High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (62 page)

If Castabriel wasn’t under siege by then.

“There is good news, Majesty.  The alliance with the Alka Alon has proven fruitful.  Never have I seen more deadly archery on the field, nor such skill with steel and spell.  Should this alliance be cultivated, it could prove decisive.  Particularly in regard to dragons.”

“That is encouraging,” he admitted.  “Mayhap these strange folk can devise a way to find that missing army!”

We discussed a few more matters of consequence, mostly regarding policy and strategy, before he bid me to keep working on the problem and closed the Mirror.  The only good thing about being chewed out by the King by Mirror was that the Queen hadn’t been there. 

I limped back to the tower room near my quarters that had been taken over by Lorcus and made into a kind of Sevendori embassy.  That is, once he had hung a snowflake banner and procured a store of spirits and wine, that’s where we went to drink and talk when the castle’s ostentatious Great Hall was too far away or too public. 

Now that the immediate threat of the goblin army was an inky black stain on the horizon as their bodies were burnt, there was more time to do so.  And after that stark talk with Rard, I needed a drink.

Unsurprisingly, Tyndal and Rondal were both there nursing ales, their eyes exhausted after yesterday’s powerful exertions.  Using magic on that level is physically draining, and warmagic twice so.  They were young, healthy boys.  They would recover quickly.  Lorcus didn’t look fazed by the battle, save for around his eyes.  He was drinking wine and eating an apple, alongside Sire Cei, who seemed equally undisturbed by battle – though I detected that he was moving a little gingerly.

I was feeling pretty rugged myself.  No matter how comfortable the armor, wear it for six hours straight and you feel it.  My muscles ached terribly. 

I sprawled in a chair next to the little trestle table and tried to relax.  I was amongst friends, after all.  Lorcus poured a glass of something and pushed it at me and I drank.  As the liquor burned a trail to my empty stomach, I sighed.

“What the hells can we do?” I asked, no one in particular.

“Was that a simple cry of helplessness, or are you soliciting suggestions?” Lorcus asked, after a moment’s silence.

“Probably the former.  But I wouldn’t reject the latter,” I decided, taking another drink.  “I just informed the King of the situation.  He is not happy.”

“He should be bloody ecstatic that Gilmora got a sprinkle when he expected a flood!” Lorcus snapped.

“His relief is tempered by the bloody huge army that’s wandering through his kingdom.  And the five dragons that were seen emerging from the Umbra.”

“F-five?” Rondal asked, worriedly.

“That’s a lot of power,” Tyndal said, his eyes wide.  He had seen one dragon destroy a castle like a child kicking apart a sandcastle.  The prospect of five of the beasts was unimaginable to him.  I empathized.

“We’ve only the one Dragonslayer,” Lorcus nodded, indicating Sire Cei.

“We need more information,” Sire Cei said, shaking his head.  “Where is this army destined? Where are these dragons deployed?  And do not forget the goblins encamped north of the river.”

“They’re covering the escape route,” Lorcus suggested.  “Reserves, mostly, I’d bet.”

“They’d still take a lot of killing,” Tyndal pointed out.  “The Kasari say that there are a lot more worms with them.  They may even make another attempt on Gavard Castle.”

“Only because we’re here,” Rondal said.  “We present a tactical threat to them.  This is where their ice spell was initiated.”

“That’s . . . insightful,” I admitted.  “It makes sense that this enchantment takes a lot of power – if they had to rely on power from Shereul, directly.  The ice isn’t just on the surface.  Every bit of it is frozen, from the top to the depths.  From here to hundreds of miles in both directions.  Even trying to come up with the right formula for how much power that would take is beyond me. 

“But it makes sense that they would need a local focus to channel that power.  Some device or enchantment through which it is being maintained.  Yes, that may well be why that reserve army is there: to protect the river enchantment.”

We discussed various ideas for what that enchantment would be, what it would look like, and how the power would have to be channeled to create the sustained icing effect.  We were considering ways to go after the enchantment when we were joined byDara, still in her fighting leathers, and apparently just back from patrol.

