Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (43 page)

Politics, particularly court politics, was hardly of interest to the deadly-looking warmage.  Azar was interested in power, but only in the destructive magic sort.  He made an ideal leader of the Megelini knights.  He loved talking about the war, Pentandra knew.  She decided to exploit that weakness before he could say something politically uncomfortable in front of the skittish barons.

“How
are
things on the front lines?  We’ve only heard rumors.”

“Quiet,” Azar said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.  That was twice as potent an expression on Azar.  He was not a large man, but he dressed in a style to demonstrate just how deadly a warmage he was: black mantle of rich wool, black leather armor covered with polished studs in the shape of skulls and stars, and tall black boots so massive you almost didn’t notice the extra height built into the heel.  When Azar looked suspicious, he put his whole being into it.  “Too quiet.  We’ve increased our patrols, along with the Iron Band and the Tudrymen, but apart from the occasional skirmish there has been little action.  Escaping slaves and occasional raids, but that’s it.  Ishi’s tits, I’m sure the goblins are as bored as we are.  It’s been almost two years since that damned treaty, and apart from the odd incursion the gurvani have been keeping to themselves.”

“Isn’t that a
good
thing?” Pentandra asked in surprise.

“If we thought they were going to settle down and become well-behaved grocers and peasants like the Tal Alon, perhaps,” Astyral observed in his soft Gilmoran drawl.  “Sadly, I don’t see that as likely.”

“The place is a chaotic cauldron of aggression,” Azar said, almost approvingly, “but of late they have turned it upon themselves.  Since their losses at the Poros they seem less eager for a serious fight.  Pity.”

“We have observed their behavior most carefully,” Astyral continued.  “We have built up an understanding – a crude understanding, but an understanding – of their internal politics and divisions, as well as their preparations for future warfare.  Indeed, we have undertaken a few clandestine forays into the Penumbra to learn their disposition on specific undertakings or to check their progress toward developing overmuch.”

“Have you learned anything significant?” she asked, anxiously.

“Sadly, while I can report that they have adopted the trappings of human civilization, in some cases, they have not done so out of admiration as much as efficiency.  Yet the affectatation is not universal,” Astyral observed in an academic tone.  “It’s fascinating, actually.  There are serious cultural and political divisions evolving among them.”

“Really?  Such as?”

“The gurvani nearest Boval are the most fanatical, for instance, but those who have settled in the captured villages and castles in the region have taken up humani culture quite readily.  The tribes in the northern hills, under the noses of our Kasari friends, eschew both the human-acting goblins and the fanatics of the Umbra, living much as they always have.  And then along the periphery of the Penumbra are dozens of settlements and cantonments with much of the remaining military might garrisoning: hobgoblin infantry, fell-hound mounted archers, those great goblins - they call them the Urgurvani - and their great beasts.  Oh, and then there are the renegade human lords who have taken the colors of Sheruel, and those bandit lords who see financial advantage in conspiring with the enemies of humanity.”

“They even chose a king,” Magelord Thinradel said, for the first time.  “That’s what I found most interesting.  When Shereul did not take an active enough interest in the mundane affairs of the conquered lands, and his priests began cocking it up, some of the more important military leaders tried to lead a revolt, of sorts.  We’re still sketchy on the details, but the result was this goblin king.  From what we understand, he’s attempting to establish a human-style aristocracy and monarchy, but he’s facing some stiff resistance.”

“I can empathize entirely with him,” Pentandra sighed, glancing at the barons.  She said it so expressively her friends were compelled to laugh.

“More disturbing, they have not abandoned their ambitions of genocide, they’ve just slowed their pace.  And changed their tactics,” Astyral added. 

“To what end?” Pentandra asked, genuinely curious.   Baroness Burshara, a matron in her fifties, invited herself to listen in to the conversation, a silver goblet in hand.

“Yes, Magelord, why are they hesitating when we are in such disarray?” she asked, politely.  “It would seem a perfect time to strike at us.”

