High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (18 page)

That wasn’t just paranoia – it takes a special kind of person to be a warmage.  Some of the most successful were also the ones I least wanted to empower.  Genuine sadists, men without conscience or lacking in character might have been geniuses on the field, but I had to deal with them off the field, too.  I didn’t expect every mage who picked up irionite to be noble in spirit, but I didn’t want to create my own disasters, either.

Mostly, I had good candidates.  There were a lot more magi from the East, now, as word had spread and the allure of power had drawn them.  I granted stones to several Merwyni and Voreans that spring.  The grant was conditional on enlisting immediately in the war effort.  We were expecting some sort of advance in strength down the Timber Road into ravaged Gilmora any day, now, and I wanted to be prepared to meet that advance robustly. 

I was proud of the vicious killers and cunning defenders I sent out, and my commander in the field, Terleman, was pleased.  He was garrisoning small castles and manors throughout southern Gilmora, and even considering setting up some advanced bases inside enemy territory in preparation for the inevitable attack.  Large castle garrisons, as we had found, tended to concentrate our strength, but they also made a tempting target for dragons.  Dragons might be difficult to control, but if you can get one to fly to the vicinity of a castle swarming with soldiers, it doesn’t take much control to let it devour and destroy the place. 

These new warmagi were part of the effort to seed the expected invasion route with tough killers to bolster the mundane soldiers clustered there.  After a devastating winter of raids and surprise attacks, there weren’t many people left in north Gilmora.  Much of the population had fled the invasion, while all too many were led away from the front in shackles, marched north into shadow, destined for slavery and sacrifice. 

The defenses were getting more organized now.  Lords whose houses hadn’t seen real battle in two generations had opened their armories and armed Gilmora’s plentiful peasantry.  Lances that had only been used in tournaments were stained with gurvani blood.  Our defeat of an army and a dragon at Cambrian Castle had been a turning point – from thence the folk of Gilmora had stopped running in terror and had begun to see to their own defense.

Nor was King Rard idle at the threat to his most populous and prosperous regions.   Using his new powers liberally he had called upon vassals for service at once at his coronation . . . and some of those vassals were beginning to respond.  It is difficult to raise a great army in a feudal government.  But now there were households of knights and companies of archers based in southern Gilmora that would make taking it difficult for the gurvani.  And within many of those castles, there were now High Magi fortifying the walls with defensive spells, preparing contingencies for attack, and otherwise coordinating defenses. 

My newfound wealth in irionite meant I could speed up that process, though.  I began requesting two candidates at a time, and found that helpful as I could play them off in competition with each other.  I needed that, as I had lost the advantage of a local enemy I could try them against. 

Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria may have been a lousy neighbor, but he made an excellent pell against which my warmagi could practice.  Sire Gimbal’s brother, Vulric,  the Baron of Fleria, was hardly better, but he had stayed out of my affairs.  The lord of Sashtalia likewise had been quiet since the Warbird’s defeat.

So I gave them competitions against each other.  And I got a lot of free work done.

Most of the candidates were patient, well-disciplined men (and a few women) who knew their craft and appreciated the testing, rather than resented it.  A few were exceptional.

Lorcus of Macana was from a small fief in western Merwyn, near the frontier with Remere.  He’d been the youngest son of a petty noble and had secured admission to one of the eastern magical academies.  He’d done a brief stint in the Censorate, but left before taking his final vows.  He was a court wizard for a few small baronies, but was forced to take up warmagic during a siege and got a taste for it.  He became a mercenary warmage and quickly developed a reputation. He had worked in Castal during the Farisian war while most of our warmagi were otherwise employed and stayed because he liked the place. 

If there was a simple way to do something, Lorcus would ignore it in favor of the flamboyant and complicated.  But his plans had interesting ways of achieving unanticipated results.  He was a deep thinker with a flamboyant style, always a stimulating combination.  We’d worked together briefly, once, before I got my own stone and I’d liked him. 

