High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (53 page)

I saw at once that he was correct.  It was just the size and shape to be a sort of shoe.  “But the gurvani do not wear shoes,” I pointed out.

“Never to our eye,” he agreed.  “They have thick pads on their feet.  But they are shoes nonetheless.”

“To keep their feet from hurting?” I asked, confused.  “I’ve seen them walk on sharp rocks and hot coals and not complain.  And while I suppose the spikes would allow for traction in mud, for instance, I do not see how these would fare better than boots for that purpose.”

“You reason like a ranger,” he said, approvingly. 

“Which can only mean that this shoe was designed to be used on . . .
ice
,” I realized.

“The rumors about your wisdom are vindicated,” Arborn chuckled.  “That is just what our folk concluded.”

“Ice . . .” I repeated, staring into the fire.  “Why ice?”

“There is only one reason I can think of,” Arborn suggested.  “If their troops were thus shod, and they used their mighty trolls to plow the snow from their path, then this would be the ideal footgear for a winter assault.  Our folk would be trapped in their castles, mostly, in the case of an attack after a snowstorm.  These would allow goblins access over road and field, through ice and snow, while we struggled to reinforce someplace under siege.”

“Which would make each particularly vulnerable to a quick, hard siege and eventual capture,” I sighed, depressed.  “And clearly presages an attack this winter.”

“So we thought,” he agreed.  “It was also thought that the Spellmonger would be the man in place to best make use of this intelligence.”

“I appreciate the trust the Kasari have placed in me,” I said, sincerely.  “I have long respected your people.  And yes, I can use this.  If the gurvani are coming this winter, we must prepare.”

“Which brings me to my plea, Spellmonger,” Arborn continued, uneasily.  “We have need of a mage.  A great mage.  Bransei, our northwestern stronghold, is a stout and formidable settlement.  It is unlikely that the gurvani will ever overcome it while the Kasari still fight.  Yet . . . there are children in Bransei, children who suffer from the atmosphere of war even if they are not yet fighting it.  As beautiful as the groves of Bransei are, they are no longer safe for our children.”

“What can I do?” I asked, shrugging.

“We would lead them away from the region, if we had the opportunity. But there are many children at Bransei.  They were sent there from groves and Kasari households from all over the western Wilderlands when the goblins invaded.  As I said, Bransei is formidable – it is safe from gurvani aggression, for now.  But after three years of war, mere safety is not sufficient.  Our people wish to send the greater part of their children to safer refuges, in Kasar.  While we can spare the men to escort them, that many children will be a tempting target to slavers, no matter how many men we send.  Particularly slavers with shamans.”

I considered the matter.  I could appreciate their position – trying to raise children in a siege is difficult, to do so for an extended period of time would be trying.  It would not be much of a life for the children, and every day would be fraught with danger. 

But to lead the children through the Wilderlands would be challenging enough in peacetime.  The Bransei region was particularly rugged.  Raging rivers, broken country, impassable forests – it was treacherous at best.  To try to shepherd them while being pursued by slavers and goblins mounted on fell hounds would take . . . magic.

“So you want me to provide enough of a magical corps to complete your escort,” I reasoned.

“You have it, exactly,” agreed Arborn.  “With High Magi in our midst, we could move with far more security.  We can at least get them through the Penumbra.  I knew that the Spellmonger would be able to find a way!”

“I haven’t, yet,” I reminded him.  “But escort them . . . to where?  And how many are there?”

“As to where, the elders at Kasar have agreed to take them in.  They will be housed in some of the old camps, deep in the groves.  Smaller groves have agreed to take any we have not room for, but that seems unlikely.  Kasar is vast.  It could hold ten times that number and still have room.  As to the number . . . nearly two thousand.   All under twelve years old.”