The Gilmoran magelord considered thoughtfully.  Like Azar, he dressed to impress.  Unlike Azar, his style was more inclined toward charming sophistication than intimidation.  His garb was an elegant mixture of the simple styles of the Wilderlands and the decadent ostentation of Gilmora - and he wore it well.  A cream-colored mantle lined with sheepskin was thrown back over his shoulders revealing a richly embroidered collar on a snowy-colored surcoat, a few tasteful medallions in silver and gold hanging round his neck.  Underneath were layers of expensive tunics and fine linen under tunics, each well-tailored and fitted. 

“I think they are studying us, learning our weaknesses,” he finally pronounced, authoritatively to the noblewoman.  “As many victories as they’ve enjoyed, their defeats have been decisive.  When the battles have been important, they have usually lost to us.  They seek to discover a way to counter that.”

“As if it should take them this long!” Azar fumed.  “We bloodied their noses badly on the frozen lake,” the warmage recalled, fondly, as if he were remembering a young and boisterous lover.  “And that was
after
their defeat at Cambrian, and the humiliation of Timberwatch.”

“And what do you gentlemen believe they have learned from that?” asked the baroness, with genuine interest.

“They found that overwhelming numbers, even combined with dragons, were no match for well-trained mercenaries, good timing, luck, and skillful magic.”

“A change in tactics was to be expected, Excellency,”  agreed Thinradel.  “And a replenishment in numbers.  Unfortunately, it takes far less time to raise an adult gurvan to fighting maturity than it does a human warrior.”

“It does?” Burshara asked, troubled. 

“Oh, yes,” Pentandra agreed.  “The gurvani come to full maturity at around eleven or twelve years old.”

“Sooner, now,” Thinradel informed them.  “That was one of the things I was studying at Megelin.  Not really my field, understand, but neither is warmagic, and I have to admit I was curious.  Somehow the little scrugs have found a way to accelerate the process by a few years.  The specimens we’ve taken from the far northeastern bases - the really dark and horrific parts of the Penumbra - seem fully grown, but they are only nine or ten years.  And then there are the . . . oddities,” he said, screwing up his face.  “Some of them are being bred for specific traits, like longer arms and legs.  Or more muscle mass.  I think they’re trying to force them to maturity so that they can improve the breed as quickly as possible.”

“Trygg’s grace, why would they want to maim themselves like that?” she asked, aghast.

“It’s not like they have a choice,” Azar explained, casually.  “They use breeding camps.  Huge gatherings of fertile females, and even larger numbers of males.  Some are rewarded breeding privileges for valor or cunning, but most are directed in their rutting by the Black Skulls, or worse.  The priests choose, the gurvani merely comply under the threat of the Dead God.”

“I find the ones who are aping humanity the interesting ones,” Astyral countered.  “The king and his furry little court.  They wear our clothes, cut down for their size, and some even employ human slaves as barbers to trim up their bushiness.  That lot is more family-oriented than the others.  More civilized.  I hear some are even literate.  It helps them study us better.”

“But I don’t see the advantage of studying . . .
us,
” Baroness Burshara repeated, with a slight shudder  “Certainly not enough to stall the momentum of their campaign.  Don’t misunderstand me – I’m grateful to the gods and relieved that they stopped when they did – but after their advance into Gilmora was broken and repelled, something seems amiss that they did not press their gains in the Wilderlands.  Surely it was not the power of that . . . treaty,” she added, skeptically.

“It begins by adopting our ways, Your Excellency,” Astyral explained, congenially, as a servant refilled his wine glass.  “It has become clear to the goblin elite that feudal structure is superior to tribal structure when it comes to fielding a professional army.”

