High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (58 page)

Master!
Someone – Dara – screamed into my mind. 
I’m headed for the rooftop – can you meet us there?

What?  All right – is there anything wrong? Shall I bring a medic?

No, we’re unhurt, just . . . I need to talk to you!

I sighed.  The whole world was sliding into the abyss.  Thirty thousand goblins were ravaging Gilmora.  The Kingdom could be at the brink of collapse, if things didn’t go well.  And my fourteen-year-old apprentice wanted to talk to me.

I went and talked to her.  First, because the headquarters room was becoming unbearable, and I needed respite.  Secondly, because I don’t ignore my apprentices when they want to talk to me.  Despite being stupidly stubborn about many things, they did not get my attention unnecessarily.  If Dara needed to talk to me, it wasn’t about a boy crush.

The wind on the roof of the spire cooled me nicely, but the distant roar of gurvani preparing to attack detracted from the experience.  I spotted Frightful and her three wing-mates circling the castle overhead, and when Dara saw me her giant falcon dove elegantly.  With a gigantic roar of wings she glided to a halt, her feet (encrusted with blood and black fur) clinging to a crenellation.

Dara waited until she was certain the bird was at rest before she climbed down.  She was wearing what she called “flying gear:” a thickly padded gambeson, leather riding trousers, knee-high boots, thick leather gloves, a fleece-lined leather jack, and a helmet of waxed leather.  Light, warm, and minimally protective.  Her only personal weapon was her dagger.  There was a limit to what the birds could carry.  And it wasn’t like the riders were dueling from the saddle.

Except for those bloodied talons . . .

“Dara, what did you—”             

I was interrupted by an armful of sobbing fourteen-year-old girl.  To her credit she only indulged in the act for a few moments before regaining her composure.  Then she straightened, cleared her throat, wiped away her tears on the back of her gauntlet, and reported.

“Master, there are two of those . . . those worms headed to here from the river.  That’s the sixth and seventh one I’ve seen today!”

“Are you sure?” I asked.  “I think that would have shown up with scrying—”

“Yes, I am sure!” she insisted.  “Two!  A third the size of the dragon, but there’s
two!
  They’ll take those gates down like they were made of mud!  And a lot more goblins are headed this way, at least another legion of infantry!  There’s something else,” she added, biting her lip nervously.  “They’re putting up some sort of . . . mist overhead.  It makes it a lot harder to see what’s going on down there.”

“Probably so that they can fight in full sunlight,” I reasoned.  “And to obscure observation.  Did it harm the birds?”

“No, we flew right through it, but it was hard.  And a lot of the scrugs are moving up the river, just like it was a road, not crossing it right here.  Master, things look . . . they look bad out there.  Worse than Cambrian!”

“Of course they do,” I soothed.  “Things are a bit turned around, right now, is all.  Up the river, you say?  That might be significant.  There are more targets there.  You and your team are doing excellent work.  I’ve been in headquarters hearing your reports,” I said, proudly.  “But how did poor Frightful’s talons get . . . ?”

“Disgusting?” she asked, wrinkling up her nose.  “We were flying back from the west when we say a couple of humans – rangers – running from a pack of those awful dogs.  Goblins, too, of course, but they’d gotten most of those and it was mostly the dogs.  I had my wing dive on them and stop them from chasing them,” she said, sternly.  “I hate those godsdamned dogs!  But Master Min, what are we going to do?  This isn’t how things were supposed to go at all!”

“I know,” I sighed.  “We must trust in the gods and answer the day the best we can.  Have you orders?”

“Right now?  Just fly patrol and spot.  Why?”

“Water your birds,” I ordered.  “Keep one in the air, but make sure the others are rested.  I’m feeling very, very angry and frustrated right now,” I explained, gently, “and there just happen to be about ten thousand goblins out there that need hitting.”

“And two worms!” she reminded.

“Even better,” I sighed. 

