The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (26 page)

“It weren’t that, milord!” the peasant protested. “I was takin’ my dailies down at the bridge, as it has that nice drop-off into the water, where it can flow away and not bother no-one, when some one comes along and shoots me!  As I breathe, milord, it’s true!  Just shot me, with a bow, like, right in me arse!  I got away afore they could shoots me again, and I don’t seem too worse for the wear, but . . . if milord could find his way clear to magic it away, I would be forever in your debt!”

“Wait, the arrow came from the other side of the river?” Rondal asked, as Baston hurriedly knelt by the man’s side. 

“He’s lost some blood,” he agreed, “but the arrow doesn’t look like it hit any major veins or humors.  I’ve seen men get hurt worse than this and ride twenty miles,” he added, as he began to inspect the wound more carefully.  Joppo moaned miserably at the thought of putting his arse anywhere near a horse. 

“Aye, milord,” he gasped.  “On my honor, it came from across the river!”

“Here’s why he’s not more wounded,” Baston said, after he swiftly yanked the arrow free, held a cloth to the wound, and then presented it to Rondal.  “It’s a frogging point, not a hunting point or bodkin.  I’m sure it hurts like a day in hell, but it won’t do any permanent damage.  You will have a fascinating scar to show the ladies, however,” Baston said, consolingly.

“Really?” Joppo asked, perking up a bit.

“Hold still,” Baston said, as he cleaned the wound.  “The light in here is dim, and I don’t want to – oh!” he said, as Rondal helpfully cast a bright magelight over the wound.  “That’s handy!”

“You have no idea,” Rondal nodded.  “Let me . . . clean the wound magically first,” he said, trying not to look too closely.  Medical magic was not one of his specialties, nor was it likely ever to be, but he did know a few basic spells.  One was a variation of the magelight spell, only the vibration of the light was such that the light it produced was at a far longer wavelength than visible light.  The resulting beam was reputed to kill the tiny creatures who brought the curse of infection, and was recommended in many cases involving open wounds.

“There,” he said, after a few moments of focusing the cleansing light.  “You may bandage him, now.”

“That will cure him?” he asked, surprised.

“It will lessen the likelihood of him taking infection,” he explained.  How did one explain ultraviolet light to a man whose only conceptions of it were in terms of starlight, moonlight, sunlight and firelight?  Some things it was just easier to keep to yourself.  “I’ll go boil some water,” he added, “to cleanse the bandages.  I believe I have a few in my belongings.”

“Whoever did this was either trying to discourage your bridge building, or they just didn’t like the look of your man’s hindquarters,” Baston observed.

“Or mistook it for a frog,” Zarra added.

“No, this was no accident.  The Sashtali are trying to discourage us.  Which is why you’re here.  No doubt that Yeoman has his henchmen patrolling the other side of the river, ready to harass us again.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Baston asked.

“Keep them away while I work.  It won’t take me much longer, I feel, but if they’re shooting frogging arrows at us while I’m doing it, that’s going to irritate me.”

“Why don’t you just . . . use magic or something on them?” Zarra asked.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.  But while I’m a Knight Mage, that doesn’t mean I like to fight.  And using magic against folk directly can be lethal.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Well,” Rondal said, looking down at his wounded peasant thoughtfully, “I was just going to have you stand around and look mean.  But now I’m close to angry.  The Sashatali have crossed the river, and now they have attacked directly.  So tonight . . . you and I are going to go visit the local manor – Riverside, I believe it’s called – and we’re going to harass them a little ourselves.”

*
                            *                            *

They waited until long past midnight before they crossed through the black waters of the river and emerged on Sashtali territory.  Baston proved stealthy, for as large as he was, and he moved with purpose in the night, a Cat’s Eye charm allowing him to see.  A bubble of silence kept their footsteps from being heard, so the only real danger was someone seeing them.  This late at night did not see many folk about, thankfully.

Riverside Manor was a small holding, an almost-square manor house of two stories, surrounded by a palisade and hedge.  The great wooden gate was closed, of course, and the gate guard was fast asleep when they silently approached.  Another charm ensured he’d stay that way.

Rondal surveyed the interior of the manor compound after he enchanted the lock into opening.  The only creatures stirring were two old dogs who came off of the porch toward them.  Rondal wasted no time in rendering them unconscious, too – dogs were harder to deal with than human guards, he’d heard from his master a hundred times.   When the hounds were safely asleep, the mage dropped the silence long enough to speak to Baston. 

“What we need here is a way to make an example,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Burning the place to the ground, while tempting, is ultimately impractical.”  Baston shrugged, as if it made no difference to him.  “But what is practical is . . .” he said, as he searched the compound by eye.  Soon his gaze lit upon a thick pile of empty burlap bags, used in the manor’s grain harvest.  Nearby was a wheelbarrow.  “Let us deprive them of those sacks,” Rondal finally said, earning an odd look from the bandit.  “I have an idea for them, and it will be very irritating and a bit expensive to replace, before the harvest requires them.”

“Sacks?  Is that
all?
” scoffed Baston.  “If we are going to break into a manor, I would think that making it worth the risk of the noose would be wise . . . but then I am no wizard.”

“The point is not to rob them,” Rondal explained, patiently, “the point is to scare them away from the bridge.  That is our mission.  Or, the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge’s mission.”

Baston stared at him thoughtfully.  “You would have made a lousy bandit,” he observed, shaking his head.

“Among other things,” Rondal agreed.  “But I suppose I take your point.  Give me a few moments,” he said, removing his stone from his pouch.  It wasn’t actually necessary, as he could access the power from within easily enough, but for some spells he found the physical contact more soothing and efficient. 

