but largely helpless.

What a difference three hours can make. When I was shaken awake by Taren, it was a mere two hours before dawn. Pentandra was snuggled up next to me, one leg sprawled over my armor. My body felt immensely better, and my spirits somewhat restored. Then it caught up with me again and I felt tired beyond the capacity of sleep to mend.

Of course, the reason they were shaking me awake was also a new development, and not a good one.

“The escarpment there, above what’s left of their vanguard?” Terleman explained grimly, after I’d used a chamberpot and grabbed a mug of beer from the refreshment table. He was pointing out a spot near the back of the diorama, where Lanse and his crew were busily moving effigies around. “It’s not there anymore.”

“What?” I asked, dully. I felt more than half asleep.

“The escarpment. It’s not there,” he repeated. “About fifteen minutes ago, there was a minor earthquake or something. Two hundred feet of the escarpment sank into the earth, making the prettiest little ramp you ever saw. The shamans were gathered in the vicinity, but I figured they were just trying to descend in the safest spot. Now I know different.”

“How fast are they moving?”

“They’re just starting to get organized, now. Any chance we could do a repeat of that fire elemental? That would be handy right now. I’d like to see the scrugs try to march through that!” That was wishful thinking. He knew there wasn’t a stick of wood large enough to light my pipe along that route anymore.

“That was a one-time trick, sadly,” I explained. “We can use conventional missiles to slow them down, though. And they still have to get past the redoubts.”

“But they will, if they push ahead and don’t stop to engage them. They’d run out of arrows before they ran out of targets. And how long do you think they could hold out, if they’re completely surrounded? A couple of trolls standing on each other’s shoulders and they’d be slaughtered.”

I studied the map and sipped the beer. It wasn’t particularly good beer. “How long do you think we have before they make a serious advance?”

“Dawn? If that long? I would say that they would push ahead to avoid the light, but with this damned cloud cover there’s going to be precious little of that to deter them. But the way they’re forming up, there’s not— hey! Lanse! What’s happening?” he asked, suddenly alarmed. The lanky warmage began directing his assistants to alter the diorama.

“Just got word from Timberwatch,” he called back, his voice sounding discouraged. “Another stretch of escarpment went down. About a hundred foot piece about . . . here,” he declared, indicating the area at the right hand side of the diorama. “That means that they’ll be pouring down this way, too, against the eastern flank.

“Breega blast them!” I swore, the weight of the battle on my shoulders. “I had hoped the elemental would do more damage.” There it was. Our best, most powerful offensive spell, and it hadn’t made a difference. I felt defeat closing in on me.

“Hey, you killed fifteen, twenty thousand gurvani,” Lance defended. “Probably wounded twice that many. In an hour. That’s not incidental.”

“It also wasn’t effective,” Taren pointed out helpfully. “Outstanding spell, don’t misunderstand. But it just didn’t blunt them enough. We need something more . . . well, more.”

“Work on it,” I ordered, starting to feel more awake. “Let’s make sure our men on the eastern flank are ready to receive them, and stiffen the center. Tell Carmella to lob everything she’s been holding back at them. And any spells that would cause widespread discomfort, panic, or fear? Now would be a good time.”

Terleman shrugged. “I’ll go fight them, but I can’t think of anything that could stop them. The best we can hope for with what we have in the field now is a cavalry charge into their flank.”

“Azar and Horka will be happy with that, but they’re the only ones,” grunted Delman, who was on crutches. “And if they put their trolls up front . . . well, it could prove . . . more ineffective.”

“We can’t throw the reserves at the center and the eastern flank, both,” commented Lanse. “And I don’t know if using them either place would really help . . . or just give the goblins more men to slaughter.”

“Stay positive,” I admonished. “It’s too soon to speak of committing the reserves yet. Or even ordering a cavalry charge. But I do think it’s time to use one of the last tricks in our pouch.” I sighed heavily and then closed my eyes. In a moment I was speaking mind-to-mind.

Wenek, the goblins just ruined the escarpment. They’re pouring down, and they’re going to be hitting the eastern flank and the center at dawn. They don’t seem to be doing anything in the west. Are your lads ready?

They’ve been watching the fighting all night, he replied. They’ve been talking about nothing else.

Then get them into position. And let’s hope that this works.

You aren’t counting on us to turn the battle are you? He asked in disbelief.

It would be nice, I admitted. But no, you just need to surprise them.

If this works, I’ll be the one who’s surprised.

It didn’t work. He wasn’t surprised.

It wasn’t that the Pearwoods clansmen were poor fighters – on the contrary, their big Wilderland axes cut down goblins like corn. But there were just too few. Three thousand clansmen erupted on the eastern front, the hills at their backs and their bellies full of liquor, and they chewed a wild and bloody path deep into the gurvani flank. Most of the enemies they faced were the more tribal gurvani who were less practiced at war, and barely organized.

But at that point the horde was pouring a steady stream of goblins down on the Timberwatch and the might of the Pearwoods clans, as well as one of the deadliest warmagi I know, weren’t enough to stop the flow. In fact, they barely slowed it down. A legion was told off to contend with the clansmen and the rest of the horde just pressed on around them. Thousands of goblins died, but ten times their number marched past toward our front lines.

The front lines were a lot closer to the barn than I was comfortable with now, too. At the point of the Pearwoods attack, the focus of the battle had settled on a front along our mid-most ditchwork. It was by far the best fortified part of our defenses behind the redoubts. Most of our siege engines were behind the line, including Carmella’s magnificent trebuchet. But the line itself was enough to stop them for the moment. As the rest of the front line defenses collapsed, our men fell back to this strong make-shift fortification, behind a ditch and a palisade.

The ditch the horde was facing was twenty feet wide, half a mile long, with regular hardened points like little wooden castles along its length. Behind it was a ten-foot earthen berm, atop of which was a sturdy wooden barbican laden with wicked-looking wooden spikes. Crossbowmen from the Tudry militia patrolled the top, while archers massed behind the walls poured arrows out into the cool morning sunshine. Infantry from all of our retreating units threatened anyone who dared the ditch, the hill and the fence.

Between the catapults and the archers, the goblins had halted their advance at the center of that last line, massing their forces just out of bowshot from it. At several points along the wall enterprising legions had bravely attempted to break through, and they paid a toll in blood for it. But they gave as good as they got. Trolls are very scary when you’re a lone infantryman or archer in the dark, fighting for your life. When they’re bellowing at the bottom of a ditch, they’re much easier to manage. Only one brave soul (if trolls have souls) had managed to climb out of the other side while I watched, only to get impaled on spears as he attempted to surmount the hill.

It wasn’t a perfect defense, but it was a well thought-out one, and a well-manned one. The horde wasn’t going to be able to go past it without destroying it. We were dug in and well-provisioned on our side and the majority of our cavalry were still at large in the west, able to strike at the horde’s flank at will.

As much as I was gratified that our defenses had held – thanks to Carmella and Hesia and the Orphan’s engineers and sappers – I couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that at dusk the horde had been penned-up at the north end of Timberwatch, and now they were almost at my doorstep. Despite the cavalry charge. Despite the precision artillery barrage. Despite the advantage that our archers gave us. Despite the most powerful and deadly spell I’d seen in my lifetime. Despite heroic effort by everyone involved, despite ingenious plans and adept spellcraft, despite courage and puissance and sheer determination, we were beginning to lose our strength, while theirs seemed to have no end.

By early morning the line had stabilized, and they stopped sending out sorties only to watch them get slaughtered. The archers and the magi still sparred over the deadly zone between the armies, but the rest settled into an uneasy calm. They weren’t going away, and we weren’t getting out of their way.

But it couldn’t last, and we knew it. Eventually they would find a route through the Pearwoods, or try to slip past the cavalry, or use magic in some way we hadn’t anticipated, and our whole defense could fail. The possibility of death before twilight was still looming. But in the light of the sun, for an hour or two, at least, we were safe.

“So what should we do?” asked Terleman in a murmur. He had a steady stream of dispatches arriving from all over the front, plus regular notes from Taren who had taken over Penny’s job as communicator. Nothing important had changed in half an hour, I could tell from the diorama. Lanse was still making thoughtful adjustments, but the mass of black fur was pooling up at the midmost ditch, and not going any further. In the east the clansmen had retreated back into the hills after their quick but brutal foray, and according to Wenek they were marshaling their resources for another attack.

“How many on their side, now?” I asked to no one in particular. Lanse heard me.

“About sixty thousand, give or take. And some weird stuff. But sixty thousand infantry and a couple hundred trolls.”

My heart sank. “And on our side?”

“Maybe twenty-five, thirty thousand? Thirty-three, counting the wildmen?”

I considered that in silence for a moment. I was about to call for an ale when Hamlan appeared with one at the ready. I took a sip and thought about the matter.

“We can hold them until noon? Or an hour after?” I asked, finally.

“Probably,” shrugged Terleman. “If nothing drastic changes on either side, sure. But somehow I don’t think their shamans and priests are going to sit there and stare dumbly at our line and not do anything about it,” he added with a snort.

“The problem, as I see it, is they out-number us two to one.”

“That’s better than yesterday,” Tyndal pointed out, helpfully.

“It is,” I agreed. “But it won’t be enough. If they break through the line, we’ll all be dead by nightfall. If we can’t figure out a compelling reason to keep them from breaking through the line, we’ll all be dead by nightfall. And if they’re behind our line after nightfall, they’ll hunt down and capture anyone they didn’t kill.”

“I’ve always enjoyed your sunny optimism,” grunted Terleman, “but are you making a point, or are you just trying to thicken the despair?”

“Neither, I’m just talking this out,” I said, absently. “We can’t do another elemental, we can’t construct another mass-attack –” I stopped as a page handed a parchment to Terleman. He swore.

“They just started their damned lightning spell,” he groaned, tossing the parchment away in disgust. “Conditions are perfect for it, too. All that chainmail pressed together . . .”

“Confirmed!” Lanse said, sorrowfully, as he illuminated the area where the spellwork was being executed. “It’s bigger than the one at Tudry and – oh, crap, we have another one on the western front!” he said, and cast another symbolic magelight in the appropriate spot.

“Inform the lines,” I ordered Taren. He nodded and closed his eyes again.

“They can probably feel it,” Terleman observed. “But now that they’ve started that mess again, what can we do about it?”

“Even if we do defend against it, it doesn’t get us any closer to breaking their lines,” Pentandra said with a yawn. I hadn’t noticed her rising. “We need something decisive, and fast. It’s a mess out there,” she said disapprovingly, as if we had let things go to hell while she took a nap.

“Necromancy?” offered Rustallo, his right arm in a sling and his left leg in a wooden brace. “Animating the dead is always impressive.” I shuddered. He was right, but I had been on the other end of that spell, back in Farise. It’s horrid, fighting the dead. There were a lot of them out there on the field, too, gurvani, trolls, and humans. But necromancy was also tricky to do, hard to control, and required a lot of finesse. I wasn’t sure we really had the capacity to carry it off right now.

“No,” I sighed, and explained why. “We need something to give us a major and decisive advantage, one we can take advantage of. Like the sudden appearance of a divinity. One of ours,” I amended, realizing that the Dead God would technically qualify.

“We still have the cavalry,” pointed out Lanse, as he nodded toward the little toy horses clustered around a hillock far to the north and west of the main line. “We could hit them from the rear.”

“Flank attacks are actually more effective than rear attacks,” Terleman said, shaking his head. “But their entire right flank is exposed. The cavalry could do a lot of damage.”

“They could also get their lunch eaten,” Rustallo said, shaking his head. “You weren’t out there, Terl. They aren’t as stupid about horses as they used to be. Those weighted ropes they’re throwing—”

“Bolos,” supplied Master Cormaran, helpfully. “The desert tribes use them to entangle large game. I hadn’t thought of them being used as a weapon of war, though,” he admitted. “They would play havoc with cavalry.”

“So does lightning,” I pointed out, “and there’s a big fat wad of it about to descend on us.”

“I’ve alerted the warmagi at the front,” Taren reported, opening his eyes. “They’re preparing counterspells.”

“It won’t take them long to figure out another way,” Pentandra said thoughtfully. “A divine visitation is starting to sound better and better.”

“I have an idea,” Taren said, reluctantly. “It’s pretty . . . pretty gross, though.”

“I don’t mind gross,” I said, dismissively. “I do mind slaughter, when it’s me being slaughtered. What’s your idea?”

“I was visiting the wounded in the hospital tent,” he explained, “and I was talking with the medical magi there when I got the idea, or at least the first glimmer of it. I talked to Master Icorod about it and he agreed it’s theoretically possible. I was going to develop it a little better and experiment first, but if you don’t mind possibly futzing the spell . . .” He went on to describe his idea, in detail.

It was breathtaking. And daring. And not something they would see coming.

“So what do you need?” I asked, quietly, after he finished.

“A group to cast it, a few supporting spells,” he said, finally. “Everything else I can manage. But Min, it will only last thirty minutes. Forty-five, tops.” He gave me a meaningful look. “That’s all the time we’ll have to act, so I suggest we plan this out. Quickly. If we don’t strike at the right time, we could still lose. Oh, and I will need one more thing.”

“What is it? I’ll get it.”

“Luckily, we have an abundance. I need a freshly severed goblin head. The fresher the better.”

“I think we have one in stock,” I nodded. “Tyndal, go have the shaman we captured brought outside. I think it’s time we had a little talk.”

Chapter Forty-One:

A Conversation With The Dead God

Timberwatch, Autumnal Equinox

I had Hamlan bring me a cup of spirits before they brought the shaman in – I needed some liquid courage for what I was about to do. I caught a glare from Tyndal directed at my manservant/bodyguard/handler – apparently my apprentice was jealous of his new prerogatives. I wondered how his opinion might change once he found out cheery, unassuming Hamlan was also a ruthless assassin in the pay of an even more ruthless mistress.

The situation on the ground wasn’t getting any better, but it wasn’t getting any worse. The line had stabilized more or less where we had figured it would, if things progressed this far. The ditchwork was holding. The catapults were firing non-stop into the mass of the horde, to little effect. The clansmen of the Pearwoods had done considerable damage before they withdrew to lick their wounds, but they had had little effect. Azar had reported that the cavalry to the west was massing for a charge at my command, but until I had a decisive target I didn’t want to use them. And my reserves were now committed to the central line, every man who could fire a bow or hold a spear. Even Castle Timberwatch had been emptied, the dour lord of the land finally on the front lines defending his fief.

“So why are you doing this again?” asked Pentandra in a low voice, after I had tossed back a generous swallow of liquor.

“I need to distract the Dead God,” I explained, unconvincingly. “I need to find out as much as I can about his plans. I want to irritate him like an itchy pair of wet hose. And mostly I want to keep the horde at bay as long as I can.”

“And you plan on doing this by sacrificing a shaman? A helpless prisoner? I thought you were better than this, Min!” she said, unconvinced.

I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Pentandra was a thaumaturge, not a warmage. There were things you did in the field that you just didn’t talk about afterwards, and this was going to be one. I wanted to spare her, because of what was to come, but then I felt a surge of resentment, out of nowhere. She wanted to be here, after all. Perhaps it was time that she saw the bitter depths of war. “Taren says he needs a fresh gurvani optic nerve. I have a prisoner. It seems like a good fit.”

“This is pretty cold blooded of you,” she said, reprovingly.

“If you had seen Kitsal Hamlet, you wouldn’t be so judgmental,” I countered, evenly. “And the Soulless . . . if you want this war won, some future day, then you had better get used to this kind of casual brutality, Pen.”

“It’s not far from murder,” she said, hoarsely.

“War is murder, on a mass scale,” I replied. “I understand your objection. It’s noted. Hells, I even agree with you, morally speaking. But I’m a few hours away from seeing tens of thousands of goblins pour into the unprotected heartland of Castal and Alshar. I’ll risk a little moral ambiguity to keep that from happening.”

She gave me a sour look, but remained silent. There had been a day where I would have taken Penny’s criticism harshly, and gone running to fix my error. But as much as I admired her as a mage and respected her as a friend, the fact was that I was the one in charge, not her. There were bigger things at stake here than my moral compass.

I led her around a stack of hay to the far end of the barn, where our work with the diorama and other spells couldn’t be easily glimpsed. Taren and Tyndal followed, and Terleman looked like he was going to until a page handed him another stack of dispatches. I was glad someone else was actually running the battle right now, and Terleman had the right combination of courage and wisdom to do it.

At last two infantrymen brought in the bound and hoodwinked form of the shaman. The soldiers were Orphans, thank goodness, else the prisoner might not have made it here alive. As it was they dragged him in like a sack of hairy potatoes and threw him to the dirt floor of the barn with visible disgust.

“Remove his hood,” I ordered, as I dug through my various pouches until I found the one I wanted. The gurvan blinked furiously for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the light. He looked around, confused and frightened, but quickly tried to gain his composure.

“Do you speak our tongue?” I asked slowly and deliberately. I knew a precious few words in the guttural gurvani language. I’d have to do something about that, if I survived this battle.

But fortune was with us.

“Some,” the shaman admitted with a croak.

“Get him some water,” I ordered, and Hamlan appeared out of nowhere with a leather jack full. He held it to the gurvan’s lips and he drank the entire thing. “Now, I want to ask you something.”

He stiffened. “I know nothing!” he barked.

“Of course you don’t,” I agreed. He was one of the country bumpkin shamans, a tribal witchdoctor used to lead his tribe into battle. He didn’t have any significant colorations or decorations that suggested he might be high in the ranks of the horde. Still he did have one important role. I held out his shard of irionite wrapped in a scrap of leather. “I believe this is yours?”

His eyes went wide. “It was a gift,” he said, uneasily. “From Shereul the Great, himself.”

“Of course it was,” I said dismissively. “That’s entirely why you’re here. I know that this stone is connected to that big green marble you call a divinity. I’ve seen him work through them before. Even over great distances. Have you seen these things?”

He nodded, slowly.

“Good. Then I’m sure you know how it works. I want you to let me speak to Shereul.”

He tried to run.

He couldn’t, of course – he’d been hobbled at the ankles by a thick piece of rope, and I’m sure his feet were aching and asleep. But the proposition terrified him so much that he risked being cut down on the spot and tried to escape. In retrospect, that may have been exactly what he wanted to have happen. The infantrymen quickly captured the diminutive figure and dragged him back before us.

“Speak to the Old God? No, no, no, humani, no one speak to the Old God! It is an offence!”

“His entire existence is an offence,” spat Pentandra. “We want to speak to the head. Now you can cooperate – work with us – she explained, when it was clear he didn’t understand, “or we can compel you. Use force. Pain. That’s not how we would like to proceed, but . . .” she shrugged.

“No, no, no!” he wailed. “Shereul will punish Karshakos!”

“You’re Karshakos?” I asked. He nodded.

“What if I said I could protect you from the wrath of the Dead God? Shereul?”

He shook his head in disbelief. “No, no, no! No one disturbs the Mighty! He will destroy Karshakos!”