*                            *                            *

Dara was right.  Two of those nasty six-legged worms, forty feet long and ten feet at the shoulder, had joined the army preparing to attack us.  The army, too, was no laughing matter.  Sir Festaran estimated a third of it was hobgoblin heavy infantry, two thirds standard gurvani light infantry.  But there were a half-dozen trolls who showed up, too, and there were a plethora of Shereul’s priests there to spread mischief.  It was, without a doubt, the largest and most cohesive magical force on the field for the goblins so far in the invasion and it was coincidently the one facing the majority of the kingdom’s High Magi.

Waiting for them to storm the castle just wasn’t my style, nor Terleman’s.  The Baron of Gavard was eager to strike the scrugs who had the temerity to ravage his lands.  We couldn’t do much about the chaos in the countryside, but the goblins closest to hand presented an outstanding opportunity to vent our frustrations in a constructive way.

There wasn’t much of a plan about it.  Midmorning Sir Festaran estimated that they would be ready to advance on Gavard Castle by dusk.  We didn’t intend to let them prepared the assault in peace.  That wouldn’t be sporting.  Instead we had our rangers move in and lay down heavy sniper fire.  Every picket and patrol they sent out the Kasari rangers silently and efficiently destroyed.

A few minutes before noon, we opened the drawbridge and a thousand or so horsemen  rode out . . . and rode away to the east, away from the invading army.  The rest of us, along with the Alkan archers and another few dozen light horsemen, stole out of the gate and formed up between the castle and the townlands.  We had a gracious plenty of heavy infantry among us, thankfully, mercenaries and men-at-arms who had been fighting in Gilmora for more than a year.  They knew their business. 

Hell, they were eager.  All of us were smarting from the deception and enchantment of the night’s attack.  Most had heard how the Second Commando had been butchered, after the warmage, warbrothers, and a few dozen stragglers made it to the castle after a daring cross-country withdrawal.  The warmagi involved in the sortie, more than fifty in all, were particularly anxious to fight, and included the 2
nd
Commando men even though they were nigh exhausted. 

I was waiting in the scant shade of a pine tree with Terleman when the mercenary captain appointed to lead the mundane troops reported that they were ready: three thousand heavily armed and armored men.  It was more than a mile to the enemy position, but the captain assured us his men would sprint the entire way there for the chance to kill goblins.

Captain Arborn joined us, along with Lady Ithalia, who was leading the Alka Alon.  I had expected Onranion to lead them, but apparently he wanted to stay with the warmagi in this battle.  Arborn took off his close-fitting steel cap and shook out his hair.

“I’ve pulled my scouts back,” he reported, “most are hiding in places to cover your position in case of a retreat.”

“That seems less than optimistic,” Onranion snorted.  “Surely there’s no thought of retreat.”

“This is a battle in which we know little about the capabilities of our foes . . . clearly,” I said, gesturing to the frozen Poros in the distance.  “Retreat may be tactically advisable, at some point.  Honor is lovely, on the tournament field, but this is a war of genocide.  I won’t make a futile stand if I can avoid it, no matter how gallant.  It’s nice to know we’ll have some cover.”

“My people will endeavor to protect your magical corps,” Arborn said, sipping from his canteen.  I glanced over at where Rondal and Tyndal were dueling to warm up, Sarakeem was strapping a second quiver to his back, Sire Cei was smashing logs to splinters with his new warhammer, and Lorcus was practicing the Sword Dance of the Magi at augmented speed.  It was hard to even see his arms and legs move.

“You really think we’ll need much protection?” I asked, skeptically.  Before the pretty Alkan could respond, Terleman bellowed for his captains to consult before the final horn call to attack.

He gave a rousing speech to rally us all, and we needed it after the long night.  He pointed out our splendid new allies, our giant falcons, and the concentration of magic at our command.  He exhorted us all to do feats this day that would honor our ancestors and be the envy of our descendants.   He finished it with a short but poignant prayer to Duin the Destroyer.

He was good.  Even I was cheering when he finished.  Then it was time to don our helms, hang our spells, loosen our swords, and make our peace with the divine. 