I thought about how handy a thousand dour Kasari rangers would help out in Gilmora.  “Captain, I think we can work something out.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Visitor At Yule

Arborn stayed with us to enjoy the Yule feast, and I only became more impressed with the man.  He carried himself as a knight would, but had a grace and humility most of the chivalry have difficulty expressing.  He did not seem aware of social cues, choosing to speak to lords and villeins alike as equals.  He drank very little, just a few cups of ale and a single cup of wine, while most of the rest of the castle was drinking like the ocean drinks a river.  He was quick-witted but never cruel in his jests.

“I like this Kasari fellow,” Rondal decided at the feast, as we watched him politely decline to dance with a maid.  Apparently the vaunted Kasari training doesn’t cover pavanes. 

“He’s a little quiet,” Tyndal pointed out as he devoured his second meat pie in a manner that was a little disturbing.  I had forgotten just how much a seventeen year old can eat.  “But he’s been everywhere in the Wilderlands.  I wonder if he’s any good with a blade?”

“Count on it,” grunted Lorcus, his eyes bleary with drink.  “The Kasari rangers train like squires, if they’re accepted into the training.  But don’t expect a gentlemanly duel.  The Kasari fight to win, not to impress.”

“He’s a well-spoken young man,” Sire Cei affirmed, as he bounced his new son on his lap.  “Very courteous.  And dutiful.  He wanted to depart at once with his charge, but I had to prevail on him to respect the traditions of Yule.  One day, more or less, will make no difference to his errand.  But every man needs to relax and refresh himself in good company from time to time, no matter how solitary he is.”  It seemed an odd thing for Sire Cei to say, but then fatherhood had changed him.  Softened, some would say, but I knew better.  It had broadened him into a more complete man.

“Pentandra’s absolutely crazy about him,” I confided.  “I told her he was here and she nearly fainted.  If she wasn’t in Castabriel right now, she’d be the one trying to dance with him.”

“He’s not that great,” Tyndal said, after a moment’s consideration.  “He’s not titled, he has no lands, he’s—”

“He’s tall, dark, handsome, rugged, quiet, deadly, courteous, strong, and valiant,” Lorcus recited.  “So apart from that, Sir Tyndal, he is an utter wart, I have no doubt.”  Tyndal made a face but kept eating.  Rondal grinned. 

“What concerns me are the tidings he brought,” Sire Cei said, quietly.  “Iron shoes, Magelord?  A winter assault?”

“It seems likely,” I nodded.  “What else could they be used for?  And it would surely take us by surprise.”  Humans tended to make warfare a summer affair, as horses and wains of supplies are hard to move over frozen roads, and forage is difficult to find.  The gurvani were not hampered by those limitations.  “I’ve alerted Terleman and Salgo already.  The watch on the Penumbra has been intensified, and the commando units in Gilmora are increasing their patrols.”

“But if they do launch an assault, how can we respond?” asked Rondal, worriedly. 

“By magic,” I supplied.  “We might not be able to move huge columns of troops, but we can move magi around with little effort.”

“But magi aren’t infantry,” Sire Cei pointed out.  “They can help, but . . .”

“But that’s all I’ve got, for now,” I snapped.  “I’m working on it, I promise.  Right now it’s all just speculation.  If they do muster their legions, we’ll have at least some warning,” I promised myself.  “And there are nearly a hundred thousand troops in Gilmora, now.  We are not defenseless.”

“Unless they bring dragons,” Lorcus observed, pouring another glass of wine.  “Then we’re fucked.”

I couldn’t really argue with that.

We watched in silence awhile as the trestles were cleared away to expand the dance floor of the hall.  Master Olmeg, in a brand new rabbit-trimmed woolen cloak of Sevendor green, was attempting to dance with a small dumpy peasant woman, which was humorous, and Dara was doing her best to get Gareth to join her in a dance.  Dranus was dancing with Alya, who wasn’t particularly good but certainly enthusiastic.  Banamor was in the company of a pretty young footwizard I’d not seen before.  Children ran among the legs of the adults, and dogs occasionally barked  at the chaos. 