A few years older than me, Lorcus had an infectious personality and a deeply sarcastic wit, one that had gotten him into trouble more than once.  He was a good six feet tall, had a dark brown hairline that was in full retreat, and favored a bushy mustache and shaven cheeks.  His eyes . . . mostly, they looked sane.  But he could affect the look of a madman upon request, and I had no doubt when he was enraged it would be fearsome to behold.

I took to Lorcus immediately.  He was eager for the power of the stone, but that eagerness was tempered by at least a bit of humility.  Lorcus approached it as a great honor, and after he saw what sorts of things we were doing in Sevendor, he appreciated that honor all the more. 

The warmagi whom he’d been paired with, an uncreative Remeran who specialized in siege engines, lost each of the competitions I gave them, thanks to Lorcus’ cleverness and keen observation. 

I sent them both into Sashtalia on a mission to spy on a small castle and report back.  The Remeran gave a technically accurate report on the geography, architecture, and personnel, and outlined a reasonable plan for attacking the place, using two warmagi, two scorpion crews, and a company of heavy infantry.

Lorcus gave a reasonably accurate report on the layout and disposition of the castle, but when it came to how he recommended taking it, his approach was novel.

“Set fire to the fulling shed,” he advised.

“And . . .?” I asked, expectantly.

“Set fire to the fulling shed,” he repeated.  “The shed is near to the storehouse, here,” he said, pointing it out on the magemap he’d constructed.  “That’s where the real coin is, for this estate.  They wouldn’t want to catch that on fire.  So they’d form a bucket line from the well to here,” he said, showing the direction.

“Why wouldn’t they pull from the castle cistern?” I asked, noting how much closer it was.

“Because the cistern is cracked and empty,” he replied, smugly, “something that my colleague failed to note.  The well in the bailey is the only source of water nearby.  And when they form that line, which every able-bodied man in the castle would be compelled to do with such a prize at risk, everyone would be in the outer bailey.  Nor would they be attentive to infiltrators.  One man to lower the portcullis, two more to cover the entrance with crossbows.  As they return from putting out the fire they have to pass through this gate, and they can be disarmed with ease and captured without their fellows seeing them surrender.”

“That’s . . . well, where do you use magic?” I wondered.  The Remeran’s plan required several spells to reduce the gatehouse.

“Why use magic when you can use wits?  His way leaves you with dead defenders, dead attackers, and a compromised castle.  My way leaves you with a fully-intact estate, few if any casualties, plenty of ransoms, and a slightly-singed fulling shed.  You didn’t ask how I would use magic to assault the place.  You asked me how I would take it. 
That’s
how I would take it.”

I liked Lorcus.

He liked me, as well, and lingered at Sevendor long after he’d gotten his stone.  He was terribly charming to the ladies, and he was well-respected among both my mundane warriors and my magical peers.  He cultivated courtly manners even as he toured Sevendor’s taverns and gambled with the most lowly villeins.  Even Sire Cei liked him, which was a stroke in his favor. 

He was there the night Alya went into labor.  I was a nervous wreck, despite having two birthsisters and a birthmother on hand, as well as one of Master Icarod’s medical apprentices, which cost me another witchstone.  After what happened with Minalyan’s birth, I had no idea what to expect. 

Alya gave birth to my daughter – my
second
daughter – midmorning, with hardly any difficulty . . . besides the brutality that is inherent to birth.  I had nightmarish visions at least as bad as any horror of battle, when the labor began.  Lorcus kept me drunk and calm with a dozen fantastic stories to keep me distracted. 

It turned out I had nothing to worry about.  Mother and daughter were healthy and well.  There were no magical effects that we could detect at all, and I had a company of fascinated Alka Alon in the Great Hall observant for such effects.  She was a healthy baby girl, even larger than her brother had been.  We named her Almina, and she had the most perfectly exquisite bright blue eyes I’d ever seen.

