The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (24 page)

“Aye, milord,” Joppo said, and began unhitching the team.

They chose a spot only fifty feet away from the bridgehead, inside a small grove of trees that gave the horses plenty of shade.  While Joppo got a fire built and water fetched from the river, Rondal lit his pipe and scried the area with magesight, looking for the best possible way to take two footings and a pile of rocks and turn it into a real bridge a fully-loaded wain could traverse.

It was a pretty problem.  Despite his ability with stone, conjuring an earth elemental would be difficult, this close to the stream, and if you wanted them to move anything heavy it took so much power it was exhausting. 

Instead, he decided that he would, unfortunately, have to get wet to make this work.  And it would take more muscle, when the time came, than he had on hand.  You could do a lot with magic, it was true, but some things just required raw manpower, and this was going to be one of them.

“Why not just build a wooden bridge?” Joppo asked that evening, over stew.

“Because we were contracted for a stone bridge,” Rondal explained, tiredly.  “Wooden bridges decay.  They can be burned.  Stone usually stays put.”

“Aye,” grunted the peasant, as he shoveled a pickled egg unceremoniously into his mouth.  “It does, at that.  “Still, wood would be easier.”

“And less expensive,” Rondal agreed.  “But the Magelord wants a stone bridge, so a stone bridge he will have.”

The next morning after breakfast, Rondal began work.  It didn’t look like work, to Joppo or anyone else who would have watched, as the young mage spent most of the morning seated on the bridgehead, his eyes closed, his hands enfolded around his witchstone. 

But then things started to happen.  For instance, one by one the rocks from the old bridge began moving slowly across the river bed, until there were four piles of them, two on each side of the bridge.  It took a lot of effort and coaxing, but by lunch time they were there, visible from the surface, creating a permanent wake of white foam from where they broke the water.

It was harder than the other stone work he’d done – partially because of the water, which was only four feet deep at its deepest point, at this time of year, and partially because of the distance.  But after lunch he stripped off his tunic, entered the river, and began melding the irregular stones left from the old bridge into four small pyramids, fused together so that they were essentially all the same rock. 

Thankfully they had been quarried from the same pit – it was easier to meld two stones that were alike.  But the work was still time-consuming, especially under water.  One by one he turned a pile of rocks into a wide-based support, and then fused them to the rocks still deeper in the riverbed, until Joppo called him for supper.  When he climbed out, his fingers like wrinkled prunes, he was ready for a rest.

Rondal had borrowed an old campaign tent from Sir Cei, not because he feared sleeping outdoors in high summer, but because he wanted someplace dry besides the wagon to keep the tools.  He was physically exhausted from such intensive use of magic, but the exercise had been good for him.  He ate bread and sausages, with a bit of cheese and a mug of ale, knowing that an afternoon’s labor would rouse an even greater appetite.  He bade Joppo to plan a big meal, and after another pipe and another mug of ale, he went back to work.

The afternoon saw the truly critical point, to his mind: now that the footings had been established, he had to build the support pillars.  While a regular stonemason would spend days shaping stone with hammer and chisel, Rondal merely hefted a rock atop the piling, fused it, then flattened the top of it with a separation spell.  The spare pieces he flipped into a pile, to be used later.  When he was done with the first one, he focused a powerful binding spell on it, so that it would take much more than a team of horses to ever pull it down.

As he pulled himself out of the riverbed to rest, after the effort, he was staring at the clouds above when he realized that he had been handicapping himself.  With a groan, he pulled his tired body aright and limped back to the tent, where he retrieved three of the snowstones he’d brought.  Putting them in a triangle around the construction site, the effort he had to expend to accomplish his spellwork decreased noticeably, and he fashioned the second support in half the time he had the first.  While there were still a few hours of daylight left, he made the decision to stop for the day because . . . well, there was no one there to tell him not to.

Joppo had prepared a hearty but simple stew of chicken and peas, with a few vegetables, cheese, and journeybread . . . but then mentioned that someone would have to procure more supplies on the morrow.   Rondal agreed, dully, used his witchstone to check in with his master and explain his progress, and then collapsed gratefully into his blankets in the tent just as the sun was setting.