The three Alkan emissaries had joined the castle ladies at the other end of the hall, nearest the fire, where Alya and Estret had done their best to make them feel at home.  Many of the Sevendori came and stared at the ladies – they had worn gowns of particularly intriguing design and color, well-matched to the winter season.

One admirer in particular, Sir Ryff, was dogged in his determination to court the reluctant Lady Fallawen.  The knight had found a dashing black mantle to wear over his court finery and had found the address of a barber.  He shadowed her all night long, quietly engaging her in conversation while ensuring that she did not lack for food or drink. 

She continued to be embarrassed by the attention – Varen and Ithalia were as relentless in their teasing as Sir Ryff was in his courting – but as the night waned and the wine flowed, she began to warm to his attentions, despite herself.  She even condescended to join him in a dance before the evening was done.  I think the “primitive” nature of the event amused her.

The entire hall was strewn with evergreen boughs, the scent of pine and cedar filling the air with the aroma of a truly sumptuous feast featuring the finest of the harvest.  The Tal Alon from Hollyburrow had been invited, and a good quarter of the crowd was short brown and furry.  Onranion was indulging in alcohol with the enthusiasm of a lifelong drunk and was delighted by the incessant attention he was paid by the young ladies of Sevendor.  Master Guri and a delegation of Karshak seemed determined to drink the castle dry.

It was a merry scene.  I did not relish the idea of leaving it behind for a midwinter war.

“The matter of the Kasari children will have to wait until Spring, it seems,” I remarked to myself, over my seventh glass of wine.  “Maybe longer.  That will take some planning and plotting.  But there is also the royal wedding to consider in the schedule now.  Where are we going to find the time to fit a war in?  I bet that old bitch did that on purpose . . . I wonder if a giant falcon could carry her off? ” I lit my pipe with a cantrip and continued.  “Sweet Briga, who saw the ice shoes coming?  That’s not good tidings at all,” I assured myself.  “Where can I find help for that?”   I had no idea who I was talking to, or why, but the wine seemed to lubricate my tongue and my worries poured out. 

I spent the rest of the evening trying to forget about the inevitable battles to come and focus on ensuring my people were having a good time.  I couldn’t really do anything until the goblins did, I decided, so I had better enjoy myself.  The Yule court had been perfunctory, more jest than business, as most of the serious business had been accomplished at the Fair.  But it reminded me just why I was considering fighting goblins in the snow. 

*                            *                            *

The short winter days are often a very productive time for a mage, because there’s little else he can do but sit inside, read, and study.  After Captain Arborn left a few days after Yule, departing Lesgaethael  with Gurkarl (who was just as happy leaving his comfortable but lonely secret cavern, behind the kennel in the Westwood), I focused a few more days on discovering the secrets of my jewels.  While I let my apprentices and Dranus school Dara in intermediate magic, I spent my time with the Alka Alon and the Karshak, peering into their depths with every thaumaturgical essay I could.

There were a lot of possible applications of the magic, and once the crystal gave you the facility, and you knew what to do, it was not that difficult. I quickly mastered the basic elements of the pocketstone and went on a binge of magical experimentation.   I added a magical “room” to my tower, an extra-dimensional storage space tied to a section of wall I marked with a decorative lamp mounted there.  I never used the thing – magelight was far superior – but it was pretty and I could hang stuff on it if I needed to. 

Once the spell was set, however, a touch and word to the lamp opened a three-foot wide hole in reality that led to a “space” where stuff could be put.  I stored some enchantment supplies there, including my cache of weirwood, a store of parchment, and a score of witchstones – the majority of the hoard was in my secret cavern. 

It was useful to be able to just make more space when you needed it, I realized.  My magical closet was around three hundred cubic feet, and I installed a magelight to illuminate it when it was open.  Keeping it open was the hard part – it took me three days to figure it out.  The power usage was virtually nothing, after the initial enchantment was established. I was so proud of myself that I began enchanting several other extra-dimensional “pockets” all over the place.  My chamberpot would never stink now, after I taught the servants the trick of emptying it by turning it upside down and repeating the right mnemonic. 

