High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (80 page)

That’s when a figure in a surcoat streaked across the plaza, greatsword flashing.  Sir Ryff waded into the battle, attacking Aeratas’ assailants from the rear with deadly efficiency.  The Riverlands knight was a strong man, and adept, and he was used to such melees.  Soon he was helping Aeratas to his feet, dispatching the last of the goblins with the point of his sword.

“Will you all get in the godsdamned barge?” Wenek complained from the green and gold barge Azar had commanded  “Or do you think they’re just going to give up?”

“Fall back to the boats!!” I called out, and then watched as a flurry of giant feathers descended from the sky.  In quick succession the falcons clawed at the goblins, picking some up in their mighty talons and dropping them again from the air or just slashing away. 

The interruption was just what we needed, and my men fell back to the barge.   Sire Cei was the last to depart, throwing himself in just as we cast off.  The huge dog who had rescued him from the lake was there to greet him, much to his discomfort, but in the end he relented and patted her massive head to calm her down.  Lorcus shot a couple of nasty spells behind us, just to be difficult, then exposed his buttocks to the jeering goblins from the stern.

“It’s a tradition in his land,” I explained weakly to the frowning Alka Alon lord, when he asked about the action.  Aeratas looked pretty battered, though none of his wounds seemed dangerous.  Ithalia and Fallawen attended his wounds as he gazed at his fallen city.

“Who is the man who saved me?” he asked me, a moment later.

“Sir Ryff.  He’s one of my vassals.  A brave knight of the Riverlands,” I said, glancing up at the hopeful-looking man, who was crouched nearby, anxiously glancing at the Alka Alon.

“Brave, indeed.  I owe him my life.  One of the gurvani was choking me, and had he not intervened, I would have died.”

I introduced the two, much to Fallawen’s discomfort.  The country knight was respectful and courteous, but his rough edges showed.  It didn’t help that he was speaking to the father of the woman he admired.

“I owe you my life,” the lord said.  “I have little to give, Sir Ryff, but if it is in my power, I would grant it.”

“I wish for nothing less than the hand of Lady Fallawen,” he said, swallowing harshly.  “I have followed her to the ends of Callidore, and I’d do it again.  There is no lesser woman I wish for my wife.”

“What?” Aeratas asked, clearly unaware of the knight’s affections for his daughter.

“What?” Fallawen asked, her jaw dropping in a most unladylike manner.

“What?”
chortled Lorcus, in disbelief.

“I wish to take the maiden Fallawen as my bride,” he said, more boldly to all in the barge.  “I am but a poor country knight, but all I have and all I am, I offer to her.”

“Father,” Fallawen began, when she could breathe again.  “We need to—”

“Daughter,” Aeratas said, sternly, “I pledged to the man that if it was in my power, I would grant it.”

“But, Father, I—”

“Daughter, this man saved my life.  If you were willing to pledge your obedience to save it, then certainly it has value to you,” he reminded her.

I watched Fallawen’s face contort into a mixture of emotion.  Then it became placid.  “I gave you my word, Father.  I will . . . consider it,” she said, with great reluctance. 

“Bah,” Aeratas said, almost human-like.  “He will only live for a hundred years or so.  It will be a good lesson for you.  He is your vassal, Spellmonger?”

“His lands lie directly to the east of mine,” I agreed.  I suddenly thought of that second snowstone outcropping I had been at pains trying to quietly secure.  This could be my answer.  “He holds them now as my tenant.  I will give them to him in deed, as a present to the wedded couple.  Further, I shall pay for half of a new castle built there, to receive his bride according to her accustomed manner.  And a suitable residence for his father-in-law.”

Fallawen looked irritated, but she turned her face toward Sir Ryff.  “You, Sir Ryff, before I consent to this, I would have words with you.”

“I am at my lady’s disposal,” he said, swallowing.  “And I hope that you consider my troth a sincere token of my deep affection and love for you, my lady.  I am not polished, even by my own folk’s standards, but I will do whatever in my power to make you a good husband.”