She came in, threw her leather helmet and gloves on the table, poured a drink of spirits, drained it, and then poured another.

“I’m back,” she said, hoarsely.  “I took the wing on patrol over the river, up as far as we could go.  You can see where the goblins marched because the river is white before they come, and black afterward.  They leave it scuffed and mired behind them.  They’re burning every village they can on either side of the river, and they attacked a town about twenty miles west of here –”

“Marlareen,” Lorcus supplied. 

“They ruined the waterfront and savaged the town, and apparently some fell hounds were let loose on the countryside, but they didn’t linger.  They kept moving.  And moving.  Master, they’re making at least thirty miles a day!” she said, appalled.  “They barely slowed down to raze that town! “

“Were you able to see how far the ice enchantment spread?” Rondal asked.

“Along all of the tributaries,” my youngest apprentice said as she flopped wearily onto a stool with her drink.  “Every one.  They keep sending small bands up them to raid and burn.  But they’re sticking to the Poros, for now.”

“What the hells are they up to?” I asked, rhetorically.  “Human civilization lies east.  Why go west?”

It was true that there were plenty of settlements west of Gilmora, but none had the population density that the cottonlands did.  There were only a few more cities of any size along the Poros to the west, and they grew smaller and less grand the more west you went.  Eventually the Poros flowed through the Alshari Riverlands, and thence from the escarpment that lead to the Mindens, and the Wilderlands, proper.

“Maybe they took a wrong turn?” offered Lorcus.

“This is stratagem, not stupidity,” Sire Cei said, thoughtfully.  “The goblins made this campaign with great purpose, and put much thought into its execution.  Despite our victory yesterday, it occurs to me that it was but a minor skirmish in a much greater design.”

“The key is the river,” Rondal said, drumming his fingers absently on the table.  “Why that river? Why now? Why the entire river, and not just a section?”

“I’ve been studying maps of this whole area,” Tyndal agreed.  “Beyond Houndswell, there just isn’t anything worth attacking.  It’s all freeholds, all the way to the escarpment.  And Houndswell is a town of just two thousand people.”

We kicked around various ideas, from the practical – Shereul was after iron deposits in the Mindens and wanted to take the scenic route to them – to the whimsical (Shereul had a mistress in Houndswell he was anxious to see – Lorcus’ contribution).  But in the end we were just as mystified as in the beginning. 

Finally, Dara – whom I had forbidden a third glass of spirits – made an observation that haunted me.  “What if we’re looking at the wrong map?”  She went on to discuss the possibility of there being a special reason the dragons were involved, that perhaps they needed to secure mating or nesting grounds.  She’d been doing much the same with her giant falcons, and she was aware of the challenges involved with such large beasts.

But her comment stuck with me, even if her reasoning did not. 
What if we were using the wrong map?

*                            *                            *

The enchanted Alka Alon had agreed to encamp outside of the castle, since they found the interior unpleasant for more than a visit and, to be honest, their presence was highly distracting to the rest of the garrison.  Instead they were persuaded to make a camp in a nearby wood (of course) near to the camp that the Kasari had set up. 

The Kasari camp was a textbook example of neatly-ordered tents, cook fires, mess pavilions, and the like.  The Alka Alon, on the other hand, had caused a thick brace of briers to grow up in a circle a few hundred feet across, and had enchanted various trees to their command.  Most of the beautiful humanoids were employed restocking their supply of human-sized arrows.  They were in good spirits and – of course – singing the entire time.

I took Captain Arborn with me, both for his familiarity with the Wilderlands and his knowledge of the Alka Alon.  We found the unguarded entrance to the camp and it didn’t take long to find Master Onranion sitting under a rhododendron, sharpening his massive greatsword with a stone.

“Our glorious commander!” he greeted me, without rising.  “What brings you by our humble thicket this afternoon?”

“To toast our victory,” I said, indicating the full wineskin I’d brought along.  “And to discuss its aftermath.”