The infantry quick-marched in formation over the field and up the hill toward the gathering mass of goblin soldiery at the commands of the horns.  The few horsemen went ahead, at first, to clear pickets and cavalry patrols before hugging our flanks.  Those hounds were vicious, but even they could not stand a well-couched lance to the innards. 

The magical corps moved alongside the main column until we were just in sight of the foe – a stunning vision of black furry malevolence that began howling the moment they saw us.  Drums and horns called them to arms at once, and the cries of dismay told us that they were not expecting resistance so soon. 

As our men marched up the slight slope toward them, they hastily assembled a shield wall in defense.  Mostly hobgoblins with heavy wooden roundshields, I noted with magesight.  There were a few clusters of goblins working to build siege engines behind them.  I had no intention of letting that happen.

The horsemen cleared out of the way and the archers among our men filed out and launched a volley at the gurvani.  It fell like deadly rain, and the second they launched did as well.  While the hobs in the front were fairly well protected, the light infantrymen behind them were peppered with three-foot long shafts.  They tried to answer our volley with one of their own, but it was chaotic and poorly-timed.  It was also too short by thirty yards.  But as soon as the arrows touched down, the horncall rang out and the infantry broke into a charge.

We were running across the field ourselves, but we all slowed down a moment to appreciate the moment when our men rammed into their soldiers.  Swords and spears began flailing wildly, like the center of a boiling pot, and the ranks behind the front began to press and spread out. 

As decent soldiers as the hobs were, they were still a head shorter and seventy pounds lighter than the average human infantryman.  Nor were they as aggressive.  Our men disassembled that shield wall like it was mowing time.  Sometimes they would just bowl over a hobgoblin and then stand on its shield, using the additional height to his advantage before hopping down and dispatching him. 

The gurvani light infantry? They could barely stand against them.  They tried – they threw themselves at the heavily-armored men who marched up that hill.  But their blows were too weak and too few to match the pounding and slashing they received in return.  For every man who fell, five or more goblins died in that initial charge.

It was good to see the violence going in our favor, but our tactical advantage wouldn’t hold long.  The goblins were already trying to get their worms into play.  They were still outfitted as draught beasts, not war machines, so they were limited in how effective they were in combat . . . but honestly, how effective does a forty-foot long monster have to be in order to get the job done?  I pointed toward the beasts as we crossed the field.

“Rondal! Tyndal!  One for each of you!”

“Master?” Rondal asked, confused, as he jogged behind me.

“You two deal with the siege worms,” I explained, “since you have had experience with one before.”

I could hear their nervous swallows over the din of battle.  “Yes, Master!” Rondal agreed, reluctantly, before they both jogged off.

We were approaching the main line from an oblique angle, just at the flank.  Few of the hobs were paying close attention to such a small group . . . until the Alka Alon began firing their shiny bows.

This was the first time I’d seen them in action.  In their normal forms they are famed for their archery, and the poisoned arrows they use.  In their humanlike forms they were far deadlier.  While the Alka Alon prefer sniping, they had been studying human-style warfare in Sevendor.  I got to see what an Alka Alon volley looked like: perfectly coordinated, with the same effect I’d witnessed among the Karshak and in Carneduin.  And it was breathtaking.

Their fingers flew so fast they blurred, and their quivers emptied before my eyes as shaft after shaft filled the air with high, tinny twangs.  Their human-sized bows were strong, far stronger than the average longbow, and the arrows they used were tipped with decorative steel and made of some bright white wood.   The Alka fired fast, faster than any human I’d seen, even Sarakeem.  And their aim was exquisite.   Rank after rank of gurvani fell to that deadly rain.   I do not doubt that every Alkan arrow found a mark.

As harrowing as that was to our foe, there were still plenty facing us ahead.  Terleman turned and raised his sword, and a bright blue flare ignited from the tip.  The signal to charge.

I summoned the halberd blade from Blizzard’s arsenal and activated several powerful spells of protection and augmentation as I ran close enough to discern the furry faces of my foes.  In another three steps the last of my spells were active, and I was ready to face the horde.