The next day he worked by himself, having sent Joppo to the nearest village or manor with a few coins to purchase more food.  He finished the other to supporting pillars by lunch, the last of the sausage and ale, and the last bit of journeybread, and then he spent the rest of the day fiddling with the supports, ensuring that they lined up properly under magesight, that they were structurally sound, and that they would not erode away nearly as quickly as the rocks in the riverbed.  He began plans for a supporting arch to help support the span, and decided on a gentle arc of cobbles, magefused to rigidity and enchanted for durability.  He was beginning to place the cornerstones for the arches when he was hailed from above – and from the other side of the river.

“Ho there!” called a deep, commanding voice.  “You, in the river!”

“Yes?” Rondal asked, looking up and squinting in the sun.

“Who are you, and what are you doing?” demanded the voice.  Rondal used magesight to dim the obscuring brightness, and the man’s face came into view.

He was ten years older than Rondal, at least, and he was on a horse.  A prosperous commoner, probably, or a working noble, the man was wearing a functional but sturdy brown tunic with a baldric bearing some kind of insignia over his shoulder.  He had long hair, a mustache but no beard, and had a contemptuous sneer on his face.

“I’m fixing the bridge,” he explained, looking up at the man.

“By whose leave?” the man demanded, arrogantly.

“By the leave of Baron Arathanial of Sendaria,” Rondal explained patiently, “and my master, Magelord Minalan of Sevendor.”

The man’s lip curled yet further.  “The sorcerer?  Bah!  The Lord of Sashtalia rules here, churl!  None may build or destroy in his realm without his leave!”

“Actually, I’m not a churl,” Rondal began to explain, but the irate man cut him off, dismounting.

“You will do no work here without my leave!  I am Yeoman Ardone of Jarune, reve of Riverside Manor, and I did not give you leave!” he bellowed angrily.

“I don’t need your permission,” Rondal said with a deep, tired sigh as he climbed up “his” side of the river bank, where he found his tunic and slipped it on. 

“By Luin’s staff you do!” Yeoman Ardone said, his fists balled up on his hips.  Rondal saw he wore a simple longsword at his side, and while he made no move to draw it, the mage could tell he would have no compunctions about doing so.  “This bridge was meant to be pulled down, and down it will stay!”

“Sorry, but I’m going to have to build a bridge,” Rondal said.  “I’ve done this much work, I’m not about to stop now.”  He wasn’t in any mood to be accommodating – he had been comfortably focused on his work, and the distraction was annoying. 

Ardone looked contemptuously at the four pillars standing in the riverbed, now, and how far advanced they were.  His contempt turned to astonishment.  “Dear Trygg!  Just how long have you been at this devilry?”

He doesn’t realize I’m a mage, Rondal realized.  “Not long,” he said, casually.  “I’m just really fast.”

“You will cease your work at once, or I will thrash you myself!” Ardone demanded.

“That’s going to be hard to do, from way over there,” Rondal observed.  “Luckily for you, I’m building a bridge here, so soon you will have the luxury of walking across without getting your feet wet to thrash me.”

“You WILL not build a bridge here!” Ardone demanded.

“It’s looking more and more like I will,” Rondal replied evenly.

“We’ll see about that!” snapped the Yeoman.  “If you are wise, you will leave before I return!”

“If you were wise,” Rondal retorted, “you had better hurry.  Or I might finish the bridge before they get here.”

Ardone fumed and spouted insults, but thanks to the river between them Rondal just listened to them, amused, without revealing his name or station.  Eventually the Yeoman rode off, glaring over his shoulder.

Joppo returned just before dusk, bearing several baskets of food.  While Birchroot Castle was where the lord of the land dwelt, the local manor was held by an ancient Yeoman, almost ninety, who was cared for by his two daughters and three granddaughters . . . one of whom had apparently been enamored of Joppo, enough so that she had filled his baskets without taxing his pouch overmuch.  That night they ate well, roasted duck and potatoes with corn soup and crusty brown bread.  Rondal made certain to set wards around the camp that night before retiring, his muscles aching but his belly appeased.