He smacked his lips.  “Wine?  You have my complete attention!”

Onranion had become quite the connoisseur of wine since he had come to Sevendor, and seemed to have an endless capacity for it.  He drained the small traveling cup I poured him and had another before we could get to the meat of the matter.  Arborn had one cup and nursed it the entire time.  The Kasari weren’t exactly against strong drink, but they were wary of its effects.

“The question remains where this goblin army is headed,” Arborn began, directly.  “They have taken to the frozen Poros and are headed westward.”

“Westward?” Onranion asked, confused.  “Why, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Precisely what we’ve been thinking,” I agreed, sipping my own wine.  “There are no great human cities there.  Nothing but dirt farms, shallow mines, and woodsmen.  The bulk of our strength lies in the east.  He has the tools to really harm us – why eschew a perfect opportunity to deal us a deadly blow?”

“Perhaps they took a wrong turn?” Onranion provided, unhelpfully.  It occurred to me that being a smartass transcended race and species.

“The army has ignored every opportunity to leave the Poros and descend upon the human lands in strength.  They’ve persisted in their march up the Poros steadfastly.  We were thinking that perhaps they were pursuing some objective we were unaware of,” Arborn said, diplomatically.  “What do the Fair Folk know of the lands in that region?”

“Up the Poros?  Wild, rugged country, there. 
Asmadaralon
, it was called of old: Land of Scars.  A wild and beautiful place, of course, but also a dangerous one.  That’s where Korbal arose—”

“Korbal?” I interrupted.  “The legendary mountain demon?”

“That’s how you humani refer to him?” the old Alkan laughed.  “That’s so amusing!  No, long before humani inhabited those lands, an Alkan recluse by the name of Korbal retired to the Land of Scars to conduct experiments that were best done in secret.  He worked for many years in that desolate place, under the very noses of the elders. 

“But of course eventually his experiments with prescribed magics came to be known.  The elders tried to intervene quietly, but Korbal would not give up his studies.  They sent embassies and eventually they went against him in force.  But he had been in the Land of Scars a long time, and he eluded capture for years.  His minions made pursuit difficult.  But eventually he was captured and imprisoned deep in those same hills.  Great spells of protection were laid to keep him from ever arising again, and the location is a secret, but it could be he seeks Korbal.”

“What was Korbal’s special field of research?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.  “Transgenic Enchantments?”

“Why no,” Onranion said, curiously.  “Necromancy.”

That word hung like a pall over the conversation.  No one likes necromancy.  No one who has ever had to face it, that is.  Bringing the dead back to unlife is not complicated, but it is morally repugnant. 

Of course the disembodied floating head in the big ball of irionite might have a different perspective on the subject. 

“So Shereul could be searching for Korbal’s tomb?” Arborn prompted.

Onranion laughed as he poured another cup.  “That would be ludicrous.  As I said, that tomb was concealed by the power of the Alka Alon council.  An army would be of no use – one could scour those impassable lands for centuries and find no trace.  The very thought is absurd.  Why, an army that close to . . . to . . .” his face went slack and his humanish eyes showed a feeling of panic, dread, and wonderment.  “No!  That’s . . . that’s . . .
audacious
!” he said to himself.

“What?” I demanded.

“Clarity, Master,” pleaded Arborn quietly. 

The word seemed to affect the Alkan.  He straightened and set his cup down, taking a deep, nostril-flaring breath.  “The reason that searching for Korbal’s Tomb with an army would be useless, besides its hidden nature, is the fact that beyond the Land of Scars, in the deep valleys of the Mindens, lies the powerful Alka Alon city on the lake, Anthatiel. 

“Anthatiel.  The Tower of Vision on the Lake of Rainbows.  The lake that feeds the Poros.  The lake that stands as the ultimate defense of that ancient citadel in that remote region.  The lake protected from even detection by the songspells at play in the ever-present rainbows.  The lake that is now no doubt
utterly frozen
by Shereul’s sorceries.”