High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (67 page)

First I contacted Terleman and told him enough of my plan to get some things happening at Castle Gavard.  He was skeptical at first – he wouldn’t have been a decent military commander if he wasn’t – but once he saw what I wanted to do, he accepted the plan in good faith.  He agreed to start issuing orders and making preparations. I think he was just happy that someone had a plan.

Then I contacted Pentandra, who had been transferred back to her estate near Castabriel.  I came closest to revealing my liaison with Briga to her, but refrained from mentioning any specific names.  I merely told her the gods had helped me figure it out, and left it at that.  Thankfully she accepted my explanation without further inquiry – she can be nosy, when she feels like it.

But considering how much I asked her to do in such a short period of time, she didn’t have the luxury of questioning the origin of my plan.  After I finished with Penny I spoke with four or five other High Magi whose talents I’d need, and by the time I was done the last of my porridge was stone cold.

“Excellency?” Sir Ryff interrupted, when he saw me sigh and push my bowl away.  He was filling in for Sire Cei as temporary castellan while Cei was deployed in Gilmora.  I suppose it got pretty boring at his crappy little castle in his backwater fief, and I’m sure the money was good.  And of course he had a crush on Lady Fallawen.  “You look pensive this morning.  Are you feeling well?”

“A late night and too many problems, my friend,” I sighed.  “Thank you for inquiring.  But I think I have come to some resolution on the matter.”

“Is there something I can be of assistance with?” he asked, politely.  I’d noticed Sir Ryff had improved his dress and grooming since he had become my vassal.  No doubt Lady Fallawen’s occasional presence had something to do with it.

“Actually, there is.  You’re acting castellan.  I need a message sent to every domain in the barony.  I’m recruiting men for a highly dangerous campaign.  Volunteers only.  Single men only.  Rich reward.  And the not-inconsiderable favor of the Spellmonger,” I added.  “I need them here by dusk, day after tomorrow, armed for infantry work.  Spears, swords, bows.  Leave the lances at home, there’s not going to be any cavalry charges.”

“Yes, Excellency!” Sir Ryff said, snapping to attention.  He might have been hesitant as an acting baronial castellan, but he knew how to take military orders.  “I shall have the scribe prepare it at once!”

“And spread the word among my garrison.  I’m not going to tell any man to go.  He’s going to have to want to go.  And there’s a very good chance he might not come back.  But if he does, I’ll make it worth his while.”

“Just where are we headed, Excellency?” he asked, hesitantly. 

“West.  To the Mindens.  So tell them to dress warmly.  Then send word to the Karshak lodge that I crave a moment with Master Guri, when he has an opportunity.  Sooner would be better than later.”

“It shall be done, Excellency,” he assured me.

“Lastly, I want you, personally, to go inform the Alka Alon atop Matten’s
Helm that we prepare to go into battle.  Anyone who wants to go along with us needs to be ready to go at the appointed hour.”

“Is there . . . is there any chance milady Fallawen will be there?” he asked, hopefully. 

“She is currently helping evacuate her people,” I explained, realizing that the country knight probably didn’t know much about what was going on.  “That’s where the bulk of the gurvani army is headed, not Gilmora.  We’re going to go help relieve it.”

“Lady Fallawen’s city?” he asked, alarmed.

“Yes,” I admitted.  “Anthatiel.  It is under threat.  Shereul feinted at Gilmora to strike there, instead.”

“Well, that must not be borne!” he declared, offended at the idea.

“That’s kind of why we’re going to attack them,” I agreed, casually.  “That’s why I need these men.  High quality men.  Tough men.  Where we’re going, the weak and fainthearted will fail.  Quality will matter more than quantity.  Veterans, not recruits.  Infantry, not cavalry.  If a knight is all elbows on foot, I don’t care how valiantly he can charge into battle horsed.”