“I will destroy Karshakos if you don’t,” I said, menacingly. “I’m going to hold out your witchstone. I want you to link to that monstrosity. Now!” I commanded.

I felt terrible, bullying any creature like that. But I hadn’t been lying to Penny. This was important enough for this kind of tactic, as distasteful as it was. When Karshakos still wouldn’t cooperate, I began using magic on him to make him uncomfortable. There are all sorts of nasty ways to torture a prisoner with magic, and the irionite gave me nearly unlimited capacity to do so. I started with little things and quickly worked up to far more unpleasantness, determined to get results. Luckily Karshakos wasn’t better trained or stronger willed, because he buckled a lot more quickly than I’d feared.

“Karshakos do it,” he whimpered, beaten at last. I held the stone out to him again, and had Tyndal and Taren standing by with counterspells just in case Karshakos got cocky. I brought the stone close enough to him to access it, then watched as he closed his eyes. I could see the swirls of magical force around him as he built the elements of the spell, and was pleased that I could identify a few major elements. Gurvani magic isn’t nearly as standardized as Imperial magic, but both were derived from the Tree Folk, so there are some vague commonalities.

I didn’t need magesight to tell when the spell took hold. Karshako’s face underwent a sudden, subtle transformation.

“Who summons me?” demanded the far less fearful face. I swallowed. Shereul had arrived.

“Minalan the Spellmonger, Marshal of Castal and Alshar,” I replied, a lot more boldly than I felt. “We need to talk.”

There was a vague expression on the gurvan’s face, utterly at odds with how he’d looked a moment before. He surveyed me through his host’s eyes. “I remember you. I was planning on killing you when the Alka Alon launched their foolish attack.”

“Good, then we can dispense with the formal introductions and get to business. You need to pull your forces back north by fifty miles or so, or they’re going to be decimated in a few hours. We’ve been holding our most powerful spells in reserve, but you’re going to force us to use them if you persist in this ill-advised attack.” I phrased things carefully, as Penny had counseled me to do in a political or diplomatic situation. I was less familiar with how to remotely address undead goblin dark lords, but Shereul seemed to understand. Well enough so that the gurvan before us laughed a sneering, genuinely amused laugh. It sent shivers up my spine, and it took some effort to suppress a shudder.

“Pull back?” he scoffed. “On the brink of victory? Do you take me for a fool?”

“Pull back,” I agreed. “Or you’ll sacrifice the remainder of your army. It has performed magnificently – you should be proud. And turning Sire Koucey against us . . . that was an inspired bit of devilry. But unless you want the rest of your people slaughtered—”

“Do your worst, Spellmonger,” he snorted. “If you have mightier sorceries, let us see them. You should realize by now that no matter how many pebbles you try to use against me, there is no matching my power. Even without my servants I could overwhelm your feeble spells.”

“We seem to be matching them and more,” I observed. “They haven’t fared so well on the battlefield. And a lot of them are burned beyond recognition, now.”

“I have seen the result of your trickery,” the dark lord of the Umbra admitted. “Impressive, in its way. Yet while you play with fire and singe my fingers, I bring a knife to hold at your throat. These are but a part of my legions. Nor are we ignorant of your ways of war. You could slay every one of my servants and there are five to take the place of each one, and they would be more the ready to fight you. Your troops . . . if these are the best you have to defend your stolen lands—”

“They’re killing four of your soldiers for every one of mine who falls,” I pointed out.

“Yet you are summoning me for a parley. Hardly a show of strength.”

He had me there. “More of a quarter than a surrender. A gesture of respect for the valor of your troops, nothing more.”

You couldn’t fault the gurvani’s bravery. They had marched into certain death again and again and gone down fighting. The well-armed eunuchs, in particular, had been universally fierce on the field. They were different from fighting the tribal “scrugs” of the mountains – they had the respect of those warriors who faced them. And a respect for that kind of bravery was a good enough reason to call upon to initiate a chat. “If we end this bloodbath now, we can spare thousands of lives. Thousands of humani, thousands of gurvani. In fact, all of the gurvani we face today.”

The shaman’s face twisted into an amused leer as the Dead God considered that. “What care I for the living?” he asked in a voice that turned my blood to water. “Admit it, Spellmonger: you have expended every resource you have against my minions, and as many as you have slain the horde continues to threaten. Your troops are holding one last wall against us, and when that breaks, your hopes will be lost. This attempt to parlay is nothing more than your arrogant humani trying to find terms that do not leave them dead on the battlefield, or squirming on the sacrificial stone. Your kind are weak, Spellmonger. They fear death so much that they are willing to perform any act to escape it. Even serve me.”

“Yes, I had a lovely chat with Sire Koucey yesterday,” I said, lightly. “It seems you promoted him. Let’s hope that he serves you better as general than he did me as lord.”

“There is only enough of the man you knew left in his head to observe what he does and suffer,” he said, more than a hint of gloating in his voice. “He bends his knee and slays at my command, only the tiniest seed of his original soul in place. And thanks to your spellcraft, now he is badly burnt as well.” I winced reflexively. It would have been better if he had died, of course, but as much as I wanted that I did not hate Koucey. He had been born into a line destined for tragedy, and had tried to do his best against what the gods had conspired to equip him with. “He is just the first of my humani servants, now. When I began this war I had thought to only slay your kind wherever I found them until they no longer polluted this world. Your people have been a disease on Callidore since you came here.

“But torturing Koucey taught me much about the humani and their weaknesses. I began to experiment. I allowed those destined for the stone and dagger a choice: slay five of their kin and live, or take their place in the pyramid of skulls. No worthy gurvani would have taken such an offer. The humani begged for the chance. Such weakness can be exploited, and now the gurvani lands we have re-taken are tended by these wretched slaves, freeing our warriors to slaughter you all. So shall it be, until the last of your resistance is choked.”

“I’ve seen it,” I admitted. “It’s a perversion of the highest order – I’m impressed. And using renegade magi by promising them witchstones? Horrific. Yet I hear that some cursed souls have sought you out and taken your service voluntarily. Do you really think you can trust such servants, Shereul? For a while, perhaps, but eventually . . .”

“Eventually they will do what?” he gloated. “Kill me in my sleep? I sleep not, Spellmonger. I shall never sleep again. Approach me unawares? I am always aware, even as I speak to you now. Stab me in the back? I am pleasantly without one. I am not limited by the boundaries of the living anymore. I have transcended. I will not age, I will not die. I alone of the gods am truly immortal, now.”

I fumed. It wasn’t so much that he was correct, it was his damn pompous attitude, like a self-important baron who thinks Trygg made him breakfast and Breega wiped his arse every morning.

“But surely your power has limits, else you would have devastated all the Duchies now, not merely upset the smallest corner of the weakest duchy,” I observed. “If you were truly omnipotent, then we wouldn’t be having this discussion. And the Umbra would cover the world, not just Koucey’s backyard.”

“What are a few months – or a few centuries – in the scale of years yet before me? If I am not omnipotent, then it merely a matter of time. I am potent enough for the task of cleansing Callidore of humani.”

“You’re going to find that a lot harder than you might think,” I said, evenly. “We will fight for every inch of land. And we will not surrender. We’ve held this long with a small force, and even now the Duchies muster their forces. Your armies will not be able to stand against the united might of our warriors.”

“The Five Duchies could not unite to save their lives,” he countered, reasonably. “Even before I was assassinated, we knew that. They fight each other constantly. Your petty lords kill each other in meaningless squabbles. Your great nobles scheme against the Dukes, and the minor nobles scheme against the great nobles. It is chaos. Whereas in my realm, all work to one purpose. Unite your duchies, if you can,” he said with a sneer. “Throw their ungainly bodies and their stinking horses at my legions. Flash your lances and your swords all you wish. Kill as many gurvani as you can – it will only make us stronger. Already my breeding pits yield a new generation of gurvani, larger and stronger and more numerous than the last. We have turned your own smithies against you, and the iron from our mountains is now employed to their defense. But my legions are not the only weapon at my disposal.”

“I’m aware of the monoliths you employ,” I said, dismissively. “Cheap tricks, Shereul. Mind games? That’s the tool of common footwizards. I expected more from you. We’re dealing with your stones, however, one by one. For the last few weeks I’ve had teams of warmagi scouring the countryside and destroying them wherever we found them.”

“I did not mean the sorka stones,” he continued, calmly. “I have the sacred molopar, Spellmonger, the one you profaned. And I recall a time when it was properly and reverently tended by the priests. I know of its power, and how to control it. Beyond it lies countless worlds, with endless resources. You could slay every gurvan in my legions and still I would have power far beyond your wretched duchies.”

“I doubt you have that level of control,” I said, shaking my head. “Not this soon. The glyphs and spellshards I saw in that cave required a far more sophisticated touch than you possess, Shereul. Face it: your people are a remnant of their former civilization.”

“Which is why I shall make them strong again. We are already copying your ways, and improving them. And the gifts from beyond the molopar have been generous. Already they move into place, ready to smash your pathetic army to splinters. So give me your terms, and let us end this pointless debate.”

“Our terms?” I asked, surprised. “In light of your recent gains, I believe I could convince Duke Lenguin to hold his forces here if you will withdraw yours back into the Umbra. Your sphere of influence,” I explained. “Leave the Alshari territory you’ve invaded for the Alshari territory you’ve captured. His Grace can be persuaded to recognize your claim to it, if you swear an oath not to take up arms against him again.”

The gurvani shaman laughed in genuine amusement. “A truce? When I have taken half of the northlands? You are bold and foolish, mageling.”

“Taken what?” I shrugged. “A few cold military outposts? A dozen villages that never grew anything more than corn and potatoes? Five hundred miles of dry steppes? They’ll be buried in snow ten feet deep in a month. Let’s see your legions get through that! Apart from the Umbralands, all you have ‘captured’ is worthless. No, your precious legions have conquered you a dirty snowball, Shereul, no matter how large it looks on the map.”

“Do you know why the north is so desolate?” he asked, unexpectedly. “My ancestors went to war with the Alka Alon – those parasites you call the ‘Tree Folk’. Our blessed ancestor, Gurvos, threw off their yoke. His untrained, untried army faced their former masters in the north, and for six long days they fought. Tens of thousands died. And the forces that were unleashed bruised the land itself. That is what we shall do to the heart of the Duchies, Spellmonger. Burn them to ashes, and then smash the soil itself if we have to, to prohibit the humani infestation from taking root. Kill the children one by one until the only ones left are as docile as River Folk. Then feed them to our children like cattle until they, too, are gone, and the gurvani once again rule Callidore.”

“Don’t you think the Alka Alon will have something to say about it?” The Tree Folk’s magic was orders of magnitude more powerful than Imperial magic. Once their mighty empire stretched across the face of the land, their lords ruling huge populations of Alon. The magics that Shereul referred to as being responsible for devastating the northern wastes were well within their capabilities. And they were not favorably disposed to undead goblin heads that threatened to wound reality, itself. “They tried to stop you once before. You can’t think that they would sit idly by while you devastate their world?”

“The Alka Alon!” he snorted in derision. “Why do you think we spar with you, human? When we have tested our strength on you, we shall turn our attention to our former masters. They are weak, now, a shadow of their previous might. Their magics are feeble. They hide in their trees and use others to do their bidding. When we have driven your folk back into the sea, we shall seek out the last of their refuges and burn them, slay them all, and all those who stand with them. You are but a trial to build our strength upon before we destroy the Alka Alon.”

“You just can’t seem to get along with anyone, can you?” I chided. “The Alka Alon are building their strength and preparing to assist us, if we should prove to need it. Personally, I think we’ve got things pretty well in hand.” That was a bold-faced lie – I had no idea what the Alka Alon were doing. For all I knew the Tree Folk were finding deep holes to hide in like the Stone Folk. But I said it confidently enough so that I hoped he’d believe it.

“It matters not,” he said, almost expressionless. “Struggle all you wish, add what allies you might, but the final result is inevitable. Every life taken in front of the molopar under my spells extends my realm further. Within it I am nearly omnipotent. And more, I am enlarging the molopar. Soon my resources will be unlimited.”

“Yes, you said that,” I said, feigning boredom. “And you keep muttering these cryptic threats, and it’s all very dramatic. However, I haven’t seen much more from your legions than a couple of tribes of trolls you conned into fighting for you, and lots and lots of mountain scrugs. If you had a decisive weapon, you would have used it by now. Face it, Shereul, you’re weak, and you’re going to lose this one. And more to come.”

Again, that horrible barking laugh. “Look to the skies, Spellmonger. You wish to see my power? Look to the skies and see your doom!”

I was tired of this. I gave Tyndal a mental tug through our telepathic link.

Take his head, I ordered.

My apprentice drew and struck much more quickly that I would have anticipated – he’d been practicing. A flash of Slasher and a spurt of blood and the shaman’s laughter died with his body.

“That was very satisfying,” Tyndal said, looking down at Slasher’s blood-covered blade.

“You needed a fresh optic nerve. That one fresh enough for you?” I asked Taren. He nodded, drew his knife, and began the dissection, completely unmindful of the blood and hair.

Pentandra stared at us wide-eyed for a moment, and then threw up all over the place. I had to have Tyndal lead her away. He didn’t seem upset. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“This will do nicely, Min,” Taren assured me, holding up a bit of gray tissue that resembled a slug. “Let me get started, and I can have something for you in an hour or so.”

“What should we do while we wait?” I asked.

He raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Go keep those scrugs out of the barn. That would be helpful.”

I nodded, placing the shaman’s stone into the bag around my neck with my own and six others. I took a deep breath and drew my new blade for practice.

“What did you name it, Master?” Tyndal asked, returning from escorting Penny back to a hay bale to recover herself.

Oh, yeah. A name.

I looked at the magnificent sword, the black sharkskin grip, the simple, elegant curve of the gray metal blade and the wild patterns woven into the steel. Made from meteoric iron, Master Cormaran had said. She had served me well in the few brief hours of our acquaintance. I could feel it throb with enchantment in my hand, though most of the spells were discharged. Already it had slain dozens without a name between the time it was first blooded and the rising of the sun.

“Draluada,” I said, finally, using the Old Imperial world. “Twilight,” I translated. “A gray blade for a dark and murky time.”

“Twilight,” Tyndal repeated, nodding firmly. “I like it. May you bear her in honor, Master.”

“Thanks,” I nodded. “You too. Slasher holding up?”

“She lives up to her name,” he agreed, grinning wolfishly.

Funny, I’d always thought of Slasher as a ‘he’.

“Then let’s let them both play,” I said with a great cleansing sigh. “I’ve done all the clever machinations I can for the day. Everything now lies in others’ hands, most notably the fickle fingers of the gods. All we have left to do now is hold the wall and wait.”

I gathered up every spare warmage who wasn’t doing something more important, and we made our way down the road toward the front – which was a hell of a lot closer to us than it had been this time yesterday. As tired as I was, I wouldn’t have minded a longer walk.

There were six or eight of us, the rest already deployed along the line in support of the infantry. Carmella was still having her engines fling every rock she could gather at the horde, but Hesia had returned from the medical tents after taking an arrow to the arm. It was in a sling but she looked really pissed, and pointed out that she could use a warwand one-handed.

Hesia’s not usually a battlefield mage, but right now I needed everyone we could to hold the wall. And she was pretty pissed about getting wounded, which was helpful. The other Gilmorans joined us, and Master Cormaran again, as well as Forondal and Sarakeem, who tagged along eager to try out the power of their stones.

Terleman had been itching for real combat for the last day, but had been preoccupied with tactical matters until now. He really was a magnificent battlefield warmage, and he had a sterling reputation. He was one of my best officers, had a good head for strategy and tactics, and the men loved him. But that also meant he didn’t get to wet his blade as often as he liked. Since the strategic situation had de-evolved into “stop them from coming over the wall”, he felt that he could lead just as effectively from the front as from the barn.

“Besides, it just got a lot shorter to walk to the front,” he pointed out as we marched west toward a sea of goblins. “Yesterday it would have taken over an hour. Now it’s just a brisk stroll across camp.”

“You’re not funny,” I said, sourly. I guess I wasn’t the only one who had noticed that.

We weren’t the only ones headed toward the wall, either. The general call had gone out, and all support personnel behind the lines had been recalled to infantry duty. I saw cooks and potboys throw on helmets and armor for the first time and trudge to the line with spears and determination. Even some of the non-combatants took up arms, in case of the worst happening. When you see a camp whore practicing with a spear, you know that things are looking bad. There was a sense of anxiety in the air you could cut with an axe.

We headed for the center point in the line, just in front of and slightly west of the trebuchet, where a small but well-built command post rose three stories above the field in a redoubt, a bowshot from the wall. Bold Asgus was commanding the defenses and despite his mercenary background the knights and nobles were hopping at his orders as quickly as the infantrymen and the sellswords.

I suppose the sight – and smell – of massed goblins just on the other side of a flimsy wall and hastily-dug ditchwork had finally given everyone in camp a sense of urgency. Bold Asgus was the kind of calm, collected voice you wanted to pay attention to in that kind of crisis. He seemed in his natural element, barking orders to his subordinates as he scanned the far side of the wall from the top of the rickety tower.

But I was surprised to see that he had a supervisor, too.

“Duke Lenguin,” I gasped. “You’re out of bed?”

His Grace was still wearing his blood-spattered armor, although he had replaced the shiny jousting helm with a shiny helm more suited for melee combat on foot. He was limping slightly, and there was a bandage on his head under his coif, but he didn’t seem addled, and he was making sure that Asgus’ orders carried some weight. He had a knot of gentlemen-attendants and bodyguards around him, from Sir Duranal, the Captain of the Ducal Guard to Count Brayan, Marshal of the Wilderlands. Most of them had been on Lenguin’s ill-fated foray against the horde. Their once-pretty armor was hacked and scratched and splattered with blood. None of them looked particularly happy about facing the horde again.

“Master Icorod released me,” he nodded, quietly, “after giving me a draught of some foul-tasting herbs and waving his hands over my head. He threw me out of the surgical tent after that because he said he needed the bed. That’s never happened to me before,” he admitted, sheepishly.

“It’s a day for novelty, Your Grace,” I agreed, telling him briefly about my conversation with Shereul. Lenguin’s eyes got bigger and bigger as I recounted the incident, particularly the part about “watch the skies”. He kept glancing nervously to the heavens after that, as if he feared a sudden thunderbolt.

“Was that wise, Master Minalan?” he asked, politely. “Taunting our foe like that, and then to execute his emissary . . . “

“He was no emissary, he was my prisoner,” I corrected. “And I needed his optic nerve, anyway. I learned much from our talk, more than Shereul realizes. Whatever the risk, it was worth the attempt.”

We both looked out over the wall and ditchwork at the sea of goblins, and for a moment I felt like I was back at Boval Castle. I was tempted to recollect that hopelessness, but this wasn’t Boval. This was Timberwatch, and I had the cream of the Northern Alshari nobility defending the wall. And a highly-motivated magical corps. And other tricks up my sleeve.