“A . . . humani . . . husband,” she said quietly, mostly to herself.  “I . . . I am . . .”

“You will not find another man nor great Alkan lord who will love you more than I, my lady,” Sir Fyyk said, with dignity.  “I know not if that is sufficient for a husband, but it is all any man can offer.”

“Oh, nobly spoken,” Captain Arborn, grinning, as he reclined against the gunwales. “Any man so devoted as this should be honored for such devotion.  To journey far from home, into a strange land, to fight against impossible odds and then save your sire from doom . . . and then to stand in ruin and boldly beg your sire for your hand . . .”

“My lady, what more display of devotion could you ask from a man?” Lorcus asked, a little disdainfully.  “He is mortal, it is true, but he has no magic, no powers, no greatness that he did not conjure from his own heart.  At least consider his troth.”

“He is quite handsome, for a humani,” Ithalia teased. 

“He has proven his worthiness to me,” Aeratas said.  “I will not compel you, but it is my desire that you do this thing . . . in token of our alliance with the humani, and to further the relations between our peoples.”  He spoke with authority, and Fallawen was moved.

“I will consider it,” she agreed.  “Give me a little time . . .”

“We have plenty, now,” I agreed.  “The Dead God’s greatest army is destroyed.   His plans are foiled.  It will take him time to regroup, and we will use that time to strengthen ourselves until we’re ready to strike at him in his own lands,” I said, boldly.  That brought a few cheers, but honestly we were all too tired to muster much enthusiasm.  We were sailing through a sea of corpses under a smoking ruin, where now two dragons contended for the right to level the city.

It did not take long to propel the barge out to the center of the lake.  The water elementals I had conjured were still responsive to my summons, and I used the stone to make them permanent – you never know when that sort o thing is going to come in handy.  They towed us to a safe distance, until we could see from one side of the gorge to the other.  All five waterfalls were spraying again, though the grimy haze above the lake prevented the signature rainbows from forming.

“It is time,” Aeratas said.  He composed himself and began a song.  I could feel the magic surging around us, directed toward a spot far away on the northern side of the lake.  It took a few moments, but then suddenly a huge overhanging cliff the size of my castle broke off from the very top of the gorge and plunged into the water below.

The wave was small, at first, but the thousands of tons of rock displaced a great deal of water.  We watched in horrid fascination as a great dark wave of corpses rose and then covered the once-fair island of Anthatiel.  The Tower of Vison alone was not dashed by the wave, and both dragons were swept away by it.  In a day full of wonders, that one alone was worth watching with rapt attention.

But it wasn’t going to stop.  It was time to go. 

We gathered together in the barge, and with one last look at his ruined realm, Aeratas used his waystone to transport us away from this dismal place before the wave overtook us. 

The battle was done.  We had won, perhaps, but the cost had been high.   As I winked from existence I felt a sense of hope start to rise within me, despite all of the ruin. 

We were still here.  We had strong allies.  It had been three years, and we were still here. 

That had to be worth something.

Epilogue

Three weeks later, we arrived in the capital, Castabriel, to celebrate the royal wedding between His Royal Highness Tavard III, Prince Heir of Castalshar, Duke of Castal, to Lady Armandra, daughter of the Count of Remeralon. 

The occasion was doubly joyous, as it not only celebrated the nuptials of the young bride and groom, it also celebrated his role in the stunning victory over the goblins.  His Highness had led the reserves over a shortcut, taking advantage of the frozen river the same as our enemies had.  It was a wise move – he’d shaved a day off of the journey to Gilmora in doing so.

But then the Poros had melted, trapping his forty thousand troops on the wrong side.  So he decided to engage the goblin army north of bridge, because that’s what gallant young princes do.

By coincidence, he caught the army unawares as it desperately tried to recapture the site of the original spell, where Pentandra’s small team of warmagi had snuck close enough to the device to deploy an Annulment enchantment, after some inspired counter-magic.  By that time it had been too late.  The fixed point that was the target of the Dead God’s spell had been swept away by the resurgent river. 