“I shall see it done, Excellency!” he said, and stomped off resolutely to do so.  I liked Sir Ryff.  He was uncomplicated.  I raised my hand to get a Tal Alon’s attention – they were now our regular serving attendants at the castle for most things – to get a second bowl of porridge when there was a ruckus at the door.

It proved to be a village lad from Sevendor Town, bearing tidings.  At dawn the town had awakened to a new and mysterious sign in their midst.  Down in the old commons area, on the site designated for the new temple quarter, a column of flame ten feet high had sprung up from the ground on the proposed site of Briga’s temple.  It was a gaudy pillar of sparkling red, gold and orange, and it seemed to manifest without the need of fuel.  While hot – it was fire – one could apparently stand but a few inches away and not be burnt.

The townspeople were perplexed.  Was it a spell gone wrong? A secret plan of the Spellmonger?  An attack from Shereul? A portent of things to come?  A sign from the gods?

I calmed the boy down, listened to his story, and indicated that I found the last most likely.  “This is clearly a sign of favor from the Bright One,” I said, gently.  “A symbol of her support for our war effort.  Spread the word: the gods themselves are on our side in this struggle!” I gave the boy a silver piece and sent him happily back to the town.

By noon the word had spread like . . . well, like wildfire, and the site became a place of impromptu pilgrimage.  The workers scheduled to begin digging the foundation to the temple were perplexed.  I felt for them, but didn’t have time to stop and help them sort through the thorny problem of building a temple around a perpetual fire hazard.  I had other things to do.

But sign of divine favor energized the people.  While my summons did not explicitly mention it, each messenger was full of tales of the Everfire springing up amidst the Snow That Never Melted.  It was great for recruitment, we’d discover later.

At the time, I just looked into the crackling fire on the hearth of the Great Hall and silently invoked Briga.

“Show off,”
I prayed to the laughing, dancing flames.

Chapter Thirty

The Barges Of Durrow

Of course it wasn’t as easy as it had been in my dream.  Your mind is really good about neglecting to mention all the sweat involved in making dreams come true.

Assembling a strike force was the first task.  My call for volunteers yielded a few hundred men fitting the bill, with a large number of Bovali interested in striking the hated gurvani again.  There were also adventurers, mercenaries, veterans looking for the reward, and eager soldiers tired of garrison duty and interested in adventure.  I had no intention relying on my levy as my main force, but every bit of manpower would help.  I wanted daring killers and experienced warriors.  I got what I paid for.

The Alka Alon, too, contributed a hundred more human-sized archers to the cause.  Some were actually from Anthatiel and wanted to rescue their fair city.  Others were so outraged at the temerity of the gurvani that they felt compelled to avenge the affront.  I didn’t care about their motivations.  I needed their bows.  And their magic.

Speaking of magic, I recruited a number of warmagi by the simple expedient of going down to the Enchanter’s Order in town and letting it be known I needed help.  There were always a few magi scrounging around for work in Sevendor, and word spread quickly.  I found four who were willing and worthy of advancement.  I gave them each witchstones and had Banamor help them acclimatize to the stones.

Meanwhile, I had Castle Gavard astir from afar.  Terleman had quietly spread the message that the Spellmonger had need of all High Magi for a mission, and (with certain exceptions) called everyone who could make it to Gavard. 

Then there were my other preparations.

I had to impose of Lady Varen to transport me via waypoint at a town called Durrow a few miles downriver of Gavard, in an area generally unaffected by the invasion.  A small force had passed by them as they made their way down the river, but their stockade and their guardsmen had proven too strong, and the goblins had moved on to easier targets.  Durrow was a small town, but it was at the confluence of the Poros and the northwardly Caolin river, and it saw a lot of traffic back when Gilmora grew cotton, not goblins. 

Darrow’s claim to fame was as the disembarkation point for most of the region’s cotton, after it had been sold at market.  Every year a flotilla of brightly-painted barges, specially designed hauling huge bales of cotton, was launched after the harvest and a proper festival.  The barges used were too large for normal commercial traffic.  They were reserved for the cotton harvest, then carefully taken back out of the water for the next year.  Each was owned by a different merchant trading house, who each had agents in Durrow just to deal with the harvest barges.