The goblins were chanting, just as they had at Boval. But it was more organized than the siege. Trolls beat great drums made of entire oxhides with the trunks of trees to keep time. Individual units were chanting at different times, but in cadence. I could feel the waves of emotion splash over them. If you get any large group together and get them doing the same things you can generate that kind of emotional power – religious magic does it all the time. And I knew their shamans were manipulating that power, turning it into something useful. But mostly they were just steeling themselves for the assault.

“Can you understand what they’re chanting?” Lenguin asked me, quietly. I think he was a little afraid – he was trembling – but he was trying to strike a brave pose to inspire his men. I guess it might have worked from a distance.

“I don’t know the exact meaning, Your Grace, but I imagine it translates loosely to ‘We’re better than you are!’” offered Master Thinradel, dryly. He had come in behind us, his court finery replaced with a well-made black leather hauberk. He had acquired a proper mageblade from somewhere, too.

“I defer to the wisdom of the Court Wizard,” I shrugged. “Even if I could translate it, it doesn’t mean I would understand it. The gurvani language is replete with idioms that belie a simple translation. Although I imagine a working knowledge of their epics would be helpful.”

“Those beasts have epic poetry?” asked Thinradel.

“They once had as an advanced culture as we enjoy,” I pointed out. “And the natural gurvani may yet prove helpful to us. But Shereul tainted the gurvani of the Mindens with his hate. And with that taint he is teaching them to learn our ways, better to destroy us. But it would be very helpful for us to understand them better, if we plan to survive this war.”

“I intend to stop them here and now,” vowed Lenguin, firmly, in unconvincingly. “After today, no goblin will dare step foot in Alshar.”

“Your Grace, while I share your enthusiasm, I must disagree,” I sighed. “Even if we defeat them today, the war will go on. And on and on, until the Dead God is truly dead. And I have no idea how to do that. Nor does anyone else. At best, we buy time to organize better against him. Get the other Duchies to assist. But there will be no ultimate victory today.”

“What shall be our next move then, Marshal Minalan?” he asked, disturbed.

“We hold the wall, we hold the line, and maybe we skirmish with them on their western flank, until our next great spell activates. Then we attack from all sides. We still have several thousand cavalry over there in good order. And several eager warmagi.”

I pointed to the hill, off in the distance, beyond the dark river of gurvani. Azar and Horka and their knights had ringed a small rise and done what they could to fortify it. There were only four thousand left – with a small corps of Redshaft’s mounted archers as auxiliaries – but they were effectively keeping the gurvani from getting to the river.

Alone, they weren’t enough to even wound the massed legions that faced us, but they were keeping the horde from bringing their full force to bear on the line just by being there. With Wenek and his clansmen boxed up in the Pearwoods, the cavalry were really the last tactical force I had at my disposal. Everyone else was manning the line. Even Lord Lardbutt of Timberwatch had his disreputable-looking vassals behind the wall, looking grim as they clutched at their axes.

Lenguin sighed impatiently. “I dislike leaving the initiative to the foe,” he said, sourly. “And I am not by nature a patient man.”

I could empathize – but before I could say so, the big mercenary captain entered the enclosure, tossing his axe to one of his aides who caught it without blinking.

“May I remind His Grace of the Warlord of Tressa’s famous words,” Bold Asgus said, as he took stock of the line. “ ‘In battle, the initiative lies with he who think he has it’.”

“You are correct, Captain,” Lenguin smirked humorlessly. “But might I remind you what happened to the Warlord in that battle.”

Asgus shrugged and grinned. “It is nonetheless true, Your Grace. Marshal Minalan, I have inspected the lines. They are as strong as mortal men can make them. There are attacks across the field at three or four places where the trolls have been taunted into moving beyond their own lines, but apart from that they keep their distance.”

Outside the goblins’ chanting was growing louder and more regular, and I began to pick out individual words in their guttural tongue. One part of the host was chanting “Shaug!” followed by three drum beats. Then the other part would scream “Garak!” The timekeepers were increasing the pace with every third repetition, which was as annoying as it sounds, and just a little intimidating.

“It is nearly time to strike,” I said, knowing that Taren shouldn’t need more than another twenty minutes to activate his spell. “Ensure everyone has water, and is prepared for close combat. Thirty minutes, at the most, until we think we have the initiative.”

Asgus nodded, but he seemed distracted by something outside. The shouts from the gurvani were separated by a mere beat now, but that wasn’t what had captured his attention. It was a dark shape in the sky to the northwest. Something was coming down toward the battlefield – something quite large.

“That is,” the mercenary added in quiet wonder, “if the initiative is ours to take.”

“Shaug! Garak!” the goblins screamed one last time, and then burst into wild cheers. What horns they had among them they blew, until the noise was a horrible cloud of anger and hate and victory. The shape dove, descending upon our brave cavalrymen out in the field below the escarpment, who scattered in terror from its horrible visage.

And at last I understood. Shaug. Garak. A cognate of the Tree Folk word, shaqueratha, a term which figured prominently in the older forms of epic poetry among the Alon.

It’s usually translated by scholars as ‘dragon.’

Chapter Forty-Two:

The Dragon Descends

Timberwatch, First Day Of Autumn

The Alka Alon have had the legend of the dragon in their myths for centuries – I remember reading about them in some elementary translations back at the Inrion Academy and being utterly fascinated by the idea of a beast so large and terrible. They played a major role in many of the ancient epics, but dragons figured prominently in the Carhuratha Varaenthada epic, which detailed the rebellion of some clan of Tree Folk against their lawful lord over some imagined slight and led to a war of sixty years and the deaths of tens of thousands. Dragons were used as guardians and as forces on the battlefield, and were by all accounts ferocious in combat.

But the texts always referred to the existence of the great worms in the past tense. Indeed, they were noted as “extinct” in every human-derived text on the subject I’d ever read.

The sinuous black shape that fell from the sky and landed on the rise in front of us didn’t look very extinct. Its great wings were forty feet from tip to tip, and its long tail was almost as long. The head was half the size of a horse, and was encrusted with horns and spikes which hid its shiny black eyes in its head.

For all of its bulk, it was fast. It landed on the rise and took less than a dozen heartbeats to clear the area around it of men and horses with a few snaps of its jaws and a lash of its tail. The screech it made drove the horses mad, so only the most steadfast of mounts could bear it. Not that it did them much good. The dragon was a powerful engine of destruction, and its hide was thick and hard. It began slaying all who came against it until it made a nest of tangled bodies and armored limbs torn from their sockets.

“Dear Ishi, mother of us all,” whispered Lenguin as he watched the dragon claw its way through one knight after another, ripping men in half like a cat in a nest of mice. “What unholy horrors has this Dead God unleashed on the world?”

I couldn’t answer. I was caught between staring in horrid fascination and wanting to do something – anything – to help. But a river of angry gurvani stood between me and the fight, however, and besides . . .

. . . it was a dragon.

The Alshari nobility it was attacking didn’t run blindly away. Hundreds took up arms and charged the beast, but even a mounted knight at full gallop, lance couched and murder on his mind couldn’t hit a target that refused to sit still. The dragon was fast, as fast as a dog in a fight, and it leveled all who stood against it as fast as they came. Arrows peppered its hide as the Nirodi archers emptied their quivers into it, but to no avail. Lances and javelins snapped off against its thick black hide. Swords were useless, if they could be brought close enough to bear on the worm at all.

“Minalan! What can we do?” Bold Asgus asked, his eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them. He was an old soldier with a lifetime of campaigns behind him, but a dragon on the battlefield was new in his experience. He looked at me, stricken. “We must get to them!”

“How? And do what?” Tyndal asked, from behind me. “Die? Is that a, a—”

“It is, indeed, a dragon,” stated Master Thinradel, authoritatively, almost eagerly. “A young one, too, not more than a hatchling—”

My turn to stare. “How do you know about them?” I demanded.

He looked back at me, surprised. “Are you being serious? Didn’t you know western Alshar was once a nesting-ground for them? You can still find their skeletons in remote locations all along the Mindens. There are even several very good accounts of the last few live specimens in the Great Palace Library in Falas.”

“I thought they were extinct!” I admitted. “And I’m really wishing they were at the moment!” At least half a hundred men had fallen before the worm’s claws in the first few moments, and the rise in the distance boiled w

“It was always a possibility,” the Court Wizard of Alshar admitted. “But there were many who thought that there were other species on the other side of the Mindens, wherever that is. Apparently Shereul has found some way to succor them. That’s quite difficult, if the lore can be relied upon.”

“Does the lore say anything about how to slay one?” asked Lenguin.

“Alas, there’s not much about that,” he agreed with a sigh. “That’s even more difficult. Apart from Sir Grevasilo of Borde slaying the aging, sickly dragon known as Northeye back during the Magocracy. And that was with a poisoned sheep and a two-handed axe.”

“What can we do?” Tyndal repeated, in despair. I considered contacting Azar or Horka, but I decided against it. They were probably quite aware of the dragon in their midst, and might resent the intrusion.

“I think we’re about to have troubles of our own,” suggested Lenguin, peering away from the dragon’s terror and toward the legions of wildly cheering gurvani. The dragon’s attack was some sort of signal for the goblins, and within a few minutes of the attack the goblins began charging across the line and into our ditchworks, the trolls leading the way. Our men weren’t quite caught off-guard, but the sight of a huge black saurian shredding the flower of Alshari knighthood in the background was a little distracting. As the screaming hordes threw themselves at our ditches and walls, our spears were hard-pressed to keep them from overwhelming the defenses and gaining the wall.

In moments there was battle at every point along the great defensive line, like a small fire that suddenly erupts into a wild blaze. They hit the wall and the ditchwork with everything they had. In some places goblins actually made it over the top and amongst the men, but they were quickly beaten back. The great trolls through huge bundles of boughs and logs into the ditches and pulled down sections of the barbican, and a few even made it through the line – but we’d gotten better at fighting the beasts since yesterday. The infantry were getting better at entangling the troll’s limbs with ropes or nets, and then hack at him with axes until he stopped moving. Still, a single breach in the wall forced us to expend reserves to shore it up, and after ten minutes of watching our enemy nearly overwhelm us,

Asgus and the other captains were busy shouting orders after that, and Lenguin, his men and I mostly stayed out of their way. But soon there wasn’t much room for orders. It was fight and kill and try not to die, and any grander strategy was forgotten.

I looked out at the wall in front of us. The command post had attracted the attention of a number of trolls and shamans, and the goblin infantry, who were throwing themselves into our spears with great enthusiasm. To see that kind of naked ferocity that close to us was disturbing, like being on the bank of a raging river and knowing you could fall in any time.

“Let’s go see to the defense,” Lenguin said, quietly, as he groped for his helmet. “They can use our swords there . . . and I feel useless here.”

“But, Your Grace!” the Captain of his guard said, alarmed. “To be that close to peril—”

“Bah! It matters not whether we face it here or on the wall – and if I can inspire the men to fight harder by being amongst them, then all the better.”

Sir Daranal didn’t look happy at all, but he gave a curt nod and loosened his sword in its sheath before descending the ladder before his liege.

“Perhaps I can make up for some of the grief I caused last night,” he explained to me on his way down. “If nothing else, I’ll blood my sword. You see to your spellcraft, Marshal. When shall we strike?”

I looked around at the command post. Asgus had the direction of the defense well in hand. The dragon continued to harass the cavalry, keeping them from being useful. Until Taren had his spell ready, there was really nothing else for me to do.

“Actually, I think we’ll join you, Your Grace,” I decided, tiredly. “I had too little sleep last night, and it will become apparent enough when the time is right to traverse the line and take the fight to the horde. Besides, a little magic in the mix added to the mess in front of us just might be enough to hold them until then. And I could do with the exercise,” I added.

* * *

There was plenty of fight for us all, when we finally made it to the wall. Goblins weren’t quite pouring over, but they were coming in splashes of a dozen or a score at a time. The infantry always managed to close or counter the breach, but that left plenty of mischief-making gurvani to contend with. As the Duke and his party made it to the wall, a big cluster of two-score had successfully forced their way to the top, and required a firm and furious discussion to deal with them. My new mageblade – Twilight, I recalled fondly – was soaked in goblin blood before we made it through the invaders and to the top of the wall. Even Lenguin struck a few blows with his overly-ornate blade.

It was hot work, and bloody, but the mindless fighting made me forget about the increasing hopelessness of the situation for fifteen minutes or so. Every furry black head I removed seemed to be replaced with two more, even more eager to kill me. Tyndal and I stood back to back at one point and had to kick half a dozen of the vicious little buggers off of the top of the barbican they had scaled. Every time I started to feel as if I would be overwhelmed at any moment from the ferocity of the attack, I glanced up worriedly at the dragon eating our cavalry in the distance. Compared to at least five tons of belligerent saurian, stabbing goblins was easy.

We also had the chance to repel some particularly nasty spells. Twice some shaman tried to animate the dead corpses at our feet, and twice I delivered a counterspell potent enough to stop his efforts. And Tyndal saved my head once when he deftly deflected a magical bolt of some sort that seemed to be aimed at me. But for the most part we eschewed spellcraft in favor of steel. It was too difficult to cast effectively in the cramped quarters above the ditch, and the possibility of hitting friend as well as foe was all too real.

I had almost forgotten the grand strategy, so busy was I trying to beat back the onslaught. But at some point I felt the tenuous beginnings of psychic contact in my head, and after I gutted a well-singed specimen of goblinhood I paused and allowed the voice to manifest in my head.

We’re ready, Minalan, Taren thought to me. I can release the spell at any time, but . . . well, Pentandra says we should wait another fifteen minutes.

I groaned audibly, but in my mind I shrieked. Breega’s perky nipples, why?

Because those reinforcements you’ve been expecting have arrived. They made quite the stir at the southern pickets. But Pentandra has explained the situation to them, and they’re making their way toward the front.

I instantly whirled around, and peered toward the quiet south. Most of the camp was deserted, with every man on the wall who could be. But marching down the rough road that we’d worn in the soil in the last few weeks was a column of infantry that seemed to stretch back so far into the distance I couldn’t see the end of it.

“Finally!” I gasped, suddenly feeling the smallest hint of relief.

“What is it, Master?” Tyndal asked as he dispatched another ambitious goblin with a talent for climbing.

“Help has arrived,” I pointed out. He peered where my finger directed, and likely used magesight to see more clearly. I watched as his eyes got wide and a huge grin spread out on his face.

“Is that . . . ?”

“Yes, finally,” I agreed. “If we can hold out here another fifteen minutes, they can get into position for a real offensive. Run back to Bold Asgus and tell him that we need to prepare for a serious push over the wall in about a thousand heartbeats – and I’ve got fresh troops for him to send in!”

Tyndal ran off, Slasher flashing wetly in the afternoon sun as he returned it to its sheath and leapt down from the barbican with impressive grace. That boy was daily turning more and more into a man – not just a man, but a warrior. It did my heart good to see it, too. With his ancestral home in the hands of the goblins, his family all but dead, and everyone he knew huddled in a refugee camp a thousand miles south, one wouldn’t be surprised if a boy like Tyndal crawled into a hole in his mind and never came out. But here he was, killing goblins and casting spells like a warmage, when a year ago he’d been shoveling shit in a stable.

That reminded me of my other apprentice. After teaching a few more ambitious goblins the futility of mounting a well-defended wall, I stretched my mind until I felt Rondal, who was still way up at the peak of Timberwatch Tower.

Rondal, can you see the entire column?

Master, it stretches for three miles! He said excitedly. Wagons, horses, soldiers—

Good, good! Look, from here on out I want you to coordinate with Pentandra to help deploy those troops to where they’re most needed. It will take their van at least ten minutes or so to reach the wall. Not long from now we’re going to launch another nasty spell, and I want them in place and ready to fight by then.

He agreed, excitedly, and after asking me how the battle was going, he turned to his business and I turned to mine. Which was, at the moment, avoiding an inter-Duchy incident.

It was inevitable that Lenguin would hear of and see our reinforcements before I could speak to him about them. Their banners were waving proudly in the autumn breeze, and the men on the wall had begun cheering when they realized that help had arrived. By the time I found him, a mere hundred yards down the line where he was encouraging the men, he was livid.

“Spellmonger!” he nearly shrieked. “Do my eyes deceive me?” he asked, angrily.

I skidded to a halt and tried to put the best face on it. I admit, I may have been a little too enthusiastic for his taste.

“Your Grace, glorious news! We are reinforced!”

“We are reinforced . . .” he repeated, bitterly. “We are ‘reinforced’ by Castali! Not Alshari! And is that not the Ducal banner waving in the van?”

I glanced toward the approaching column, even though I didn’t need to. “Yes, Your Grace, I believe it is,” I answered respectfully. “At the head of thirty thousand fresh Castali troops. Which we desperately need,” I reminded him.

He glared at me. “So you have brought me to the brink of ruin, and then when all is darkest you conjure a fresh army . . . and leave me to thank my bitch of a sister and her lackwit husband for saving my Duchy!”

“That would not be the way I’d choose to look at it, Your Grace,” I said, despairing. I knew he’d be upset. I had hoped that he’d see this unexpected help as the gift from the gods it clearly was. Instead he had allowed the politics of the moment to rule his temper. “I would rather say that the valiant people of Castal – of which I am a native – have come to the aid and succor of their dearest kin in Alshar.”

“Or one could see it as an invading army striking at us in our moment of weakness!” bellowed Count Brayan angrily. As Warden of the Wilderlands, this really was an affront. His office had been created primarily to counter the machinations of the Castali court into the northlands, with keeping the Northwatch castles supplied against the nomads a distant second priority. To him, this was no less than disaster. Fifty years ago the Warden of the Riverlands had failed in his task and the Gilmoran baronies had sworn to Castal and diminished the Alshari realm by a quarter. He’d lost his head as a result, and no doubt Brayan feared a similar fate.

But now was not the time for politics. “If my lord will condescend to note,” I said, irritated, “the Castali approach us from the rear, not face us with swords drawn. We have a plentitude of foe to face today, not to mention the dragon that even now is tearing your knights to shreds, and our men have fought for two days and a night without rest or respite. If my lord wishes to descend and speak to the commander of the column, I’m sure he’ll understand how his service and that of his men will not be needed today. And I’m certain your own men will be happy to see them go, won’t they?”

Brayan started to give me an angry response when Lenguin silenced him with a look. Then the scrawny Duke stared at me from under his helm, and I could see him debating whether or not to have me executed on the spot.

But whatever his personal feelings, reason prevailed. Or perhaps he was still shaken from his brush with death the night before. Either way, he seemed to settle down and accept the ignominy of his deliverance with a little grace. “I take it this is some secret stratagem against the Dead God, then?” he asked, levelly.

“In part,” I agreed. “I did say that we were getting help from the other Duchies. Even if Koucey and Shereul dismissed it as a trick, due to the enmity the royal houses bear for each other, it was worthwhile baiting them with pledges of aid they did not suspect would be fulfilled. I had the Castali Court Wizard, Master Dunselen, blanket the movements of the force just enough to make it appear an illusion cast to befuddle our enemies with phantom armies. When they looked closer in their scrying, no doubt they decided it was a ruse and ignored it.