I also spent some time working on an enchantment I had been considering.  While my mageblade, Twilight, was a powerful weapon, I wanted something more arcanely substantial.  I had selected the best of the weirwood staves from my collection and began working on building a worthy warstaff.

I had been feeling the lack since my tour of the Penumbra, and I’d never had a better time or place to custom build one.   I no longer had my spellmonger’s staff, nor had I ever regularly used a warstaff before.  My “official” staff of office was an elaborate, gaudy toy Pentandra had made partially out of a brass lamp.  I needed a new weapon, and a warstaff it would be.

A lot of work goes into preparing to craft an enchanted staff, twice so if it is to be as good a weapon as it is a prop.  But that task becomes far easier when you’re working with weirwood, the
natava
wood of choice for just about any kind of magical enchantment.  This one was six feet long, and uniformly two inches thick, a reddish-brown color.  And it was ideal.

While a staff is a weapon and a tool, most warmagi use them as handy place to stash useful combat spells.   I’d used an oaken staff, briefly, when I’d first entered the trade, but oak is limited in how many spells it can take, and I eventually lost it in a siege and never replaced it.  I preferred a mageblade for the kind of warmagic I waged then.

I had different needs, now, and a warstaff sounded like a good idea.  Weirwood can handle a lot more magic than other kinds of wood, far more than oak, ash, or hickory.  I loaded that slender stick with dozens of damaging spells, defensive spells, and noncombatant magic that can be useful on or off the battlefield.  Then I used the stone and augmented it further by studding it with magical “pockets” in which I could store weapons and tools and such until I needed them, burning each one into place with a rune. 

When I was done, I could activate the trigger, mumble a word, and a full bottle of spirits would appear, for example.  Or I could see a piece of loot on the field I coveted, “open” one of the empty pockets, and collect it for later study.   I filled several of these with gear or weapons I thought I might need in the field. 

It occurred to me that this would be a great way to move a lot of gold without guards, wains, or magical allies.  I wondered whether or not a human being or animal could survive being pocketed that way, and considered some experiments for later.  With people I didn’t like.

I also wanted the thing to be a potent weapon in its own right.  I imposed on the Karshak smith at Guri’s lodge to fashion a rail of steel to attach to each side.   That would keep it from being shattered by a blow in battle, and aid in the crushing of skulls and such.  A three-inch blunted spike on the butt could act as a weapon or as a grounding spike.  I had him build a succession of weapons attached to the bronze head.  Using the stone, I consigned each one to a magical pocket.  With a word I could transform the staff into a spear, a boar spear, a poleaxe, a halberd, a hook, a mace, or a trident.  It was a classy piece of warmagic.

Then I had him add a cunningly-crafted retractable blade at the head, ten inches of Karshak steel that could appear with the touch of a small ornamental stud.  Utterly nonmagical.  I had seen what happened in battle when a flimsy magical weapon was effectively countered.  Sometimes you just needed to stab something without messing around with all those incantations.

The extra weight of the slender hidden blade and the ornamental bronze head (in the shape of a snowflake the Karshak smith had contrived in my honor) made the thing a formidable blunt object without the magical blades.  Weirwood is strong, too.  It was even stronger when I enwrapped it in my toughest spells of resiliency.

I wasn’t doing this on my own, understand.  I dabble in enchantment, but I’m more of a thaumaturge.  When I came to parts of the enchantments I could not master, I sought help.  I obsessed about the design and fiddled with the details as new ideas occurred.  I called in a few experts, consulting the best enchanters I knew.  I consulted Cormoran, the warmagi swordsmith who had crafted Twilight, several times.  I even spoke mind-to-mind with Lanse of Bune regarding knot coral.  Of course everyone was very willing to help.  One of the advantages to fame and power is the access it brings.