The town had fallen on hard times, recently, and many of the barges once used to ferry cotton down to the coast had been taken out of the water.  That meant that they hadn’t been crushed by the instantly-expanding ice of the river, as so many boats had been.

The masters of the town were perplexed when I showed up and started barking orders.  I had to show them my marshal’s warrant to get them to listen to me.  I had to start throwing gold around to convince them I was serious  It took half a day, but soon there were half a dozen blacksmiths making the modifications I desired.

Once I was reasonably sure that they knew what I needed, and that they would be well-paid for the result, they went to their task with purpose. 

Satisfied, I had Lady Varen take me to our next stop. We met up with Lady Ithalia in a glade in eastern Gilmora, where she had just finished off the last marauding pack of fell hounds in the region.  I didn’t have much time, but I explained to her what I needed.

“You want to make
more
of them?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, only I want them to be a little friendlier.  To us.”

“Where could I possibly find the base stock?” she demanded. 

“You’ll think of something.  You’re resourceful that way.  But I need as many as you can manage at Gavard, as soon as possible.”

She looked at me skeptically.  “What are you planning, Master Minalan?” she asked, accusingly.

“I’m trying to save Anthatiel,” I replied.  “They’re essential to my plan.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?” she asked, warily.

“No, not until I have to.  It would just distract you.  Everyone has a task, this one is yours.”

She considered the matter.  “I may have to consult my grandmother on this,” she admitted.  “I don’t know if it’s ever been done before.”

“It worked on the falcons,” I pointed out.  “We might need more of those, too.”

She gave me a sour look.

“When you have time,” I conceded.  “I know you’re busy.  Three days, Ithalia.  I need them in three days at Gavard.  No later.”

She nodded.  “I think I can do it,” she sighed.  “You don’t ask for small boons, do you, Spellmonger?”

“What would be the point?  If you have any friends who want a chance to kill goblins, bring them along.”

Then I had Lady Varen bring me back to Sevendor.  It had been an exhausting day, but I had set plenty in motion.  I got back to Sevendor Castle near midnight, tired but genuinely hopeful for the first time in days.

I stopped by the chapel on the way upstairs to my chambers.  I passed by the eternal pillar of flame Briga had conjured in the middle of town on my way back from the embassy.  It had served to remind me of whom I had to thank for my mad idea.  It was empty, so I lit a candle and threw Briga a prayer.  She didn’t answer.  She didn’t manifest.  The candles may have burned a little brighter, but that could have been my imagination.

I tumbled into bed next to Alya, the kids in their cradles nearby.  It was warm and soft and peaceful.  It was utterly at odds with what I knew was to come in the days ahead.  I fell asleep thinking about the advantages of letting the Alka Alon and the gurvani fight it out while we conspired with the Tal Alon to perfect the ideal ale recipe.

*                            *                            *

The next morning I prepared to return to the war.  Alya, quite understandably, didn’t want me to go but knew I had to.  The last time, a few weeks earlier, she had made her peace with losing me to the war effort for a while, and though the sight of me returning so early had thrilled her, she knew it was temporary.  She did her best to get me ready and put a smile on my face while my volunteers assembled in the outer bailey. 

I donned my special armor, newly repaired and cleaned by our staff, and added some other things to my baggage I thought I might need.  Much of it I stored in an interdimensional pocket I’d crafted in a ring.  It was just easier to carry that way.

My apprentices were armored, armed, ready and waiting.  Dara had Frightful and the other falcons in small form, to facilitate transport, and the hawkmaster was coming with us to tend them.  With them were just under three hundred volunteers who had been found acceptable and approved for the journey.  Most were armored and prepared to fight as infantry.  All had at least some previous combat experience and not enough sense to avoid this suicide mission.