“But it was no ruse. Duke Rard, your kinsman,” I reminded him, patiently, “has been gathering forces in the Castali Wilderlands almost as long as you, Your Grace. Once I made him aware of the dire nature of the threat – and he took nearly as much convincing as yourself, Sire – then encouraging him to bring them to bear where they could do the most good was only reasonable.”

“And yet now is the first time you saw fit to inform me?” the Duke asked, angrily. “When their banners are in sight? I sit here on a pile of dirt, half of my men dead, covered in shit and mud and blood, and now I will have to bend a knee in gratitude to that—”

I risked a major breach of protocol – and likely my head – and interrupted a sitting Duke. “Duke Lenguin, if I may disagree: you are standing to arms at a post defending your realm after a hard-fought, two-day battle against a potent and devious foe – and now a bloody dragon. You’ve fought the horde to a standstill, you are still in command of your men and your lands, and you will go and greet your brother duke as an equal, not a beggar.”

“It is not fit—” began Count Brayan, angrily. I raised my hand, enveloped his head in a bubble of force through which no sound could penetrate, and continued while I still had a head with which to speak.

“Your Grace,” I said with a deep sigh as the Warden of the Wilderlands struggled to speak, “this is not the time to indulge in rivalry. Doom is at hand, and the differences now between Alshari and Castali are far less important than the differences between humans and goblins. Consider that Duke Rard risks much, and has little to gain, by expending his forces in this manner. His better interest would be to secure his borders and wait for you to expend your full strength, would it not? Yet he sends the best of his forces to your aid in your time of need instead. I entreat you, Your Grace, to accept them graciously.”

Lenguin would have burned holes in my head with that stare, were he a mage. “Are you quite finished?” he snarled. He meant it rhetorically, but since being ‘quite finished’ would mean releasing the very loud Warden of the Wilderlands, I chose to take him literally.

“No, Your Grace,” I said, slowly, my mind racing. I hated politics – and politics at this level was the most frustrating of all. One wrong word and I’d be in the middle of two wars and possibly the nastiest battle in the history of the Duchies. I wanted to scream and punch him in his thin-boned face and point out the idiocy of letting his unresolved issues with his sister dictate the course of the war, but that was unlikely to get the response I wanted. What would Penny do? some productive part of my mind asked. And suddenly I knew what to do.

“You have an opportunity, here,” I reasoned. “You can go meet your brother-in-law’s army and throw a fit and incite another fight behind the lines – which will get us all killed. Or you can go out there and stiffly accept Castal’s assistance, and their men will stand with yours . . . and be the first to retreat.

“Or you can go out there with all the grace and class as befits a Duke of Alshar and welcome this gods-sent army to defend your realm as brothers, as Narasi, as fellow warriors in defense of all of humanity. That will bind the two armies as one, and permit my spellwork the best chance of driving the goblins from the field. In turn, your men will see you as the wise, gracious, and majestic Duke, not the petulant lord of a troubled land.

“Better, the men of Castal will have to acknowledge that grace and nobility, which would go a long way to restore Alshar’s soiled reputation in some quarters – Your Grace knows how such lies get spread,” I added, playing on his (quite justified) suspicion of his sister’s deviousness. “Who knows? Make enough of a show out of it, and perhaps some of the Gilmoran baronies might be persuaded to renew their fealty to you?” That was a stretch, but nothing enraged the Ducal House of Alshar like the Gilmoran betrayal.

“I dislike this notion,” he grumbled, anger still hot in his eyes.

“Dislike it all you wish, Your Grace. But if a little humble ass-kissing yields such bountiful returns, then I suggest you decide you like the taste enough for the day. If you are willing to draw a sword and give your life for your Duchy, surely your nobility will permit you to bend a knee and express thanks to your benefactors. I foretell Your Grace will fare better for the deed.”

He still wasn’t happy. But he was starting to be convinced.

“I know not how to play that part,” he said, defiantly. When he frowned like that, he bore an uncanny resemblance to his sister.

I gave an exasperated sigh. “Surely you do, Your Grace. You’ve had strong men kissing your ass your entire life,” I said, nodding toward the burly Brayan, who was now screaming silently, “yet they can bear the flavor. Just do as they do, and you will be better and wiser for it.”

That should have cost me my head just for the impudence, under any other circumstance. But I watched as anger and frustration broke like a passing storm, and a kind of mad laughter came from the Duke.

“Indeed, they have! And indeed I will!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Very well, Spellmonger, if I shall meet my sister’s forces, I shall be properly attired and arrayed.” He began to look around for one of the retainers who were never more than ten feet away from him.

“No time for that, Your Grace,” I urged, “our spells must launch within minutes. Go instead bloody from battle, sword in hand, and invite your Castali neighbors to join you on the wall— after expressing your thanks. You will appear more martial and regal that way, then wrapped in finery. And more inspiring to the common soldier,” I added.

“You shall still answer for why you didn’t tell me, should we both live the day, Spellmonger,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Release my Warden, if you will?”

I snapped for effect and let the bubble around Brayan collapse.

“What did he say?” he demanded, alarmed. “What did you say?”

“Come, Brayan,” Lenguin said, tiredly. “I have need of your skills. This Spellmonger has contrived to allow us a pious display of humility before the gods, and I would have no less than my best advisors in such matters beside me.”

I allowed myself a few precious moments to enjoy one small victory. Then I went back and studied the approaching forces with an eye of where best to dispose of them along the line. As I was picking out banners by eye, I realized that one – a golden hammer on a blue field – was one I’d seen before. In Wilderhall.

The personal banner of Duke Rard IV. The Duke, himself, had taken up the sword and meant to lead his troops in battle today.

“Oh, shit,” I sighed, realizing that my day had just gotten even more interesting.

Chapter Forty-Three:

The Turning Of The Tide

Timberwatch, First Day of Autumn

I don’t know exactly what passed between the two Dukes when they met, and although I’ve heard a half-dozen accounts that conflict on key points, the reason I wasn’t able to be there was the fact that I still had a goblin horde and – more pressing – an enraged adolescent dragon on my hands.

To that latter matter I was forced to devote some attention moments after Lenguin departed the wall. Azar was contacting me psionically, the first time I’d had direct contact from the cavalry since the dragon landed.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought, actually.

Min, I think we’ve finally got a handle on this, Azar reported, frankly, mind-to-mind. That ugly bastard has slain about a hundred and injured at least that many, but that’s all. The horses won’t go near it, though, not unless they’re charging it, and they’re getting more and more reluctant to do that. So everyone has backed off to give it plenty of room, and that’s kept causalities lower. But forget any kind of organized cavalry charge until that thing is dead. I can’t get anyone organized.

Any progress on killing it? I asked, hopefully.

Not as such. It has taken a couple of lances deep enough I would guess it would be mortal, but it just keeps coming at us, just a little more pissed off. And it’s having fun. Don’t ask me how I can tell, but I feel like a piece of string a particularly aggressive kitten has been batting around.

Azar, if you actually call that thing ‘cute’, by all the gods so help me—

No, no, Min, it’s about as far from cute as you could want. But it is having fun. And feasting on our dead. And its completely ignoring our arrows and even the lance wounds. That hide has to be two inches thick!

Of course. How about magic?

We’ve got a crew working on it – Horka and Landrik and Rustallo. Its shrugged off most of the offensive spells like cobwebs, though. Horka thinks he has an idea, and they’re developing it now, but honestly I’ve been trying to keep discipline among the horseman and I haven’t kept up with what they’re doing.

Well, maybe this will help you with morale. The Duke of Castal has arrived, and he brought thirty thousand well-armed friends. Fresh troops are manning the wall even now. And Taren’s got something impressive up his sleeve. It probably won’t affect you and your new pet, but it may turn the tide here.

That is good news! he agreed, enthusiastically. I’ll spread the word. And if we can do something about this pesky dragon, maybe we can join the fight again.

I broke contact after that and checked in with Wenek. Are they there yet? I asked him, without pleasantries.

Yes, Min, they’re here. Only four-thousand of them, but a thousand of those are the rest of the Nirodi freemen – mounted archers, every bit as good as Redshaft’s other troopers, and fresh for the fight. The clansmen were able to lead them through the tangles this morning. They’re gathering in one of the north-facing meadows now. And they’re eager. Eager to be rid of the clansmen, if nothing else, but they’re impressive as hell. It looks like every noble lancer in the Castali Wilderlands is represented here.

That had been the other part of the plan. At this point I knew that the mighty Castali heavy cavalry would be next to useless on the wall, their horses far to the rear. So instead of frustrating the knighthood with guard duty, I had Wenek’s Pearwoods clansmen lead them through the twisted, hidden passes of the land to emerge in the north, on the enemy’s eastern flank. When the hammer fell, being able to put four thousand horsemen where the goblins didn’t suspect them might prove decisive.

Not as decisive or impressive as a damned dragon, perhaps, but you work with what you have.

I was about to get back into the fray when Pentandra contacted me. She was well and truly back as our hub of communication.

Min, Taren says we need to go now! Otherwise his reagents will spoil, and—

Damn it! We’re not in position!

We don’t have any more time, she insisted. It’s now or never. If he doesn’t begin soon then it might not work at all.

All right, all right, tell him to go ahead. I’ll get things as prepared as possible. By the way, Horka is going to try to take out the dragon with magic. Has he contacted you?

No, she admitted. I haven’t heard anything. Why?

Just wondering what he’s up to, but I don’t want to disturb him. I’m sure it will be impressive, though.

I broke contact and went in search of Bold Asgus, who was now on the wall directing the defense against a contingent of trolls who seemed determined to climb up the wall. He was calmly directing spearmen to stab at key points or use their shafts as leverage to peel the beasts off, not try to kill them outright. I was dubious about the utility of the tactic until I saw one plummet, taking at least a score of goblins with him. Some of them had the misfortune to land between the spikes in the pit and the bulk of the trolls.

I noted Tyndal watching with rapt attention and undisguised glee. He smiled as he rejoined me, and we watched the second troll fall on top of the first, an iron spike appearing through his shoulder. Asgus gave him one last look, a grunt, and then ordered a few boulders dropped on the foe.

“Captain Asgus,” I said, when I got his attention, “our spell should launch within moments. Send the word to prepare the men to advance. The Castali troops will lead the foray, I think , as they are fresher and in better position, but coordinate with their captains and go when its time.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “How will I know it is time?” he asked, reasonably.

“When you hear the gurvani start to panic, that’s when you go. I’m sure it will be unmistakable.”

His flinty face broke into a grin. “My ears like the sound of that!” Then he turned and began issuing orders to his lieutenants and couriers. The Orphans knew their business. Within moments, word had been passed down the line. Tyndal, meanwhile, was nearly pulsating with enthusiasm. Hells, everyone was. The sight of fresh reinforcements is about as magical as any spell to a weary infantryman.

“Master, what of the dragon?” he asked, worried. “Even if we can fight our way to it, how will we slay it, even with this army?”

“I’ve got Azar and Horka working on it,” I dismissed casually. “We should start seeing their attack any time—”

And that’s when we did see their attack. I wasn’t paying close attention to that battle, since I had a larger one in front of me, but from what I heard from witnesses later, Horka had advanced with Rustallo and Landrik and a half-dozen knights to provide cover, and then he had attacked the beast with some spell from his arsenal. What it was, I couldn’t say, although I’ve speculated mightily. But it was dangerously effective.

From where I was standing at the time, I merely saw a flash, and then heard a chuff of air and the most high-pitched scream of pain I’d ever heard. Everyone on both sides turned their attention to the distraction, as the dragon suddenly leapt into the air, the side of its head ablaze with an eldritch purple fire, a trail of dark smoke in its wake.

There was a collective gasp and moan of despair from our enemies. But the noise turned quickly to panic and fear, as the sight of the wounded dragon retreating from the field became the last sight most of the goblins ever saw. Taren’s spell had chosen that moment to activate, and while thousands of goblins’ eyes were trained on the heavens, a wave of finely-tuned magical energy swept over them, and they saw no more.

It had been a simple spell, Taren told me, a specialized cantrip used by medical magi to lull a particular nerve to quiescence to ensure the patient felt no pain, nor moved a limb, during surgery. Taren has always been an eager thaumaturge, and when he witnessed the feat done over and over again in the hospital tents, he implored Master Icorod to teach it to him, and peppered him with questions about its use and it employment. It turned out to be highly selective. Depending upon how you cast the spell, one particular nerve amongst thousands could be dampened without affecting the others.

Then Taren reasoned, by extension, that the spell could be extended to the optic nerve, and the sage old physician thoughtfully concurred. Eye surgery was rare and delicate, but the nerves themselves were no different than any other nerve cluster. All you needed to do was identify the particular bundle you wished to affect – say, with a fresh sample – and alter the spell accordingly.

The rest he put together on his own. By the time he had presented it to me this morning he had worked out how to empower and distribute the spell, amplify its effects and spread it over a wide area.

Since it was a subtle spell with no obvious harmful intent, it passed through the magical defenses the shamans had thrown with no difficulty. And within twenty heartbeats, almost every gurvani on the field in front of us was struck blind, as their optic nerve was quieted by magic.

The chaos that resulted was legendary. Tens of thousands of goblins were suddenly deprived of sight in the middle of battle. The trolls were unaffected – and they had no idea that their diminutive allies were afflicted. As a result wherever a troll stood by, a fight broke out as it stumbled over a goblin who didn’t know to get out of the way.

The initial panic turned to outright fear and horror as our troops began pouring arrows over the wall into the unsuspecting enemy. Planks were lowered over the ditchwork from our side, and streams of fresh Castali troops launched themselves into the fray with naked steel and defiant shouts. The first pushes turned into bloody melees, which in turn inspired yet further fights within the goblins as they blindly struck out and hit their own people in their panic. The human auxiliaries they had dragged to the field were unaffected, but when they saw how the day was suddenly turning they turned their horses northward and fled through the crazed orgy of bloodshed that was evolving.

The spell wasn’t universally effective. Scattered here and there were some gurvani who weren’t affected, for whatever reason. Perhaps their optic nerves were just enough different to escape the spell, or they were protected in other ways somehow, but the few who did retain their sight did little to calm their comrades.

Ten minutes after the Castali infantry burst out of the wall, the Castali cavalry erupted from the northern Pearwoods, to the east, and hit the flank of the horde hard and fast. The Nirodi archers dismounted, fired, and remounted without fear of retaliation. The Pearwoods clansmen waded into the fray with their huge iron axes and a tremendous enthusiasm. Fighting goblins was an entertaining challenge to the hill lords. Fighting goblins who couldn’t fight back was pure merriment.

And eventually Azar got the cavalry on the western flank organized enough to charge the unprepared legions, and the horde was faced with slaughter on three sides. For almost a half an hour we had complete control over the battlefield and we used it with barbaric ferocity, hewing one little black furry head off its shoulders after another.

But then the spell started to fade, and a few goblins began to regain their sight. Not that what their eyes beheld was welcome – their horde had succumbed to a rout, and their fellow troopers were striking blindly at each other or being trod underfoot. But as they began to see again they were able to encourage their fellows to move north, away from the wall and the flashing swords and lances of the humani. Slowly the shrinking army began to lurch away, leaving a black and red smear of dead and dying goblins in its wake.

I’ll leave out the details of the slaughter. I declined to participate, having other duties to attend to. But for a few glorious moments there were no swords raised against us, and tens of thousands of goblins fell. I allowed Tyndal to join the pursuit, and he finished his day by plying Slasher in an increasingly deadly manner. And by dusk, the remnants of the goblin horde, minus sixty thousand, were headed back up the escarpment, chased by cavalry and fighting a rear-guard action to allow the survivors to escape.

For the record, Duke Rard and Duke Lenguin and their gentlemen rode into the retreating foe and delivered a symbolic final blow, wetting their swords shoulder-to-shoulder, just like in the epics. It was kind of a stupid move, but I was getting used to the stupidity of the nobility. As it was, they got into a real fight and both Dukes got knocked around a bit before they were rescued by their men. Rard took a nasty cut to the thigh, and Lenguin took yet another hard knock to the head with the haft of a troll’s hammer. But they rode back to camp side-by-side, smiling and waving to their exhausted but wildly cheering troops.

I checked in with Pentandra and eventually with Taren himself, as I made my way back into camp. I praised them both for their brilliant service and informed them of the dragon’s defeat and the retreat of the horde. Then I filled Penny in on my talk with Lenguin, and how I persuaded him to accept Castal’s help with grace, and how he’d rather make love to a bow-legged gurvan’s. She approved, although she appreciated the awkward nature of the situation. She agreed to find Isily and help intervene between the two heads-of-state before someone said something stupid and started yet another war. Then I checked with Azar.

I don’t know what he did, but tell Horka it was bloody brilliant! I told him mind-to-mind.

That’s going to be difficult, Marshal, Azar replied. Horka didn’t survive the attempt.

What? was all I could manage.

Horka went right up to that thing’s monstrous maw, and he cast the spell. At first it looked like he’d gotten away with it, but then the damned thing rolled and its tail hit Horka in the side. Snapped his spine. He died instantly.

May the gods receive him in honor, I managed. Horka couldn’t be dead. He was one of the deadliest, toughest warmagi I knew. Un-killable.

We took a lot of other causalities, and I’ve got four goblin darts stuck into various parts of my body now, so if you don’t have a compelling reason for me to remain here, I’d like to break the magical corps out of service and bring in our wounded.

Do it, I ordered. Turn command over to Kaddel – he wants it.

Kaddel’s dead, he reminded me. But I know who to put in charge. It’s almost over, anyway. I guess we did it, Min, he observed wearily.

So far, I agreed, cautiously, and broke contact. I’d been running on fear and excitement and adrenaline and magic for the last several days, so it was hard to even think of not being in mortal peril yet. And considering the delicate political situation I’d have to face soon enough, the sense of impending doom everyone else felt lifting seemed to weigh even heavier on my shoulders.

But I’d had enough. My body was barely responding to my commands by that point. I commandeered a mount and rode slowly back to the nearly-deserted barn, where I got a crust of bread from Hamlan, found an unoccupied pile of hay and collapsed into dreamless sleep.

The Battle of Timberwatch was over.

* * *

It was well past dusk before anyone dared wake me, and my manservant was detailed the task by Pentandra probably because she considered him expendable. I don’t know how I would have gotten him to do it myself – I wasn’t happy about the interruption and nearly struck out at Ham. I guess Penny’s just better at bossing servants than I am.

“Master, wake up,” he said, shaking me gently. “Master, there is news, and you are wanted.”

“I can kill you where you stand, you know,” I groaned, tiredly.

“Of course, Master,” he said, soothingly. “But then you must still attend to your duties. There is a message from the front for you. You have been requested.”