Count Salgo had taken the opportunity to cross the bridge and meet them in the field, intending merely to keep them from using the bridge to cross.  That’s when Prince Tavard’s men blundered into the goblin’s flank.  Being a young cavalryman, Tavard did the only thing he knew how to do: charge.  It happened to be the right thing to do, and the massed cavalry charge sent the goblin army into chaos.

That would have been splendid, had the young idiot done the right thing, and slaughtered each and every gurvani in the field.  But instead he captured their commanders.  Approaching war from a chivalric ideal, he forced Koucey to concede the day at the point of a sword.

Then he let the survivors return up the Cotton Road into the Umbra.  After forcing them to sign a peace treaty.

A
peace treaty
.  With Shereul the Dead God.

I was livid when I heard about it.  The young idiot Tavard had demanded that the goblins return to their own country, promise never to war against the kingdom again, promise to never cross the Poros in arms ever again.  And they promised.

And he believed them.  He allowed the remains of their army, almost twenty thousand goblins, to return to the Umbra in good order, weapons intact, because they promised.

I suppose I should not be too angry with the Prince Heir.  He was practicing warfare with the chivalric ideal in mind.  He had sat across a roundshield from Sire Koucey and discussed the surrender like civilized gentlemen.  After sending nearly half a million Gilmorans into the Umbra in chains as slaves and sacrifice, Koucey toasted the health of Good King Rard and took his remaining soldiers home.  That’s what civilized feudal lords do.

Worse, the terms of the agreement included establishing  some sort of regular diplomatic relations with Shereul’s dominion.  A representative would be arriving as a protected guest for the occasion of the wedding.  A representative of the regime that had slaughtered
hundreds of thousands
of humans and plunged our country into war for three years.

But the war was over.  King Rard said so.  His son had won it.  That was the official story.  The goblins were beaten and had sued for peace.  They wouldn’t trouble Castalshar anymore, thanks to the bravery and leadership of the royal house.  After all of our sacrifices, we would be meeting Shereul’s representatives at court, not over lances.

It made me sick to my stomach.  I was still angry when we arrived at Castabriel and took up my official residence in the Order’s complex.  Alya and the children were with me, and our entire entourage – such a royal function demanded the upper nobility attend.  The whole city was packed with people of great political and economic importance.  Banners fluttered from every battlement, and streamers from every doorpost. 

We had won.  King Rard said so.  There was a treaty, now.   And he was the king, so when he said “stop fighting,”
we had to stop fighting.

Nevermind all the Gilmoran subjects who had died.  Never mind the hundreds of empty castles and manors in northern Gilmora . . . or the thousands of goblin raiders who, instead of following Sire Koucey north, had instead burrowed into marshes, woodlands, and hillsides in the land they had depopulated and desolated.  If they could not defeat us on the field during the day, they would try to infiltrate and ambush us by night.  There was no telling how many gurvani and fell hounds had stayed behind, but I had a feeling that we’d learn the hard way.

Nevermind the thousands of our Alka Alon allies left homeless after the fall of Anthatiel.  Carneduin and Anas Yartharel had taken many, as many as they could, and others spread out to other refuges.  There were three thousand already haunting Sevendor, making pilgrimages to the Westwood, or lingering around Matten’s Helm, or working to build their new temporary refuge in Sir Ryff’s little land.  “Temporary” in Alka Alon terms – they didn’t think it would need to last more than two, maybe three hundred years, tops.  Master Guri was assisting them, which slowed work on my new castle, but then it didn’t look like I needed to be in a hurry any more.

We had a peace treaty and
everything.

Nevermind that the entirety of the Poros Valley had flooded out when the river had returned to normal.  Well, not “normal” – every living thing in the river had frozen, every fish, turtle, and tadpole.  Their bodies floated to the top and started downstream the moment the river returned to liquidity.