Lorcus thought so to, and vowed to slay the first man who dared touch her.  While I thought that was quite noble of him it was hard to look down at the baby I held and even imagine her as a full-grown woman.

When at last it came time for him to fulfill his service in Gilmora for a month, as promised, he was reluctant and eager at the same time.  Lorcus returned briefly that early summer, after doing a tour shoring up the Gilmoran defenses.  He bore several official dispatches from the front, but his assessment of the ground situation was what I found most helpful.

“They’re raiding and slaving, but they’re not doing what I’d do if I was preparing to cross the river,” he told me over dinner in my tower the night he arrived.  “It’s an organized looting operation.  The camps they’re making in the captured castles are temporary.  Supply depots, not operational bases.  They’re guarded stoutly enough, as is the road north, but they are not fortifying them to hold them.”

“You don’t think they’ll continue the invasion this summer, then, when the roads fully dry?”

He shook his head.  “Nay, they’ll use the time to drain Gilmora dry.  And there is plenty yet to drain.  But their aim is pillage, not conquest.  At least not yet.”

“That’s almost a relief,” I sighed.  “We aren’t ready to repel a full-fledged invasion yet.”

“That’s the gods’ own truth,” he agreed, darkly.  “There are men enough there – hundreds of thousands, if you count peasants with spears.  But the mercenary companies are responsible for protecting the cities, the local lords attempt to assert their authority at every turn, and there is little organization when it comes to deploying fresh levies from the south.  A massive refugee camp that has sprung up, south of Barrowbell.  Worst sort of place.  The temples are feeding them, with some assistance from the crown, but more arrive every day.  So far there is no one arming and training them.”

“What about the royal army?” I asked.  That had been one of King Rard’s first institutions, a permanent royal army to act in defense of the kingdom.  It was supposed to be the answer to such threats.

“There are three commando units under the King’s banner who are scheduled to be deployed in Gilmora,” he admitted.  “Mercenaries and volunteers, mostly.  They have charge of the defense of the region, in theory, over the whims of any local lord.  Count Salgo commands them .  But they are still forming.  They won’t be deployed until late summer, at the earliest.”

“Then let us hope that the Dead God is content with north Gilmora, until we can get our act together.  So, now that you’ve completed your first term, what are your plans?”

“I’ve given thought to conquering an estate and starting an empire – seems to be all the fashion, nowadays – or heading east and make a fortune in coin curing flagging desires in rich lords and removing unsightly blemishes from the faces of wealthy – and ever-so-grateful – ladies, but . . . that sounds
incredibly
boring,” he yawned.

“If it’s excitement you crave, you can always return to the front,” I pointed out.

“Until there is a real advance, that’s going to be more defensive spellwork – likewise boring.  I was thinking something more interesting.  Like what
you’re
doing.”

“What
am
I doing?” I asked, confused.

“You are doing
everything
,” he pronounced, pouring more wine.  “You are rewriting the rules of magic.  You’ve toppled the bloody Censorate.  You put a king on a bloody throne.  If the rumors are true, you made the Alka Alon sit up and beg – and that pretty tower that looks so out-of-place on your horizon proves it.  You made a whole bloody mountain turn magical.  You’ve got that great whopping sphere in your pocket and a legion of loyal followers.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m doing such a shitty job?”

“It’s because you feel like you are doing a shitty job that proves you are the man for it,” he advised.  “I wouldn’t want the position if it was given to me – I don’t have the temperament for it.  But you do,” he warned me.  “You think before you act, Spellmonger.  And you think about more than your own welfare.  I admire that.  Enough to consider offering you my service.”

“You want to take my service?  As what?”

“What do you need?” he asked, simply.  “Look, I pride myself on versatility.  I’m a fair mage and a decent fighter, but what I do best is figure things out.  You’ve given me the opportunity to do whatever I wish,” he said, patting the silken bag around his neck that carried his stone, “and what I wish is to figure things out.  On your behalf.”