“Then find me a morsel and a draught and let me wake properly,” I whined, and let him pull me to my feet. I was still in armor, still wearing riding boots, the musky smell of horse manure and lingering death in the air, but I felt like I’d been naked in silken sheets sleeping on a down-filled tick.

Penny handed me the note, and then told me what it said before I could read it.

“There’s someone waiting at the base of the escarpment with a flag of truce,” she explained. “He explicitly requested to speak to you.”

“Someone? Who, the Dead God?”

She considered. “Unlikely. But it might be Koucey, or that goblin general, or one of the shamans.”

I grunted sleepily and let Hamlan feed me hard bread and some strong beer before he led a horse around. “Where’s Tyndal?” I asked, blearily as I got into the saddle.

“He was sprawled on the hay bale next to you,” Ham answered. “And by the way, Master, I have gotten a note from Mother you should attend to upon your return.”

“Of course,” I grunted again. No reason why I shouldn’t cap off a couple of days of hellfire, trolls and dragons with something unpleasant like a note from Her Grace. “I’ll see to it when I return. Find out where I need to be when I get back, and try to arrange it so that the answer is ‘asleep’.”

I rode back out to the wall, and then beyond, using magesight to pick my way through the field of bodies. There were already looters prowling through it, stealing from the corpses of fallen lords. The goblins didn’t have much to loot, but there were plenty of prizes among the fallen Alshari. There were also guards to protect the dead from such indignities, but that merely gave the guards themselves an opportunity to loot.

I rode by without intervening. If someone wanted to profit from this battle, I wasn’t going to stop them. I did have to give passwords at three checkpoints that some enterprising commander had set up, before I got to our outermost pickets. They were Castali cavalrymen, including a score of Nirodi archers watching the last of the beaten gurvani limp up the causeway to the north.

“He’s been there for two hours, now, Marshal,” the knight in command of the post informed me. “There’s a dozen scrugs just out of bowshot, but he’s been sitting there on that horse for the last two hours, just awaiting,” the young lord assured me. “He’s got the truce-flag, so we did not take him. He says he will speak only to you or His Grace – Duke Lenguin, not Duke Rard, begging your pardon.”

I nodded and trotted over to the lone figure on horseback. Penny was correct. It was Koucey. And I was suddenly thankful that it was dark, and that the men couldn’t see under his cowl. Magesight revealed that the old man had taken injury during the battle. Half a dozen small cuts ringed his face, but that wasn’t the horrific part. The left side of his face had been burned, likely by my own spell, and even from where I sat I could smell the charred flesh.

“Master Minalan,” he said, congenially enough. “The day is yours. Congratulations are in order.”

“Thank . . . you?” I replied, hesitantly. “Your forces fought valiantly. Things could have easily gone another way.”

“Would that they had,” he said, sadly. “But this is but the first throw of the game. My master’s plan did not depend on victory this day, and this shall but delay the inevitable.”

“Will you be punished for your failure?” I asked, curious.

Of all unlikely responses, Koucey grinned. “Punish me? How could he, Minalan? Death? That would be a gift, especially now that my body has been so badly injured. Only the spells of his priests keep the pain away. But I am too valuable a servant to cast away lightly, and Shereul is not done tormenting me. He knew that victory was not certain. He will likely be . . . merciful. He has few human servants he trusts as much as I. Death would be a gracious gift.”

I touched my blade. “I would be happy to give it to you right now,” I promised.

“Not until I have earned it honorably, Spellmonger,” he chuckled. “Nay, I shall not take the coward’s way. Men may say many things about Koucey, but not that he gave up his life dishonorably. Besides, I could hardly deprive you of the chance to take it from me.”

“So you’re saying we shall meet again in battle,” I nodded.

“So it would seem. For my part, I will withdraw to one of the Northwatch towers with my forces. I would not encourage you to pursue us. While you hold the advantage now . . .”

“I understand better than anyone how precarious this alliance is,” I admitted. “I doubt it could stand the pressures of such a pursuit, nor will I counsel for it. But we will be on our guard. And we will come for you, one day. And your foul master.”

“You have scored a double victory today,” he observed. “You half-blinded Sulkhuan – the dragon. His left eye is as ruined as mine, now. He cowers in a cave attended by shamans, so I’m told. You can expect retribution for that – dragons are not unintelligent, and he knows your kind wounded him so grievously. And you should know: he is but the eldest of his kind. Shereul has procured a number of them, as you will discover soon enough. But for now, at least, he licks his wounds and seethes.”

“We will all be licking our wounds this winter,” I agreed. “And no doubt next spring we’ll both be back on the march. Unless we can figure a way to slay your master.”

“It cannot be done,” he sighed. “He is invulnerable.”

“Up to now, yes,” I admitted. “But I’ve only had the one chance at him. Give me some time, I’m sure I can come up with something. I’m told I’m very resourceful.”

“That you are, Spellmonger, that you are. Do me this favor: if you ever see Sir Cey or my brother, do not reveal to them what I have become. Let them think of me as they last saw me, not . . . this.”

“Are you ashamed of what you have done then?” I asked, surprised.

“I merely desire a dignified memory,” he said, shaking his horrible head. “The Koucey they knew is well and truly dead. Only Lord Keshgural remains. Tell them I died on the field, if you will, but spare them the horror of what I have become.”

I nodded. “I shall. I’d wish you good fortunes, but . . .”

He smiled grimly in the dark. “I understand. Go and celebrate your victory, then, Minalan. Enjoy the taste. It may not last overlong on your tongue, but it is all the sweeter for its brevity.”

He turned his mount and rode off into the darkness. I turned back toward camp and thoughtfully rode away myself.

It was actually fairly quiet, after the chaos and tumult of the day’s battle – quiet if you could ignore the moans of the wounded and dying. I did my best, as I rode back to camp. I considered heading back to the barn for another nap, and was actually about to turn in that direction when Pentandra contacted me.

Min, can you stop by Lenguin’s camp on the way back? Your presence – and all of our presence, actually – have been requested. Commanded. By the Duke.

Which one?

Um . . . I think it’s both.

I was suddenly a lot more awake.

You have any idea just why they want us all?

From what the messenger said, they’re holding a battlefield court. I think they want to reward us for our service.

They could just as easily be plotting to kill us all while we least suspect it, I countered.

Do you really think that those two have the brains between them to do that? She scoffed in my mind. They’re probably at each other’s throats. We might be the only thing keeping them from fighting.

I sighed. All right. Have Hamlan meet me with a fresh set of clothes near the Orphan’s encampment, and we can proceed from there. Tell everyone to wear their sashes and come armed. Warwands, too, and everyone try to keep a few out of sight. And maybe we can take a few moments together to put together a good strategy.

Well, aren’t you becoming our intrepid little leader? she agreed. All right, we can be there soon enough. I just need to slip into a fresh gown . . .

There was a cluster of activity around the old village hall that served as the Orphan’s headquarters, as runners came in from all over bearing orders, requests, reports and dispatches. It was easy enough to find someone I could pull rank on and liberate a bottle from the commissary tent outside that served the headquarters. It happened to be a small flask of pear brandy (perhaps the last drop of pear brandy from the Pearwoods for a while) and I gleefully drank it until the rest of my order arrived.

There were over a dozen of us: Azar, bruised and bloodied and missing a front tooth; Landrik, late from the Censorate, walking with a limp; Taren the Thaumaturge, whose spell had turned the day; Lanse of Bune, his yellow sash hanging on him like a rope on a tall mast; Curmor, Astyral and Mavone, the three Gilmoran magi, all wounded but still hale and dressed like lords at a wedding; Forondal of Scaford, who had stayed on his feet next to Azar and kept the goblins at bay while the big man directed the battle; Rustallo the Brash, sporting a dozen wounds yet still walking; Reylan the Wenshari mage, the side of his head bandaged and his right arm in a sling; Sarakeem of Merwin, his great bow over his shoulder and his quivers empty, two fresh bandages on his chest; Master Cormaran the Swordwright, still wearing his battered armor over a fresh red tunic; Tyndal and Rondal, my two apprentices, who looked about as different as night and day, the one a robust young warmage, the other a studious young scholar. Pentandra, of course, who was flanked by Terleman and Carmella. Wenek showed up drunk out of his mind, supported by two comely clanswomen who seemed to think he was some sort of demi-god.

But there were comrades missing, too. Horka, of course. Hesia had died with her troops behind the wall keeping it from being overrun. Delman had fallen on the wall, mere moments before Taren’s spell went off. At his side had been Bendonal the Outlaw, pierced by dozens of blades before he finally went down.

As they were trickling in, Hamlan led me over to a discreet corner of the hall, ostensibly to help me dress to present myself for court, but actually to hand me a scrap of parchment sealed with the sign of the yellow rose. He watched as I broke the seal and read the note.

My dear Son,

I am very proud of the work that you have done, and I assure you that you will be richly rewarded for your efforts, as I agreed. In the days to come, I remind you to remember that Family ties are always more important than casual acquaintances, and I urge you to support your Father the way a good Son should. Be warned that the King of Rats is still eager for your blood. I would be quite upset should that happen, so take care.

Your dearest Mother

“That was ominous,” I murmured as I ignited the paper with a cantrip and watched it burn. Mother can’t resist speaking in riddles even when she had no need to. I looked around at the other warmagi, and realized they were all waiting for me.

“News from home, Master?” Hamlan asked, expectantly.

“Mom’s getting me a new pony for Midwinter,” I said. “And your sister is running away to marry a poxy one-eyed ragpicker thrice her age. It’s a case of true love,” I quipped.

Hamlan nodded sagely. “I shall be sure to send them a new blanket for a wedding gift, then. Perhaps something blue.”

“Just stick around here tonight and keep an eye on the place, will you? I don’t want anyone messing with our stuff. Any soldier out there could be a Censor in disguise. Or, apparently, one of the Rats.”

“I shall be vigilant, Master,” he assured me in a tone so convincing it was mocking.

“You’d better. The rest of us are going to be at that damn court for a hearty round of applause, or an execution, or something.”

“Oh, I love surprises!” Ham smirked. “Allow me to be the first to present my congratulations or condolences, depending.”

I shot him a nasty look.

“Wine, Master?” he asked, handing me a cup of mulled red.

I took it. It was hot, spiced, and sweet, just what I wanted. “You’re temporarily reprieved,” I sighed, and took a sip.

“Sparks!” I bellowed, after my throat was wet. “Let’s everyone gather around for a quick chat,” I said, motioning them over. “We’re going to court to meet a couple of coronets. I want to make certain we’re not going to have any unpleasantness. You all know we are still technically in violation of the Bans, so there’s a small chance that the Dukes will try to double-cross us and sell us out to the Censorate or something. I don’t want that to happen.”

“I can assure you, it won’t,” nodded Azar, grimly. There was a sly chuckle from the crowd.

“That’s what I like to hear,” I agreed. “So everyone be prepared for anything. If I need you to do something, I’ll let you know in the usual way,” I said, tapping my temple with my forefinger meaningfully. “But this could just be a big victory celebration where they want to thank us and laud us with honors.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” acknowledged Astyral cheerfully.

“Regardless, however it goes I wanted to take this chance to thank you all for your service, personally. Regardless of whether we get rewarded or condemned, it has been an honor and a privilege to know and work with you all. Without you . . . well, without you, then the legions would be marching on Vorone and Wilderhall now, not sneaking back north with their tails between their legs!”

They gave a loud – if tired – cheer at that, and I suddenly felt a lot better. My professional peers still liked me and approved of my leadership. With that behind me, I felt like I could appear before the gods themselves and dicker for terms.

“So we’re going to march into that tent, and we’re going to present ourselves to Their Graces, and live or die, we will stand together. For we have proven today that when our order unites, not even dragons, despair, and hordes of goblins can stand in our way!”

All right, that was perhaps a little more dramatic than called for, but I was feeling punchy after all I’d been through. Magic saps you. So does battle, intrigue, fatigue, and administrative details. On top of all of that, I was still anxious about the responsibility for leading these people. I didn’t feel up to the task, so acting like some melodramatic epic hero was all I had left in my bag of tricks.

Regardless, it did the trick. Everyone seemed to become more relaxed, walked a little taller, and felt a little less like they had been fighting for their lives for two days straight. “We have a lot of organizing to do in the future,” I continued. “The Order must have some order. We have to face the challenge of the Censorate, and the changes that will come about after the Bans are relaxed. We have to see to the defense of the realm against the Dead God, to the building of a standing army to guard the Penumbra, and a means of regulating the witchstones. We have to study them, how they work and the extent of their powers, and what we can do with them. We’re going to have to talk to the Tree Folk, the Stone Folk, and, unfortunately, some of our fellow human beings to find some way to protect ourselves. And, ultimately, we’ve got to find a way to kill the un-slayable, or none of the rest of it will make any difference.

“All of this must be done. But it must not be done tonight. Tonight we take the acclaim that is rightfully ours, and we represent ourselves in dignity and honor as the professionals we are. I want you to march in there as proud as the shiniest knight and I want everyone who sees you to know that they owe you their lives. Because they do. As do I. Now let’s go.”

And I started walking toward the Dukes’ encampment. Someone had thoughtfully cast a magelight over us, to keep us from tripping. I felt Penny sidle up beside me, give me a little hug, and then place something on my head.

I took it off and looked at it. A blue four pointed wizard hat in the traditional style, only the three points around the brim were in yellow and stitched to the main central cone. The Ilnarthi death rune we had adopted as our sigil was embroidered prettily on each yellow triangle.

“What’s this?” I asked, dully.

“You said you wanted to wear a silly hat,” she explained. “Remember? After Boval Castle? So I had one made.”

“Thanks,” I sighed, oddly pleased. I placed the cap on my head at a jaunty angle. “Now I really do feel like I’m important.”

“It’s only a hat,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But you do wear it well.” I offered my arm, and she took it, and together we walked bravely into the Ducal camp and, ultimately, the presence of the two most powerful men in the western world.

And it really was a very silly-looking hat.

.

Chapter Forty-Four:

Acclaim And Intrigue

Timberwatch, Second Day of Autumn

The massive tent that Duke Lenguin had brought along and used for a traveling palace was surrounded by guards from both Duchies, and a phalanx of officious retainers buzzed in and out like thirsty bees in a hive. As we approached we were met by one such, a thin herald wearing armor that clearly wasn’t made for him.

He verified our identities (as if the floating magelight over our heads wasn’t proof enough) and lectured us on proper behavior before a growl from Azar sent him scurrying away to announce us. We were called a moment later.

Both Dukes were seated in state, side-by-side, their personal and ducal banners arrayed behind them. As a courtesy the Lord of Timberwatch was seated nearby, but he had nothing to do with the proceedings.

I’ll give you the short version, since I don’t remember much about the long one. We got knighted. All of us, every mage in the magical corps was ennobled by arms, in violation of four hundred years of proscription. I myself was knighted by both Lenguin and Rard. Rard looked majestic. Lenguin looked weary and haunted, as if he was having a hard time concentrating. Perhaps he was drunk, I reasoned. I wanted to be, myself.

But I took a knee as Minalan the Spellmonger, and rose as Sire Minalan, Knight Magi. Both Dukes put their hand on the sword that did it, a high honor.

I thought that was sufficient – it certainly impressed me – but the Dukes weren’t done. One by one, they knighted every warmagi there, included Pentandra, Tyndal, Rondal, and the rest. That took a while, but I enjoyed every moment of it. When you can see good people get rewarded for a hard job well done, it’s extremely gratifying.

But they didn’t stop there, to my surprise. The two Dukes announced that they were prepared to distribute the former Alshari lands around the Penumbra amongst the new Knights Magi, to be kept in surveillance of the dark land and act as a defense for the realm. Sire Azar was raised to become the new Baron of Megelin while Sire Astyral was raised to Magelord of Tudry and installed as liege there. Wenek, too, was elevated to Magelord of the Pearwoods, and given sovereignty over all of the clans. Not that I thought they would pay the slightest attention to that, but he seemed happy about it. From thrall to Magelord – that was about as big a success story as you could ask for.

Even more to my surprise, Sire Rustallo was granted the fief of Grimly Wood (Geston of Grimly having fallen in the last push of the battle) – apparently he had impressed Lenguin on the battlefield before he’d ridden off and almost gotten himself killed. I was surprised, but I was pleased, too. He wasn’t the smartest mage in the Duchies, but Rustallo was a stout fellow, bred to the aristocracy, and he’d be up to the task of running the small fief. Carmella was likewise made the Lady of the Honeyhall, since old Sire Escut had inconveniently caught a goblin’s arrow in his throat.

But then it was my turn. I was called before Their Graces and granted a fief (to be determined later) in Castal as a reward for my service. And I was offered overlordship of the Penumbra lands to see to the defense of the realm. I accepted the post in the name of my Order (which still didn’t have a firm name, so we just kept saying ‘the Order’.) and agreed to meet at a later time, perhaps in the spring, to determine the extent of regulation magic needed in a Duchy without Censors. I assured Their Graces that the Order stood ready to defend the realms to our last drop of blood – although to be honest we probably couldn’t raise enough power in our weariness to defeat a rampaging band of toddlers.

In accepting the honors, however, I begged a boon of Their Graces, and appointed Terleman leader in my stead for the defense against the Dead God, speaking before the war court in great detail about how masterfully he had directed the battle, and how no one else was better suited to oversee the defense of Alshar..

Both Dukes looked at me strangely when I finished.

“Why have you given this noble task away, Sire Minalan?” asked Rard, confused.

“Because I have a woman with my child I very much want to marry, Your Grace,” I said, my head swimming. “The Dead God is stopped, for the moment, and there are better men than I to watch the frontier this winter.”

“But was it not you who moved the earth to bring our armies to bear against him?” asked Lenguin. “Not to mention annoying two Dukes. From what my brother duke tells me, you nearly destroyed half of his court in your insistence. I know for my own part you held me hostage and used extortion to get your way. And now, when you can be accounted the Mage Warden of the Penumbra by all – a wholly unique honor – you pass it away?”

“Your Graces, it was not for personal honor or glory that I undertook this task,” I explained loudly enough for everyone in the tent to hear it. “I did it because it needed to be done, and I was the only one who seemed able to do it. I didn’t do it alone, and I didn’t do it the way I really wanted to, but I got the job done. If I was still a simple village spellmonger I’d be accepting your chickens now and we’d part ways.

“But I’m not a simple spellmonger. Nor even a simple warmage, nor a simple scholar. I’m . . . I don’t rightly know what I am, save I am hunted by the Censorate and the Dead God both.

“I do, however, know that I am going to be a father,” I continued. “And sooner than I’m ready for. If you wish to laud me with honors, let me take my peace in the country, see my child born, my bride properly wed, and let me plan for a season or two before you put this piece back on the board again.”

A new voice emerged from the back of the tent, and nearly the last person I expected to see pushed his way forth.

“I cannot speak for the Dead God, thankfully,” General Hartarian of Ganz said, as he entered the war court. “But as for the Censorate – at least my part of it – I shall lay aside the matter of your violation of the Bans, upon my discretion.”