It was foresightful that he had taken such care, too, as a few hours past midnight he was awakened by his wards.  Someone was approaching the camp, he realized with alarm. 

He glanced over at the snoring Joppo, and decided against wakening the man.  While he had no doubt Joppo would fight to defend himself, Rondal also knew that the man was just as likely to panic and run.  Instead he used the Cat’s Eyes charm, an extension of magesight that made the day around him light up like it was morning.  A conjured magemap told him that the intruder – intruders, he saw – were approaching from the west, from further down the river.

He thought about sending a message to Master Minalan, mind-to-mind, to get his advise on how to proceed.  Then he reconsidered.  He was, after all, a Knight Mage in his own right.  While still an apprentice, he was not helpless . . . or stupid.  He decided he would handle this on his own, instead of calling to his master for help.

He rose quietly, and drew his nameless mageblade before casting a bubble of silence around him.  He carefully crawled outside and into the cool summer night and moved a little away from the camp to the north, so that he could get a good vantage of his would-be robbers.

Not robbers, he realized immediately as soon as they came into view, but raiders.  Whoever Yeoman Ardone was, he had henchmen, and they had cudgels and knives in their hands.  That alarmed Rondal even further – robbers and thieves could usually be scared away pretty easily, he’d found, but raiders were bent on violence.  He was not about to let that happen.

But how?  As the approached, he saw that there were five, all commoners but well-dressed enough to be fairly prosperous.  Likely members of Yeoman Ardone’s manor household, the ones he’d charge with keeping the villeins in line.  That made Rondal even madder, but it did not suggest a means of confronting them.

In the end, he decided to stick with the basics.  He knew little warmagic, and what he did know tended to be more supportive than martial, but there were some spells so easy any High Mage could do them.  One in particular he favored was the immobilization spell.  He cast it as soon as the men were within throwing-distance of the tent, before even the horses were aware of them.  The five stopped suddenly, unable to move from the neck down.

Rondal, still enveloped in silence, slipped up behind the men, taking his time about it . . . and once he was within earshot, all five were in a dead panic about their sudden immobility.  Rondal enjoyed the feeling of power over such men – they were older, presumably wiser, but here they were doing some pipsqueak yeoman’s bidding, and about to do injury to men they did not know.  Rondal dropped his silence spell.

“Who dares disturb the rest of the . . . Wizard of Birchroot Bridge?” he asked, using one of his old master, Garkesku’s favorite spells to augment his voice and make it strangely eerie and threatening.  The old man had excelled at performance over production, Rondal mused as he listened to the frightened men whimper.  When it came to bullshit, Garkesku the Great had no rival.  For some reason, he did not want his real identity known, so he invented one.  “Who risks their very lives at this foolishness?  Your names, and quickly!  Or the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge will condemn you all!”

The men – whose heads were not affected by the spell – all tried to blurt out their names at once.  Rondal chuckled.  He didn’t think he had much to fear from them, now.  At least one had soiled himself, he could smell.  Since he wasn’t actually interested in their names, he changed tactics.  “Who do you serve?  On whose orders do you commit this crime?”

“Master Ardone!” they said, almost in unison.

“Then go, and tell Master Ardone if he persists in interfering with the construction, the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge will come pay him a visit in person!  A visit he will never forget!  Now, GO!  Go, and never venture across the river again!” 

He cast a spell of Un-noticeability from Master Minalan’s private collection of warmagic spells and stepped back in the shadows before he released the paralysis spell.  When the men could finally move again, they wasted little time in taking to their heels.  When they slowed, half a bowshot away, Rondal used a banging cantrip followed by a bright flash, and the men all screamed and ran as fast as their feet could carry them.  Rondal was glad he had put up the un-noticeability spell – his hysterical laughter at the sight surely would have awakened Joppo.