He closed his eyes and performed one of the other warmagic spells he knew by rote, the mass sleeping spell he had painstakingly learned during the Siege of Boval Castle.  In moments he was certain that no one else in the manor would awaken.  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” he asked.

“After you, Sir Knight,” Baston smiled, and bowed.

Rondal kept watch over the manner and type of things Baston liberated as they walked through the silent manor.  He traded his old rusty blade for a far more serviceable one, complete with scabbard, from the manor’s armory, and found a light vest of rings that fit him.

Baston found a few sets of clothes he fancied for himself in a press in a store room, far better than the threadbare homespun he had worn for years.  He took a good winter mantle, laid away in storage against the change in season, and took a second for his wife. 

In the pantry he stole two hams and some preserves, some eggs, some salt, and ten pounds of barley flour, as well as a few small loaves of bread already baked and waiting for the morn.  As an afterthought he added a small iron kettle, two knives, some spoons, and three wooden bowls.  Six bottles of locally-grown wine found their way into his sack.  So did a small glass jar of peppercorns.

“Here,” Rondal said, only a little guilty, as he handed an old, dusty gitar to the former minstrel.  “I found it in the great hall.   have no idea what condition it’s in, but . . .”

“It’s better than the one I don’t have,” the bandit agreed.  “Not that I can see using it anytime soon, but perhaps someday . . .”

“Oh, it may come sooner than you think,” shrugged Rondal.  “The gods are funny that way.  Is that all?”  He’d taken almost nothing for himself, save a book on local history he found somewhat interesting.

“We’ve only plundered the lower level,” the bandit pointed out.  “But I’ve already filled the wheelbarrow.”

“That should be sufficient.  Let me leave a note.”  He rummaged around the great hall until he found a lapdesk, likely used by the reve to keep his correspondence, and he penned a quick letter.

To the Honorable Yeoman Ardone of Jerune, Greetings:

In recompense for damages done to my servant, I took a few trifles.  I would advise against further incursions into Sendari territory, lest you hear from me again.  I do not imagine that would be pleasant for either of us.

The Wizard of Birchroot Bridge

He sealed the letter with a glowing B rune, just to be flashy, and left it lying in the very center of the large wooden table clearly reserved for the Yeoman.

“Let’s go,” Rondal said simply, after he left it.  “It’s getting late, and we have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

On their way out, just for good measure, he put a day-long spellbinding on the main doors to the hall, as well as to the only gate large enough to let the stock out of the compound.  That should keep Ardone busy for the day, he thought to himself with satisfaction as they left, Baston happily bearing the weight of the loot on his new wheelbarrow.

“I take back what I said about you being a poor bandit,” he commented, enthusiastically.  “Four years I’ve been plying the highwayman’s trade, and I’ve taken more of worth this night than in all that time.  Why aren’t all magi thieves?” he asked. 

Rondal shrugged.  “We make more money peddling our spells,” he decided.  “I don’t doubt there are a few who do, but it seems like an awful lot of work.”

“You have no idea,” sighed the bandit, shaking his head.

*
                            *                            *

The next morning Rondal struck camp and relocated it closer to the road – which  made Baston nervous.  “Usually when a bandit pillages someone’s home, they try to be less noticeable,” he counseled.

“I pillaged nothing,” Rondal declared.  “I merely did as the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge bid me.”

“So you did,” chuckled Baston.  “But what now?”

“Now,” Rondal said, philosophically, “we dig some holes.”

“To hide the loot?”

“No,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “To fill the bags.”

That was easier than he thought it would be, although several times Baston complained of not stealing a proper shovel.  But with the help of the smallest earth elemental he’d ever conjured, soon piles of loose earth provided a two-foot high hill for them to fill from.  With close to seventy bags, he had to restore the pile thrice before all were filled. 

He took it easy that day, otherwise.  On his way back, he’d warded the bridgehead on the other side of the river, so he would be aware if anyone came near it. 

He let Joppo rest, checked his wound, ran the elementals, and directed Baston, who didn’t seem to mind hard work nearly as much as most bandits.  Of course, Rondal reflected, thanks to their thievery the previous night, he was also eating far better than most bandits, too. 

Zarra, for her part, cooked all day, delighted at the new provisions, especially the peppercorns.  That night they ate delicious ham and eggs, with plenty of bread.  Zarra wept when Bastine said, for the first time in her life, that she was too full to finish her meal.  Baston just looked grateful, as he sharpened his new sword and examined his new gitar.

But no one from the Riverside Manor approached them.

The following day, Rondal set to work in earnest.  He had Baston bring him rocks the size of his head, and he patiently, painstakingly began fusing them together.  He did it I groups of threes, creating small spans that were heavy, but movable with the help of the wheelbarrow.  It took all day to sculpt them, but by dusk there were twenty neat lines of the constructions. 

“They’ll likely be here tomorrow,” he told Baston.  “We should probably be ready.  We won’t have but a few days after that.  Hopefully we shouldn’t need much longer than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Yeoman will take about a day to free himself from his own home, and then it will take a day for him to send word to the lord of the domain.  Then it will take another day or two for him to assemble a party, and yet another for them to return here.”

“And when they do?”

“Then they shall find a fully-formed and functional bridge,” he promised.  “Among other things.”

That night Rondal’s wards were triggered.  The Sashtali had sent another party across the river.

This time Ardone had sent ten men, all locals and most of them villeins, the big, rough sort who work like oxen during plowing and reaping, but had little to do in the summer months.  At least two of them had been in the previous foray, Rondal learned when he used the Long Ears spell to spy on them as they crossed the river.

“This is the tricky part, where they tried to scare us last time,” one of them said. 

“Did scare you, you mean!”

“We were taken unawares, they had no sentry!”