I looked at him, confused. My men were bristling behind me, and Landrik looked positively embarrassed.

“You’ve had a change of heart, General?”

The Censor looked at me sternly. “His Grace said to depart Castal by the most expedient means, and I took that to mean through Alshar. I have been here for three weeks, investigating the claims you made.

“ I have to admit, Sire Minalan, that when you first spoke of the goblin threat, I thought you exaggerated. But when Duke Rard suggested – nay, commanded – that I see it with my own eyes, I saw that you had the right of it. The Bans must be laid aside, no matter the internal cost, at least until the threat to the realm is diminished. It gives me no peace to say so. But after my niece, Isily, spoke with me so convincingly, I could not in justice condemn you and your brethren after the sacrifices you’ve made on all of our behalf without disproving the threat first. I stand corrected – and you stand free of all charges.”

It was odd – I felt a relief I hadn’t known I was suffering from lifted from my shoulders. I mean, staring down an army of bloodthirsty goblins, angry trolls and a dragon was bad enough, but there’s a certain special anxiety to being in violation of professional regulations that mere mortal peril can’t compare to.

“I must tell you, even though I am currently head of the Censorate, that my decision is not binding on the regional Censors. It is merely guidance. And the Lords Censor in the East, particularly in Vore and Merwin, are far less . . . persuadable than I. If they choose to pursue you and the other High Magi, then I cannot intercede. Indeed, it is as likely that they will condemn me, strip me from my position, and issue a death sentence for this decision . . . but it is nonetheless the right decision to make,” he finished, firmly. There was even scattered applause.

“If Their Graces will excuse me,” old Master Dunselen, the Ducal Court Mage of Castal croaked as he waddled forward, “I think I can provide a solution. I have asked His Grace, Duke Rard, to end my tenure prematurely, and His Grace has kindly consented. More, since the Bans seem to be relaxed, he has restored me to my ancestral estate, to which I will repair for my retirement.” He sounded a lot older than he was – I had an suspicion that Dunselen’s idea of “retirement” included research, a young wife and a couple of heirs.

“But I have recommended a mage of sterling quality and unquestioned power to replace me,” he continued. “I have recommended that His Grace invest General Hartarian of Ganz as Court Wizard, in my place.”

Hartarian looked as surprised as I was. “I . . . may I have leave to consider the matter, Your Grace?” he asked. Rard assented. He seemed to be paying rapt attention to what was happening, while Lenguin was looking bored, and maybe even a little more drunk.

That sounded grand, to me. I needed to be drunk. Drunk, laid, fed, and rested – I craved sleep most of all, and would have gladly traded my new knighthood for a pillow and blanket. But a bottle would get things started right. The pear brandy I’d had earlier in the day was a distant memory.

Thankfully the gods heard me, for both dukes obliged me by presenting me with a lovely double-handled gold cup filled with an exceedingly good red wine, and then in the presence of the court shared it with me – a very high honor.

“It’s a Perrinsalar, a Gilmoran varietal,” Lenguin informed me, almost giggling with pleasure at the sip. “From back when the Gilmoran baronies were Alshari. Peppery, citrusy, with an unmistakable, unique undercurrent of ginger. No other wine is like it. From my private cellars – I had a case brought with my commissary. It’s exceedingly rare.” He looked at Rard pointedly. “The vintage just hasn’t been the same since Gilmora became Castali.”

Rard graciously didn’t rise to his brother-in-law’s jibe. “It is a noble vintage,” he agreed, passing the cup to me after taking a sip. “Well-suited for celebration. Delightful!”

I had to agree. The first sip was like fire and ice on my tongue, the gingery flavor nicely supporting the citrusy high notes. I may have been born a commoner, but I have a lord’s palate for wine. Rard was wrong though – it wasn’t noble, it was kingly. I swallowed gratefully, letting the unique aroma entertain my nose as I enjoyed the aftertaste. Lenguin was right – there was no other wine like it.

Me and my people were dismissed with the promise of more honors later, and I had Hamlan lead me back to my tent.

The taste of Perrinsalar still haunting my mouth, I was unconscious before my head touched the ground.

* * *

I needed twenty hours of sleep. I got seven, which had to suffice. When I awoke the next morning, the entire camp was in an uproar. Shouts of dismay and despair filled the air around me, and after I managed to wake up enough to remember where I was, I stumbled out of my tent and grabbed the first lad running by on an errand.

“Boy! What’s the ruckus? Are the goblins back? The dragon?”

“Thank the gods, no, milord,” the boy answered hurriedly, his eyes wide with fear. “But it’s the next worst thing. His Grace Duke Lenguin expired in the night, milord. Died in his sleep, of a wound taken in battle, it is said.”

My jaw dropped. I nodded absently and the boy ran off on his errand.

I tried to collect my thoughts, failed, and decided I needed help.

Penny! I called through our telepathic connection, when I managed to establish the right connection. I was tired. Lenguin’s dead?

I just heard about it myself! She said into my mind. Wenek just told me! That’s all we know so far, though. I’m getting dressed. You should look into this.

I broke contact and tried to think of who else might know something. Mavone answered that question for me by contacting me first.

Min, we’ve got big problems, he explained. I was drinking with a few friends over in the royal encampment last night – this morning – and I was outside taking a piss when I noticed some strangeness over by the royal encampment.

Strangeness? What kind of strangeness?

It was strange enough to attract my attention. I gazed at it under magesight, and there’s no doubt in my mind, Min. Someone was using magic over there just before dawn.

You’re certain?

I’d swear an oath.

Who else have you told?

No one, he admitted. I thought you needed to hear about it first. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, I just figured Dunselen or Thinaradel was showing off. But that late? That didn’t make sense. Then I heard about Lenguin, and I figured you’d want to know.

Good job, I congratulated him. Gather everyone you can in the barn and warn them to stay alert – everyone we can trust, that is. I’m going to go scout things out, but we might need to act in a hurry. Understood?

It was, and Mavone assured me that he would come running if I called. I dropped the spell and went to find a convenient spot for a piss, myself. That’s where Hamlan caught up with me.

“Master, have you heard the news?” he asked, alarmed. “Duke Lenguin is dead!”

“I heard,” I agreed. “I’m headed there now to see what is happening.”

My manservant looked troubled. “Master? Is that wise?”

“Probably not, but I’m nosy,” I pointed out, fastening my flies after the traditional three shakes. “Besides, I might be able to help.”

“Do you . . . do you think Mother would approve?” he asked, in a near whisper.

I looked up at him sharply. My brain started working. “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But she’s conveniently not here to ask.”

He looked mollified, but still edgy. I followed the dirt trail between camps until I ran into a messenger who had been sent to find me, and followed him back to the Royal encampment. I found Mavone lingering around the edge of the crowd and caught his eye, but otherwise ignored him. He knew his business.

There was an angry crowd gathering around the royal encampment, mostly Alshari nobles who wanted answers being kept out by tight-lipped Castali nobles. Several of the Alshari lords mobbed me when they recognized me. A week ago they could barely bring themselves to speak to me. Now they were the model of respect, imploring me to uncover what they saw as a Castali plot against the realm. A few even remembered to call me “Sire Minalan”. I’d almost forgotten my new noble status.

“Gentlemen!” I shouted, finally, when they kept talking over themselves. “I want to know what happened as much as you. I promise you that I will look into the matter and give you my unbiased report. Until then, I ask you to stand clear and let me inside, and I will return shortly.”

That pacified most of them, while others were convinced I was part of the plot. Which, come to find out, I was.

The guards with the halberds and the arms of Castal embroidered on their tabards almost didn’t let me through, until Master Dunselen intervened. He led me inside where Duke Rard and the kernel of his court were sitting around Duke Lenguin’s body, still in its bed. There were three or four priests skulking around, saying prayers, burning incense, and praising the gods.

“It happened in his sleep, thankfully,” Master Dunselen was telling me, shaking his head sadly. “He had such a hard knock yesterday. And while Master Icorod cleared him for duty, that second blow, from the hammer of a troll . . .”

I nodded – that did happen, sometimes. A man might go as much as a week after a blow to the head, and seem perfectly fine, and then expire in the middle of dinner with no warning. That might explain Lenguin’s behavior last night. He had seemed off his game, slightly drunk, and not his usual pompous self at court. Perhaps this was why.

“Might you permit me to examine the body?” I asked. “Purely to calm the hot-heads outside. They are convinced it is a secret plot to ruin Alshar, and they trust me to treat them with news fairly.”

“Ah, yes, well, I don’t see why not,” Dunselen said, uneasily glancing at Duke Rard who was reading a dispatch. I nodded and quietly knelt next to the pale, lifeless body of Lenguin II, late Duke of Alshar. I closed my eyes and extended my awareness, adjusting for scale, and I examined the nature of the wound beneath his skull.

There it was. A huge pool of blood had put pressure on his brain until he had expired. The injury was on the right hemisphere, just below the ear. The only visible sign was a small nick, the kind you get when you put on armor. “Armor bites”, they’re known as. But inside there was a chunk of damaged tissue nearly the size of my fist. It had been a slow, silent killer, but there was no doubt in my mind that that had been the cause of death.

I was about to rise when I felt the presence of something . . . ephemeral.

A lesser mage would have missed it, and I mean no disrespect to my professional peers. Most spellmongers and court wizards don’t know enough about thaumaturgic magic to be sensitive to such things, but there was something . . . odd about the wound. I could detect the faintest trace of a spell, the thaumaturgic residue imprinted on the tissue and bone. It wasn’t much, but I could feel it enough to locate exactly what had been meddled with.

It proved to be a tiny blood vessel, already battered by the injury, which had been magically separated just the smallest amount. It had permitted a slow but steady bleed into the rest of the brain. When Lenguin lay down to sleep, he wouldn’t have been conscious for more than fifteen minutes before the pressure would have knocked him out and then killed him.

But it wouldn’t have happened – or at least not been fatal – if that hole in the vessel hadn’t been made.

Prince Lenguin had been murdered. By magic.

“Hey, you! Spark!” bellowed a voice from behind me. I rose quickly to face off with Baron Glyal, one of the cocky young Castali Riverlords who had ridden up with Rard, and who had unfortunately not been killed in battle. Glyal had a solid reputation as a tool. “Leave off! That’s His Grace’s brother-in-law!”

“That’s ‘Sir Spark’ to you,” I corrected. “I’m just examining the body so I can put some minds at ease.

Glyal snorted. “That rabble out there? My peasants dress better than they!”

I got tired of the sound of his voice. I put a bubble of silence over his head and ignored him after that. His struggles gave me time to run a few small, subtle thaumaturgic spells. Mere tests, really, just indicators for assessing a situation. But I learned a great deal very quickly, and more than enough to figure out what had happened.

I opened my eyes in surprise, and then let Glyal speak again. He wasn’t amused, but he’d seen enough magic to know that pressing the matter would be bad for his health. Apparently you could see the pillar of flame that had been my fire elemental for miles and miles away, and the Castali had been duly impressed at the sight of such powerful magic.

“Yes, that rabble out there,” I finished with a sigh. “The Alshari Wilderland lords might not fit your idea of a perfumed nobility, Baron Glyal, but there are two things you should remember before you speak so carelessly. Firstly, you are a Riverlord standing in their lands, they are not Riverland peasants. Mistaking them as such would be foolish. They have a bitter dueling tradition up here. They use axes, not swords.”

Glyal looked offended, but not impressed. Idiot. “And second?” he asked, condescendingly.

“Second, they are my comrades that I have fought beside and bled with for the last several months. That means that when you insult them, I take it personally. It may well be that the opposite is also true. Why don’t you go tell them that some ‘damn spark’ is messing with the Duke’s body, and see how they take it?”

He didn’t, of course, but he also didn’t mess with me any more after that. I’m not fond of Riverlords, even though I was born and bred in the Castali Riverlands. I waited a moment to see Duke Rard, who clearly hadn’t forgotten my new title.

“Well, Sire Minalan?” he asked. “You examined the body . . . what did you find?”

“I found a small laceration in an important artery in the brain that caused him to bleed out until he died,” I said, truthfully. “But that’s a preliminary report. I’ve cast some spells and conducted some information. I want to consult with my colleagues before I release a final report. I hope Your Grace doesn’t mind – in light of the circumstances, it seems prudent to be thorough.”

He nodded sagely, but looked disappointed. “Will you at least tell that much to that cluster of knights outside? They’re thinking that I had his throat slit in the middle of the night so I could steal the Duchy away,” he scoffed.

I scoffed politely in return, but I was starting to get the feeling that that was actually closer to what actually happened than a lingering brain injury.

“I’ll be happy to, Your Grace,” I assured him. I sighed and looked back at Lenguin’s body, where the priests were smudging it with wickherb and frankincense. “It’s poor taste to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bit of a twit. But a brave one. He fought honorably, once he was forced into battle, and he didn’t run when he could have. Alshar has had better leaders,” I observed, “but then it has had worse, too.”

Rard nodded, his shaggy head and imposing beard looking like a blonde thundercloud under his coronet. “He was a complete tool,” he agreed. “Still, I always kind of liked him, even when he was annoying as hell. The Duchess is going to be heartbroken when she hears the news of her little brother’s death.”

Yeah, right.

“What does that do to the political situation here, Sire?” I asked, innocently. “With Lenguin dead, that makes his son Duke, does it not?”

“A boy,” Rard said, shaking his head. “A stripling barely able to shave. I heard he was esquired in the Riverlands. Still, you’re right, he is the lawful Duke of Alshar,” he said, accenting the title strangely. “No doubt a Regency can be made until he’s seasoned enough to take the coronet. In the meantime, I suppose his mother Enora shall . . . reign. I shall send a messenger to Her Grace at Vorone at once.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I said, smoothly. “It is also possible that this was an effect of goblin magic – that one of the Dead Gods shamans was able to harm him in some way. There is precedent,” I added. “Before you arrived, it was well known to my Order than Duke Lenguin was under magical attack from the goblins. They were enchanting him into indecisiveness.”

Rard smiled despite himself. “That was no great spell,” he snorted. “If there was ever a man prone to indecisiveness, it was Lenguin. Still . . . could you look into that as well?” he asked, innocently. “Just to be sure. If we could point a finger at the Dead God, perhaps some of those . . . lordlings out there won’t be so apt to go to war with Castal so soon after a war with the goblins.”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace,” I said with a bow. “Just give me a little time, and a chance to talk to my people, and I’m sure we can find the definitive cause of death.”

“I would count it as a favor,” Rard assured me. I bowed again and excused myself. Just outside of the tent, I was nearly mobbed by Alshari nobles again who clamored for an explanation.

“Gentlemen of Alshar!” I said, very deliberately. “I fear the news you heard is true: Prince Lenguin is, alas, dead. He died in his sleep last night, or early this morning. As his loyal Marshal, and a trusted mage, I have been asked by His Grace, Duke Rard, to investigate further to remove any doubt. But I conducted the examination myself, and there is no doubt in my mind that an internal bleeder in his brain ended his life. Gods save the Duke of Alshar!”

There was a groan of despair and disgust, but they looked less-likely to rush the Ducal encampment now. They did trust me. And I hadn’t lied to them about Lenguin’s untimely death.

Yet.

As I walked back to the barn, I wasn’t surprised to feel Mavone sidling up next to me, matching my step. “How did that go?”

“About like I figured,” I admitted. “I did an exam. He did bleed out from his head wound. But . . . that wasn’t all.”

Mavone nodded sagely. “I thought not. Too convenient.”

“That crossed my mind as well,” I agreed. “Is everyone gathered at the barn?” He nodded. “Then as soon as we get there, I want you to send a messenger out to Lady Isily. Ask her to meet me . . . um, let’s do it over by the apple orchards on the other side of the castle, second hour after noon. Hard to be overheard there. And that will give me a little more time to work.”

He looked confused. “Why not just contact her telepathically?”

I shook my head. “I never included her in that spell. She doesn’t even really know about it. I didn’t think I could trust her.”

He nodded. “I agree. I don’t know why, but I always feel on my guard around her. Pity, too. She’s gorgeous.”

“Trust your instincts,” I encouraged. “But send the message. Have her meet me there this afternoon. Tell her I need to discuss something intriguing I found about the Duke’s death.”

“It shall be done,” he assured me. “Anything else?”

I stopped and considered. “I’ll cover it at the meeting,” I finally decided. I didn’t want to have to repeat myself.

He shrugged. “You’re the guy with the funny hat.”

* * *

The inside of the barn wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t vacant, either. Every High Mage in camp, save for Isily and the two Court Magi, were there. There were a few missing – Astyral had rode to Vorone to help protect the wounded that were being evacuated to there, and Rondal was helping search the massive amount of goblin corpses for witchstones, but nearly everyone else was there. They all looked vaguely disturbed by the news of Lenguin’s death, and I couldn’t blame them. I was plenty disturbed myself.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” I began. “I know everyone here could use a week of sleep, but that’s apparently not going to happen. Duke Lenguin died last night, as you may have heard. I was able to examine the body.”

“They say it was a result of a wound he received yesterday,” Carmella commented, doubt heavy in her voice.

“He died because he had blood pool up inside his skull until he passed out,” I corrected. “There was, indeed, a wound that caused that. But while I was examining the body, I found some . . . magical irregularities,” I said, finally. “Irregularities that cast some doubt on this being a simple war wound. So just to say I asked, did anyone here sneak into Lenguin’s tent last night and help his wound along?”

A couple snorted. No one volunteered. No one looked guilty. Which is what I expected. The only four magi who had access to Lenguin were me, Master Thinradel (who made a point of avoiding the Duke), Mavone . . . and Isily.

It might have been Mavone . . . but then why tip me off to the late-night skullduggery? If he’d kept his mouth shut I probably wouldn’t have even examined Lenguin’s body. No, Mavone was a lot of things, but an assassin wasn’t one of them.

Thinradel? I didn’t know him nearly as well as I did Mavone, but he had no vested interest in killing his liege. After all, his position at court depended on Lenguin, and with him gone whomever the new sovereign was would appoint his own Court Wizard. As much as he may have disliked Lenguin, his enmity didn’t rise to the level of murder.

I know I sure as hell didn’t kill him. He was kind of a tool, but he hadn’t really been any worse than any other noble.

Oh, crap. I realized that I’m a noble now, too. That was going to upset my healthy sense of class consciousness.

Oh, yeah. The murder.

It had to be Isily. I had suspected her at once, of course, once Mavone had mentioned the late-night spellwork. This sort of thing is exactly what shadowmagic was useful for. And as pretty as she was, I didn’t trust her one bit – what kind of man trusts a professed assassin? Even if she does share his bed occasionally? Isily was Grendine’s creature, and while she had proven useful during the campaign I never had any illusions about her loyalty.