“You simply cannot sustain the enthusiasm or discipline of a tribally-based warrior culture for any length of time,” the charming fellow maintained.  “If you want to
combat
institutional power, you must establish institutional power.  And to do that you need a professional army, based on a military aristocracy.  At least, that is the theory of the . . . let’s call them the Royalists,” he said, grinning.  That was the unofficial name of the nobles who had supported Rard in his quest for a kingdom.  The comparison was both scandalous and humorous.

“So now we have goblin
nobles
, now?” Pentandra asked, amused at the idea.  She knew that the “goblin king” had sent an ambassador to Castabriel, but she had been spared associating with him.  She’d seen enough of his kind at Boval.  And Timberwatch.  And Cambrian.  And the Poros.

“For all practical purposes, yes,” agreed Astyral, reluctantly.  “The occupied territories in the Umbra and Penumbra have been parceled out to various tribes, sects, and clans among the hordes.”

“Well, some sort of division was bound to happen,” Azar pointed out.  “They had to rule it somehow.  Sheruel can’t be in every corner of the Penumbra.”

“That’s what is truly fascinating,” continued Astyral, excitedly.  “It is as if they are experimenting.  In some cases they have completely replaced the human population.  In other cases they rule it as simple masters to simple slaves.  In yet others they have assumed sovereign power over the existing feudal structure, becoming the lords of the manor in practice, if not in name.”

“Well, that would give them the basis for a feudal arrangement,” conceded Pentandra. 

“Particularly when they are given such good examples,” agreed Astyral.  In places they have forced human lords to swear fealty to them and maintain their estates just as they would for a human liege.  They are, indeed, practicing feudalism, and finding it a better solution to the occupation than merely dominating the land with tribal bands.”

“They find
ours
are efficient?” Pentandra asked, sarcastically, an eyebrow raised.  “If they were, we would have a much larger army pushing back at them right now.”

“The fact we have one at all is, to them, the amazing thing,” Azar said, shaking his head.  “Compared to the highly situational and highly seasonal warriors the tribal system yields, our military, and the institutions we use to support it, are vastly superior.  But that level of social organization and sophistication has to be learned and developed before it can be exploited.  The Black Skulls are letting many different ways be attempted to see which is the best for carrying the fight into the future.  Everything from dark magic to hobgoblins to horrible mockeries of men in goblin form . . . fell hounds, siege beasts, nightsails—” 

“They have been working on things . . . plotting.  Planning.  Scheming.  They are by no means done with their invasion.  On the contrary, they are just preparing for a future war.”

“Might I ask, Magelord, just how reliable you consider this intelligence?” Baroness Burshara asked, trying not to appear too anxious at the news.  She was clearly eager for some answers to her questions about the existential threat to the northwest of her lands.  “And how
soon
do you anticipate this resumption?”

The three magi from the north looked at each other, and Pentandra was certain that there was some mind-to-mind communication taking place before the master of Tudry spoke.

“We who are closest to the foe make a point to keep up with developments within the Penumbra and in the shadow beyond,” Astyral told her, quietly.  “We’ve built a bit of a kind of spy network there, both magical and mundane.  Scrying, of course, but it goes beyond that.  We get reports from sympathizers, prisoners, and even the goblin lords themselves. The gurvani
are
planning and preparing for . . .
something
.  We just don’t know exactly what.  Or when.  Or to what purpose.”

“What about dragons?  And other beasts?” asked Baron Dasion, entering the lively conversation with a full glass of wine. 

“Also quiet, Excellency,” assured Astyral.  “At least on this side of the Umbra.  No attacks, and damn few sightings.”

“Maybe they all got the bloody pox!” the baron suggested with a smirk under his bushy mustache.  He was enjoying the novelty of magi, it appeared, and the august nature of the company.  Even a local baron was impressed by the ratty old palace and the Orphan Duke.

“My sources say that they are being well fed on human flesh, the same as the siege worms,” Astyral corrected, gently.  “And they are being trained.  By their performance the first few times we met them, they are certainly in need of the latter.”

Baroness Burshara shuddered.  “I can scarcely imagine how terrifying they would be on the battlefield!”