“All right,” I said, finally. “I didn’t think so. But I have a feeling that things are going to get very chaotic around here, very soon, and I’d strongly suggest we all be elsewhere while this shakes out. I know we all just got ennobled, we’re the first magelords in recent history and all that, but I’m thinking we need to keep the Order relatively apolitical. I’m not a fan of their other work, but you have to admire the way the Censorate manages to stay clear of politics.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Pentandra said. “The Censorate is political, too. But they’re institutionally political. I do know that orders that get political also attract a lot of attention.” Of course she knew all about that – her father was a member of a secret magical society dedicate to overthrowing the Five Duchies – the very institution that the Censorate was founded to combat. “We’re going to have a hard enough time getting ourselves established. I agree with Minalan: let’s stay the hells out of the political situation. This is going to have repercussions all over the Five Duchies. Picking the wrong side in a civil war is just a stupid move.”

“I agree,” Master Cormaran said. He was the oldest man present, a well-respected and universally-liked mage who had both acted fatherly toward the rest of us and deferred to the leadership of younger men without taking offense. “I’ve lived in Alshar most of my life, and I know the local lords. Those who are left after this battle are not going to be happy if they discover that there has been any underhandedness. They’re a stubborn lot of rural knights who, with the exception of Farise, have traditionally been mustered to fight Castali. And they are a gossipy lot, too – regardless of what actually happened, they will be prone to act on whatever belief suits their fancy. If they decide that Duke Rard was involved, then it won’t matter if you can prove them wrong. They’ll do as they please – particularly that Megelini lot. Hot-headed, and ready to fight before they think. Though the Fesdarleni are almost as bad.”

“There aren’t a hundred Megelini knights left,” Azar said, shaking his head. “And the Fesdarleni and Green Hill knights were the first the dragon slew. But their yeomen remain, and they are already scared and tired and angry. They are stout fellows, but Master Cormaran is right: if they get a notion in their heads, you can’t drive it out with a hammer.”

I winced. Poor choice of words, under the circumstances.

“Particularly with the presence of the Duke of Castal,” Mavone agreed. “That’s automatically suspicious. The time I spent in the Alshari court at Vorone taught me that much. The Alshari all see the Castali as part of a sinister web of evil, constantly plotting against Lenguin. Apparently Duchess Grendine left a powerful impression on the court growing up here.”

I’m sure it would shock them all to learn just how close to the truth they were. That’s the problem with conspiracies. The more outrageous they are, the less likely they are to be believed by the people.

“Well, do we push this into civil war, or do we let it lie?” I asked.

Terleman shrugged. “It depends on whether or not you want the goblins to win. I can’t see how a civil war would help improve our defenses. In fact, I think there’s something to the idea that it was a gurvani shaman who cast the spell.”

“I don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I did the examination. Whoever it was used Imperial magic. The difference is pretty startling, once you start looking at it thaumaturgically.”

“Terl’s right,” yawned Taren. “Look, we all knew that Rard would try to make himself king if we won here. From where I’m sitting this is an inter-family quarrel. It doesn’t involve us. Getting involved would be a bad, bad idea. But you’re the head of the Order, Min,” he reminded me. “We’re taking our cues from you. You say to intervene, we will. You say to stay out of it, we will.”

That would have been an undeniable expression of support, under other circumstances. In this context, it was clearly an attempt to pass the cup. I made a face at him. “Damn it! You’re not making this easier!”

“Well, what’s the upside of pointing fingers? We lose our patronage,” reasoned Terleman, pragmatically. “I was touched by the General’s acquiescence at court last night as much as anyone, and I won’t deny I slept a little easier last night for it. But he also mentioned that the other Ducal Censors may not be as forgiving. That’s a problem. Not that any one of us couldn’t whip them, with a witchstone,” he grinned, “but that doesn’t shield us from persecution if we loose our patronage.”

“The Censors are pretty tough even without witchstones,” Tyndal said, emphatically. Landrik and Pentandra nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“Which is exactly why we need to support whatever political situation protects us from them,” continued Terleman. “I think our best bet is to slink off and wait out the political turmoil, then cut a deal with whomever is left standing.”

“I like the sound of that,” agreed Mavone.

“As long as it leads to a lasting defense against the Dead God,” I cautioned. “That has to be our primary goal. Or at least part of it. Can I count on the support of the members of the Order for that much, at least?”

“Sir Min,” Lanse of Bune said, slouching his lanky frame on a stool, “I didn’t think that the whole goblin invasion was even real, before I got here. I came for the glass. But . . . well, if there’s a more important task than keeping the goblins out, after the battle we just endured I can’t think of it. Hells, yes, the Dead God has to be our top priority.”

“So I can count on you and your team on that account?”

He shrugged. “We don’t have any other pressing engagements. And I want to keep playing with my glass for a while. Once we get paid for this job, I think we’ll have enough to go into residence somewhere and help with the war effort. Probably Tudry, since it’s close, and Astyral says we’d be welcome there. Personally, I’m thinking a civil war might not be the best way to keep the scrugs at bay.”

That was good news – without Lanse’s help and expertise, I’m not sure we would have won the battle. I was counting on him for support in raising a permanent defense, and was thrilled that he was willing to assist.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Anyone else?” There was silence. “Then here’s what I want you to do: first, those of you who have been awarded lands, pack up, gather your men and get the hell back to them. Put them in order, and let us know if you need help. If you’re heading to your fiefs then they’ll have a harder time pulling you into an inter-Duchy conflict. Lanse, you and your crew should indeed head to Tudry town for now –Magelord Astyral will find you good accommodations for the winter on Warmage Row. Wenek, Azar, Rusty and Carmella, you do the same. Get to your fiefs and do what you can to prepare for winter. And stay the hell out of the local politics.

“The rest of you, well, I suppose you’re released from direct service from the magical corps, but not from the Order. If you don’t have a place to go, you can always go to Tudry with Astyral and Lanse and Master Cormaran. Winter over there, keep your heads down, practice, and start plotting our long-term defense. I’ll handle the political situation . . . with a little help,” I said, glancing at Pentandra.

It was about then that Rondal finally made it in from the battlefield, accompanied by two burly infantrymen who dwarfed the bookish lad to the point of being funny. He looked worried and excited, not an uncommon expression that morning.

“Master Minalan? I think we got them all,” he said, breathlessly, as he gingerly placed a bulging sack on the table in front of me. “Seventeen witchstones in all, two of them the round torus-shaped ones,” he reported, proudly.

“Seventeen?” gasped Cormaran. “That nearly doubles our strength!”

“More than doubles it, by my estimation. It’s good news,” grinned Terleman. “Min, let’s get these severed from Old Baldy and we can start interviewing candidates.”

“We’ll be giving one to Hartarian,” I pointed out. “Everyone else, if you know of a decent candidate, send them to me. Wherever I end up. You know you can always contact me mind-to-mind to locate me,” I reminded them. “We’ll have to put a process in place to deal with that, but . . .”

“That’s for later,” agreed Penny. “Before we break up, I’d like to propose that we meet in a few days or weeks or months next spring to properly order the Order, if you take my meaning. A kind of collegium, maybe.”

“Good idea,” Taren agreed. “But only after winter. It’s going to start snowing here in a few weeks, and I’d prefer to be someplace warmer for a while before I have to come back.”

“That should work,” I nodded. “We’ll set a date and place later, but if we can agree to make the effort, we really do need to get organized. Else we might just get swept up in a civil war, or politics, or gods-knows-what. “

Penny suddenly looked up at me, sharply, even though she had a dreamy expression on her face. “Oh, gods!” she gasped. “Min, I just heard from Astyral – he’s been riding with the wounded all night. They came to the last crossroads on the Western Road before Vorone and heard news: the Duchess of Alshar was killed in her bed last night. Signs point to an assassination. There was blood coming from her left ear, enough to soak the pillow. Vorone is in an uproar, what’s left of it.”

“Blood from her ear? Like it was punctured by a long thin knife? That sounds like the work of the Rat Crew,” I sighed. “I’d been warned that the Alshari royal family had been dealing with them. That’s their signature assassination style, too.”

“Uh, Min?” Penny said. “It sounds like treachery to me.”

“It’s assassination! Of course it’s treacherous!”

“It just seems odd that by purest chance the Duke and the Duchess of Alshar were murdered on the same night,” she said, patiently. “A suspicious mind might draw the conclusion that there’s an actual plot afoot.”

Good gods, she was right. And that changed things considerably.

“Meeting adjourned, my lords and ladies,” I said, abruptly. “Pack up your crap and get the hell out of here, before things get bloody. I mean it. I’ll keep a lid on things as long as possible, but if most of you were gone by dusk, that would make me sleep easier tonight.”

Chapter Forty-Five:

Timberwatch, Second Day of Autumn

The orchards east of the castle had been relatively untouched by the battle, and largely ignored by the men. The Timberwatchmen had harvested early for the cider pressing, before the army arrived, and now there were only a few rotten apples dotting the ground or hanging on very inconvenient branches. Peasants are good with harvests, but there are always going to be a few fruits too high up or too delicately balanced on the edges of the tree to get to. They’re usually left to rot there or feed the birds. In the spring, some peasant lads or lasses would round up the dried husks of apples and raid them for seeds. In the meantime, there were truly lovely apples, ripe and ready for picking, just out of reach.

Unless you knew magic.

I was on my third juicy, ripe apple when I was joined first by Hamlan, and then by Tyndal. Hamlan was there because of his relationship with Mother. Tyndal was there for support and muscle. I gave them both an apple and we waited. This time Hamlan was the one giving Tyndal baleful looks. He had made it clear that it wasn’t proper for someone not in the Family to be present at such a meeting . . . unless you planned on killing them afterwards.

I politely pointed out that we were talking to a High Mage, not just a Daughter of the Family. He wasn’t happy, but he shut up about it. He couldn’t very well lecture me about the impropriety of possibly revealing the circle of spies to my apprentice without doing so himself, so he shut up and ate his apple sullenly after that.

Tyndal? I called through the telepathic link. It was getting easier and easier every day.

Yes, Master? he replied, glancing at me.

Keep your sword ready, and a couple of offensive spells hung. If I tell you to do something telepathically, I expect that you will do it and no argument, regardless of what it seems like at the time. Understood?

Master? he asked, confused.

I stifled a sigh. Just trust me, okay? And try to act casual. Don’t reveal that we can speak like this. Neither of them know we can.

I . . . I understand. His eyes flicked toward me once, but then he looked away.

“I wish I’d brought something to go with these apples,” I said, plucking another plump one from the highest bough with a jolt of force from my fingertip. “I forgot to stop by—”

“I thought you might, Master,” Hamlan said, opening the sack I hadn’t seen him bring. “Just a few things I managed to procure. Some bacon, a heel of bread, a few baked cabbage rolls, hard-boiled eggs, and of course the wine,” he smiled, contentedly. He spread out his cloak and began unpacking a picnic. I was impressed.

We had only waited twenty minutes or so when Lady Isily finally arrived with another woman, who had her face obscured by the cowl of her traveling cloak, stopping a short distance from us.

“You said it was urgent?” she asked, looking troubled. I nodded.

“You heard of Duke Lenguin’s death?” I asked. She nodded. “There are things we must discuss.”

“Then be brief, for I have other errands today,” she said, evenly, pushing back her hood, all business. She really was beautiful, but less so when she looked anxious.

“As you will,” I shrugged. “I examined the body this morning at Duke Rard’s request. He died of a bleed in the brain. Most unfortunate. That rather upsets the political situation, don’t you think?”

“That’s an Alshari problem,” she dismissed. “Are you not more concerned for the goblin horde?”

“The goblin horde, what there is left of it, is hurrying out of Nandine, headed north. They’re in no shape to return. A crowd of angry Alshari Wilderland lords who suspect their liege was slain by treachery seems a more pressing problem.”

She looked at me and bit her lip. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But how does that concern me?”

“During my examination, I decided to do a full magical exploration as well. I had to learn if Lenguin died from gurvani magic, didn’t I?”

She caught her breath. “Did he?”

“I found traces of magic, all right. But not gurvani. Imperial magic.”

She looked at me sharply. “One of the warmagi?”

“Some High Mage,” I agreed. “Who else? Someone magically aided his wound to bleed. A small spell, but deadly. And virtually undetectable. Virtually.

“The thing is, Isily, I’m a thaumaturge, not just a warmage. There are spells that can help determine the origin of another spell, if you know them and are skilled enough in their use. It’s subtle, but there can be no doubt. You cast the spell that killed Lenguin.”

She stiffened at the accusation. “You dare accuse me?”

“I dare,” I agreed, mildly. “I’m not an idiot, Isily. I give you credit for subtlety, and you left few traces behind. Damn few. Sure, you would have fooled someone else, maybe. Only me, Pentandra, Taren or maybe Delman, gods save him, could have picked up on it, or even known the right diagnostic spells to cast. But it was unmistakable. Now, do you want to tell me why you committed regicide at probably the worst possible moment in the history of the Duchies?”

She regarded me steadily for a moment. “Let’s sit, shall we?” she finally said.

We both knelt on the blanket and started in on the generous snack that Hamlan had provided. “You are correct, I did cast the spell,” she admitted, after eating an egg. “I was under orders from Mother.”

I almost caught my breath, and nodded. “I thought as much. The old bitch finally decided to take out her hate on her brother.”

Isily shook her head. “No, Minalan. It was a very carefully calculated strike. And it was necessary that it look like an accident. Duke Lenguin died more or less in battle, a far more noble end than anyone ever suspected of him.”

“Somehow I think he’d prefer to be alive and skip the honor,” I pointed out. “By itself, it’s a nasty crime, Isily. Regicide? Assassination? And after the two Duchies worked together to defeat the gurvani?”

“It’s more complicated than that!” she insisted. “I was under orders—”

“Well here is something you may not know about. The Duchess of Alshar was murdered last night as well. Apparently the Rat King sent one of his men to stick a Rat Tail in her ear while she slept. So this morning dawned on Alshar without a sitting head of state. And somehow I think if I investigate the Duchess’ death, I’ll find that the ‘Rat’ everyone is looking for is actually wearing yellow roses.”

Isily’s pretty eyes got wider and wider as I continued. “It’s pretty damn convenient, I’ll admit: big battle, Lenguin dies a hero in the North, treacherous assassin from a notorious criminal organization slays the Duchess . . . and Castal’s hands are clean. Hells, not just clean . . Rard looks like the hero of the day, stepping in to save the Duchies out of the goodness of his heart. Save for one little spelltrace I found, there’s nothing to incriminate the Family. Smooth,” I said, admirably. “Now the Wilderlands are in chaos, there’s no head of state in Alshar, and Rard conveniently just happens to have both a coronet and an army here. It’s a coup d’état, isn’t it?”

“Before you continue your speculations, Sire,” she said, intently, “perhaps I can mollify you somewhat.” She nodded toward the other woman, who was still waiting in the distance. She came over and knelt at the blanket, sitting daintily on her legs as she cast back her own cowl. A girl, no more than fifteen, and one I’d seen before.

“Countess Rardine,” I breathed, nodding as much of a bow as I felt like giving. “What a surprise.”

She smiled, a far more devious smile than one normally associates with sixteen year old girls. This one was steeped in conspiracies and intrigues far beyond her years.

“Sire Spellmonger,” she giggled. “Congratulations on the elevation of your station,” she said.

“Thanks,” I dismissed. “Congratulations on staging a nearly bloodless coup.”

“It was really Mother’s idea,” she said, proudly. “She’s been putting the pieces into play for years, but she had to await the gods sending you and the goblins to execute the plan. Not only did they weaken the Wilderlands, they gave us the excuse to re-arrange the political order. With my aunt and uncle gone, Daddy could claim sovereignty over all of Alshar through Mom’s line of descent.”

“That has dubious legal value,” I pointed out.

“An army and a crown make the legalities of the matter largely moot,” she replied, smoothly, as she daintily sliced an apple. “Who is to raise an objection? The Wilderland lords are in no position to challenge it, any more. After this battle there are damn few of them left that we did not put there. The Duchess had to go, and her flirtations with the Rat Crew made it simple enough to frame Jenerard for the deed. My aunt was an utter evil bitch, anyway – she never liked me or my brother,” she complained.

“And yet you are so likable. What about Lenguin’s son? He’s rightful heir to the throne, isn’t he?”

Rardine smiled coquettishly. “My dear cousin was taken to safety over the border to Castal early this morning, if all went to plan. He shall be safely getting an education in a very heavily fortified holy temple for a while, until we decide what to do with him. Likely he will be restored to the Duchy of Alshar . . . under the new King,” she said, with an air of satisfaction. Cocky little bitch.

“And when is that going to happen?”

“Within the next year. There will be a Coronet council next month, the one that Lenguin called before his untimely demise. That’s when Daddy will claim the crown.”

“One fifth a crown seems a little small for his head,” I pointed out. “What will the other Dukes say?”

“Two fifths, with Alshar,” she reminded me, digging into a pouch. She casually pulled up the Alshari shard, the one I had forced Lenguin to swear on. Poor bastard. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best idea for him. “And at the next coronet council, Remere will pledge its shard and its fealty to the new political order, too.”

“And how will you arrange that?”

“Are you joking?” she asked, with a haughtiness better suited to a harridan fifty years older. “We’ve had Remere in our pockets for decades. Clofalin is our puppet, and doesn’t take a dump without our knowledge and approval. Mother infiltrated the Remeran court and found the proper leverage years ago – how do you think we got them to pay for most of the Farisian Campaign? We negotiated this years ago. The Dukes of Remere will retain their title, and most of their lands. They will get certain lucrative trade concessions in return. They’ll lose control of Wenshar in the bargain, but honestly the Wenshari have been a pain in the Remeran ass since the Empire, and they’re better off without them.”

“And you believe three fifths a crown is enough? I can’t imagine Merwin or Vore taking a knee to Castal, ever.”

She shrugged again, and pulled her knees up to her chin. “Who cares? Daddy will be King, and three of the Duchies will acknowledge him so. The Merwini and Vorans will still just be Dukes. More importantly, three Duchies under one crown, with a more centralized and efficient bureaucracy, will allow trade to prosper throughout the new Kingdom. How can that be a bad thing?”

It galled me to admit it, but she had a point.

Don’t get me wrong, I despised her bloody-handed tactics and felt physically ill at the thought of how cold a person’s soul would have to be to casually order the execution of an aunt and uncle. It reminded me of the Soulless, in the Penumbra, who had made that choice – only they had been compelled to.

But I also knew that the trade across the Duchies was hampered by innumerable taxes and tolls. Back before the bloody march of the Dead God’s legions – say, last year – if Boval Vale wanted to sell its famed cheese abroad, the tolls and taxes to get it as far as Tudry doubled the original price. By the time it came as far as the Riverlands, it was worth five or six times what it cost, with every petty lord and free town taking a nibble from the final price. Therefore, you didn’t see Bovali cheese any further than Remere, where it was an exotic delicacy for only the wealthiest of tables.

I could see the attraction to a more centralized system. Less tolls, fewer taxes on trade goods, better regulated trade, that would all benefit the burghers and the craftsmen and the prosperous farmers. Which in turn would benefit the peasantry.

And a kingdom where magi were allowed to practice their arts without the specter of the Bans? Where we could own property and title? A kingdom where the power of irionite could be unleashed for the benefit of all? How could I not appreciate the aspirations of her ambitions?

But she still was a smug little murderer, and I didn’t like her. Or her mom.

“So what about the Dead God?” I asked. “Or did Mommy infiltrate his organization, too?”

“No, he was quite unexpected, and Mother agrees that the threat is quite real. After what I’ve seen here, there’s no denying that. I’ve spoken to Lady Isily at length about it. The High Magi are our only real hope against containing the threat. Which is why the new Kingdom is willing to wholeheartedly support your Order to do so.

“Under the new regime, the Alshari Wilderlands will become the Magelands. We will invest the High Magi here to guard the Penumbralands, and maintain a kingdom-wide conscription to provide additional troops for support. And we will cede all strategic control of the war effort to you and your Order.”

“That seems quite magnanimous of you,” I said, dryly.

“We admit, we cannot fight this kind of war. Dragons? Legions of goblins? Gods alone knows what else? Swords and lances and ships we can handle. This threat we need your help on.”

I nodded. “It’s good to know you realize that,” I said, quietly. “I’ve already established Sire Terleman as my commander, and the other mage knights. Knights Magi,” I corrected. All this new terminology was going to take some getting used to. “And this battle has yielded a bountiful harvest of new witchstones. So far over a dozen have been recovered, and the battlefield is still being policed. Once they are cleansed, we should have more than double the number of High Magi.”

“We’ve already identified several candidates,” Rardine said, smugly. “I’ll have them sent to you to get their stones and—”

“No,” I said, flatly. That caught the snotty little girl up short.

“What?”

“I said, ‘no’. Oh, I’ll consider your recommendation of a candidate, but I’ll make the determination of whether or not they get a stone.”

She fixed me with a stare. “We’ve already promised people witchstones,” she said, irritated.

“Then explain to them that there’s been an error. No one gets a stone that I don’t approve. These things are too powerful to hand out like pilgrimage tokens. You must understand, the power implicit to them is like . . . like . . . well, it’s like nothing you can imagine. Letting someone who can’t handle that responsibility get a hold of that kind of power is dangerously irresponsible. So I get to pick who gets the stones.”

“That’s unacceptable,” she said, her brow furrowing.

“Tough. It’s non-negotiable.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Isily has explained to me the power your stone, in particular, has. It can sever the connection between the captured stones and their master. I suppose that does give you some leverage in this matter.” I watched her as she thought through the situation.

I don’t know what it was about her eyes or face that changed, but somewhere along the way I saw her make the decision to have me killed. To this day I couldn’t tell you what tipped me off – there was no obvious outward change in her demeanor. But something in her eyes told me that she saw me as an obstacle . . . and she had no compunctions about dealing with me as she did with all such obstacles.

I opened my telepathic link to Tyndal. Tyn, the moment you notice anything change about Hamlan, or if he picks up anything in his hands, I want you to kill him as quickly as possible. Can you do that?

Y-yes, Master, he assured me, after the briefest of pauses. He was standing ten feet away, looking bored, well out of easy earshot. They were ignoring him, just as I was ignoring Hamlan as he puttered around behind me, pouring the wine.

“But it also occurs to me that your hand is not the only one that could wield the stone. As valuable as you are, Spellmonger, you are not irreplaceable.”

“That’s ‘Sir Spellmonger’,” I reminded her, “and I beg to differ.”

“Don’t push your luck, peasant,” she shot back. “Count your good fortune and be grateful for what we have given. Because we can always take it away.”

“You might find that harder than you think,” I replied. “What would happen if it became known that the Castali royal family was, indeed, complicit with the death of the Alshari royal family? Chaos. Civil war. And no shiny new crown for Daddy.”

“You dare threaten me? The Family?” Rardine asked, her face and voice the spitting image of her mother. “You forget yourself.” She straightened a bit and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. I was looking for a signal, and I was betting that was it.

It was. Not more than three heartbeats after that, I heard a blast and a thud as Tyndal drew a warwand and struck down my disloyal manservant, a Rat Tail in his hand.

I didn’t even turn around. I drew my own warwand the moment I heard the noise and I pointed it at the Countess’ face.

“I might have forgotten myself, but I didn’t forget the treachery of the Family,” I said, quietly. “In fact, I never forgot that. So here is our new negotiation, Countess.

“My Order may work with the Family again, but we will never work for you. I’m out. Consider me a Son-In-Law, if you will, but if you ever try to interfere with my people or our affairs unduly again, I will tear down the throne before you ever sit on it. You think I’m replaceable? So are heads to wear the crown.”

“So you’d elevate yourself, then?” she asked scornfully. Isily was frozen with fear, and Tyndal had moved over to cover her with his warwand. Rardine ignored everything but our conversation. If she was afraid of getting blasted, she didn’t show it at all.

“I’ve got my own funny hat, thank you very much. I have no desire for another. My point is that just as you so coldly killed your aunt and uncle to take their place, it’s not difficult to arrange such accidents – particularly when you have access to magic and irionite. You think your deadly ladies are subtle? Consider how deadly a magically-trained assassin could be. You cannot protect yourself or the Family from them, not forever. You interfere with the Order again, and I cannot guarantee the safety of any of you.”

Her gaze didn’t falter. “Go on.”

“You need us, we don’t really need you. There’s no end of ruthless, bloodthirsty nobles who crave power. We can cut a deal with any number of your enemies, if we’re pushed to it. But we’ll stay out of Kingdom politics to the extent that we will not do anything against the Family, and even keep our eyes open on your behalf. If we can work together, however distasteful it is, we will.”

“Agreed,” she said, her voice tightly controlled.

“Further, you will protect us from the Censorate, if they try to regroup and come after us. We might have convinced Hartarian, but there are plenty of other rapid Censors out there. Keep them off our back politically, and the Order will be open to assisting the Kingdom as an open favor.”

She considered. It wasn’t all bad. “All right. Agreed. Go on.”

“Next item: The Order will determine the rules and regulation of magic in the new kingdom. The Ducal Court Wizard – actually, the Royal Court Wizard – will enforce and administer them, but the Order will set magical policy. If the Royal Court Wizard wishes to advise us on behalf of the Crown, well, I don’t see why not. Any issues involving magi also involve the Order, so no summary judgments or executions. We police our own, and if you have a problem with one of us, you go through us.”

“I don’t see any issue with that,” she agreed, calmly.

“Good. In addition, we’re going to need resources to properly develop our abilities enough to prosecute this war. Kingdom resources, at some point. We want a good-faith agreement that you’ll grant those reasonable requests, unless there’s a compelling reason you can’t. We’ve got four hundred years of magical arts that have been lost to us under the Bans, and we’re going to need time, money, and space to re-open those researches.”

“No problem. Next?”

I considered. If I ever wanted anything, this was the time to ask. “I want you to double the bonus for the mercenaries from the original expeditionary force. And offer each captain a fief. They more than earned it.”

She shrugged. “Done. Anything else?”

“I get my choice of fief, and a draft on the treasury for five thousand ounces of gold.”

She made a face. “Why not? Shall I hike my skirts and throw my maidenhead on the table in the bargain?”

I considered the idea, and after a brief and not entirely unpleasant indulgence in imagining the outcome of such a deal, I dismissed it. “Not interested. You’re pretty enough, but I wouldn’t respect myself afterwards.”

She smirked. “You wouldn’t survive the encounter. This womb is reserved for future kings, not the spawn of a baker’s son.

“But I do have a counter offer: I’ll give you Lady Isily’s hand in marriage and make you a Baron of Wenshar, palatial estate and all. She’ll inherit a bit from her father when he dies, and likely her uncle. In twenty years you’d be a Count. And Wenshar is the home of the Censorate. We would make that the new headquarters of your Order.”

That was an interesting counter-offer. But it was rude, among other ills. “You’d sell your Daughter’s charms so readily? Without even consulting her?”

“Her twat is mine to do with as I please,” she shrugged. “She knows it. She’s used it at my direction often enough. Since her hand is connected to it, then offering it to you in marriage would pair the one to the other. Imagine it, Spellmonger, a union of two powerful magical talents? Invested in a rich land with a proud magical tradition? If you seek powerful magi, then breed her like a cow, for all I care. Fuck her every night and spawn sparky brats until she drops.”

“I have a girlfriend,” I pointed out.

“Keep her, too, and set her up in an estate as your mistress. Take both to bed every night, and add in that Remeran slut you favor for variety. You’d be as affluent and powerful as the Archmagi of old!”

“And tied to you, arse-deep in your plots and schemes, and eventually under your thumb,” I shot back. “No, as comely as she is, and as rich your offer, you can keep her. It’s a short-lived fool who takes an assassin to wife.”

She cocked her head. “Is that some old peasant saying?”

“No, it’s just common bloody sense,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I might be a randy buck, Rardine, but my heart belongs to the mother of my child. Call it a fault of my common origins, but Isily will always be your creature, and I won’t have a wife I cannot trust. Nor will I treat Alya as wife and deny her the title. Not for realms and treasure, and certainly not for her,” I said. Isily’s pale cheeks were bright red. She hadn’t spoken a word while her future and her virtue had been passed over the bargaining table in front of her.

The difference struck me. Alya would have spoken up.

“But I will take this part of your offer: the Censorate’s former holdings within your realm will belong to my Order. Let all those Censors who refuse to yield be permitted to retire east to Merwin. But they must leave their records, artifacts, and magical resources behind.”

“Gladly,” she nodded. “We’ll need someone to take charge of them.”

“Sir Reylan,” I decided. “He’s Wenshari, and he’s in need of a task – and a lordship.”

“Whomever. You take the headache of magic off our plates, but the reverse is also true: if your magi start interfering in politics, particularly against the interests of the state, and you’ll answer for it.”

“Don’t make it necessary for us to interfere in politics, and we won’t,” I countered. “Look, we could be at this all day. I don’t like you, Rardine, or your mother, or what your precious Family is willing to do for the sake of power. It disgusts me, honestly. I feel tainted by my part in it. But if it builds something better for the people, then you have our support, if not our love. Start oppressing the people, and all bets are off.”

“Done,” she agreed. “My parents will ratify any decision I make.” She glanced over at Hamlan’s body, which was still twitching. “Pity you slew him. He was quite useful.”

I put my wand away, and Tyndal did likewise, albeit much more slowly. I stood, and didn’t bother offering either one of them to their feet. “I’ll expect the paperwork for my draw on the treasury delivered to my camp by sundown. I leave at dawn.”

I didn’t bother to wait for her to answer, but I turned to Isily. She was trying to look calm and collected, but I could see there was fear in her eyes. Good.

“I’m not going to ask for your stone back, although I should,” I said, my voice a threatening monotone. “But that’s the last stone the Family gets. And if you misbehave, Isily, I won’t hesitate to recall it. And I think you know I mean that. Do we have an understanding?”

“Aye, milord,” she said, submissively.

“Ladies,” I said, nodded, and turned on my heel. Tyndal followed behind me.

“Master?” he asked, when we were a few hundred feet away. “What was that all about?”

“Believe it or not, we just established an institutional agreement in principal, according to Pentandra. We set the course for how magic will be used from now on. And we very nearly got me killed. Again.”

“Where to now?”

I sighed and looked around at the war-torn fief. That was a good question.

“First, we’re riding back to Wilderhall. We have to figure out where our new home is going to be, go over some maps with Lady Arnet and find someplace promising. Then back home. Talry. For now, I want you and Rondal to pack up my things while I arrange for horses and say farewell to Bold Asgus, Rogo, and the others. Keep out just what we’ll need to sleep in, and pack the rest.”

“Yes, Master,” Tyndal agreed. “Is Lady Pentandra coming with us?”

“As far as Wilderhall. Probably a few others – Reylan, for one. He doesn’t know it yet, but he just got a new job. We all did, yourself included . . . Sir Tyndal.”

“Sir Tyndal,” he repeated, blushing. “I like the sound of that. From stableboy to knight, in less than a year.”

“It’s been an eventful summer,” I agreed. I looked out over the battlefield, where men were still hauling bodies for burial or burning. The afternoon sky was filled with huge flocks of carrion birds come to feast on goblins and men alike. The stench of the bodies hung in the air, as oppressive as the Umbra shadow on the western horizon. Stacks of arms and armor were piled near the ruins of the redoubts in the distance. It was almost dusk, and the evening cookfires were starting to go up across the valley – hundreds less than there should have been.

“It has been an eventful summer,” I repeated. For everyone. Let’s get back to Talry. I feel a sudden urge for matrimony.”

“I hope it isn’t catching,” he quipped. “Though I doubt I’m the type . . .” he trailed off.

“You’re a fifteen-year old Knight Mage, Tyn – believe me, you’ll have offers. But no settling down for you, yet. I’m going to arrange for you to go to Inrion Academy, where I went, and get you a firmer grounding in the basics of Imperial magic. And I’ll also expect you to continue training as a warmagi. I’m sending Rondal to Inrion, too, so you’ll be together. Just for the winter quarter, to start. After I get established in my estate, I’ll send for you both, and then the real fun will begin: figuring out how to defeat the Dead God.”

“Why are we in such a hurry to leave here?”

“The stench of bodies, the goblins, the dragon – those I could deal with. But I don’t want to be within a day’s march of Rardine. That girl is vicious. And she’ll cause us trouble, one day. Besides Alya’s pregnant and I want to be there for her—”

“No, Master, you really don’t,” assured my apprentice, insistently.

“Yes, I do,” I said. “I want to marry her by Yule, and get to our new holdings by Spring, in time for the baby to be born. I’m done being a Spellmonger, done being a Warmage. I want to settle down to the quiet life of a country Magelord. Whatever that means.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “You think you’ll be able to, with all that political stuff going on?”

I looked out across the scarred battlefield again, and tried to imagine all of the Riverlands like this. It could happen – would happen – if I didn’t do my job right.

“Probably not,” I agreed. “But I’m going to try for as long as I can.”

The End

Next . . . Volume 3 of the Spellmonger Series: Magelord!

Coming in 2013!

Dramatis Personae

Minalan the Spellmonger

Tyndal, his apprentice

Rondal, his apprentice

Alya, his girlfriend/wife

Pentandra, his ex-girlfriend

Master Osirigo – Penny’s father

The Magi

The Veteran Bovali Warmagi

Minalan the Spellmonger, First High Mage

Terleman

Carmella

Azar

Wenek

Hesia

Horka

Three Gilmoran magi

Curmor

Mavone

Astyral

Delman

Rustallo

Reylan

Taren

Pentandra

Rolof (Not participating in the war at this time)

Other High Magi

Tyndal

Rondal

Master Cormaran

Lanse of Bune

Master Thinradel

Master Dunselen

Isily of Brawin

Master Icorod of Vendomere

Forondal of Scaford

Bendonal the Outlaw

Sarakeem of Merwin

The Castali Expeditionary Force

500 The Hellriders, a red stallion is their standard. Kaddel of Wenshar is their captain Light horse, spears and swords, five-hundred strong, well armed and horsed and used to hard work.

500 Nirodi Free Mounted Archers, Captain Rogo Redshaft

500 Warbirds – Five hundred heavy infantry, led by Sir Pendolan of Kayfier. They fly a raven standard.

1000 Orphan’s Band. Light infantry and support, half archers, excellent sentries and pickets. Their standard is a boar’s head and their captain is Bold Asgus.

Lieutenant Sardkis

Ancient Fargal

Ancient Raric

Warbrother Caudel – Priest of Duin

1000 Kavial’s Company, 1000 medium cavalry. Sir Kavial of Kelaer. A company of well-mounted sergeants and a few knights, equipped to travel light.

Sir Vorgal,Lieutenant

Sir Makan of Wenshar, deputy

Alshari Wilderlands Lords

Sire Geston of Grimly – lord of Grimly Wood

Baron “Iron” Magonas of Greenhill

Baron Raskean of Farenrose Warden of the North

Count Jendan of Autumnly. Warden of the North

Sire Escut of Honeyhall

Ozzig the Black – Lord of the Pearwoods Clans

Castali Ducal Council:

Duke Rard

Duchess Grendine

Countess Rardine: Daughter of the Duke and Duchess

Tavard III, Son and Heir

Lady Arnet: the Duke’s cousin and the Minister of Lands and Estates

Master Dunselen: Court Mage of Castal

Count Kindine the Prime Minister

Lord Angrial of Alshar, the official Ducal envoy from that Duchy.

Count Sago, Lord Marshal

Lord Maron: Counselor of the West

Count Moray: Ducal Advisor

Lord Reiman of Lancelawn, Ducal Scribe

Lord Seajack – Castellan of the Tower of Honor

Baron Penegal – Baron of Wilderhall, member of court by courtesy

Sire Dasuos

Lord Moran

Lord Moray

Sire Donaro

Viscount Asipian

Lord Efert of Morilla

Baron Uins

Viscount Poramar

Sire Roald of Greenfield

Alshari Ducal Court:

Duke Lenguin

Duchess Enora

Count Venn of Darlake – Prime Minister of Alshar (In Falas)

Master Thinradel, Court Mage

Count Marcandine – Lord Marshal of Alshar

Count Brayan. Marshal of the Wilderlands

Grand Master Saleppo – ineffective Alshari Censor

Baron Jenerard, Lord of the Coasts - Secret agent of the Rat King.

Vicountess Threanas – Lady of the Treasury

Sir Daranal – Head of the Ducal Palace Guard, intelligence

Lady Arasma – Ducal court secretary

Lord Andrien, Court Herald;

Count Gallanan, the Warden of the North

Table of Contents

- Chapter One:

- Chapter Two:

- Chapter Three:

- Chapter Six:

- Chapter Seven:

- Chapter Eight:

- Chapter Nine:

- Chapter Ten:

- Chapter Eleven:

- Chapter Twelve:

- Chapter Thirteen:

- Chapter Fourteen:

- Chapter Fifteen:

- Chapter Sixteen:

- Chapter Seventeen:

- Chapter Eighteen

- Chapter Nineteen:

- Chapter Twenty

- Chapter Twenty-One:

- Chapter Twenty-Two:

- Chapter Twenty-Three:

- Chapter Twenty-Four

- Chapter Twenty-Five

- Chapter Twenty-Six

- Chapter Twenty-Seven:

- Chapter Twenty-Eight:

- Chapter Twenty-Nine:

- Chapter Thirty:

- Chapter Thirty-One:

- Chapter Thirty-Two:

- Chapter Thirty-Three

- Chapter Thirty-Four:

- Chapter Thirty-Five:

- Chapter Thirty-Six:

- Chapter Thirty-Seven:

- Chapter Thirty-Eight:

- Chapter Thirty-Nine:

- Chapter Forty:

- Chapter Forty-One:

- Chapter Forty-Two:

- Chapter Forty-Three:

- Chapter Forty-Four

- Dramatis Personae

- The Magi