The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (27 page)

“Hoc says there’s a wizard about, something about the bridge?”

“You idiot!  Do you see a bridge?  I see a pile of rocks that can be pulled down again in a day.  No bridge, no wizard,” the leader reasoned.  It sounded to Rondal that he was trying to convince himself more than his thugs.

“Hoc was out giggin’ t’other day,” some dim-sounding fellow was drawling.  “Said he saw some villein droppin’ a brown trout in t’stream, put an arrow in his arse!”  That set them all to giggling – drunkenly, Rondal guessed, that being the usual manner in which courage was dispensed among the peasantry.  “Yeoman hisself gave ‘em a pullet for th’ deed!”

“So did Hoc see a wizard, or did Hoc see a villein?  The Master had the bridge watched all day, and only a couple of peasants and some tradesman were near.  No skulking wizard!”

“Then who bewitched the locks at t’manor, then?” the dull-sounding brute asked.  “Who put all t’sleep and then half walked away with the hall?  Who left that glowy note that got Matron Fessa in hysterics? ”

“If it was a wizard, why’d he go after cook-pots and hams, and not take the master’s safebox?”  reasoned another.  “A real wizard wouldn’t pass that up.”

“Someone is just trying to—what’s that?” he asked alarmed.

A dark figure loomed ahead of them, and with a thought Rondal activated a magelight that illuminated Baston suddenly, making it look like he materialized out of thin air.  The bandit had swathed himself in his new black cloak, and Rondal had conjured an obscuring illusion that hid his face inside a preternatural darkness.  He stood upon a rock, making him nearly seven feet tall, and he bore a bare blade in his hand – a blade likewise enchanted to produce a glow. 

“I challenge you in the name of the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge!” bellowed Baston, his voice augmented by another charm to sound hissy and sinister.  Rondal appreciated the man’s flair for the dramatic – something he lacked – no amount of magic could produce that kind of confidence.  Rondal preferred being behind such people, helping in small, quiet ways that didn’t get him killed. 

He called a mist into being around Baston, borrowing water from the nearby river and playing with its density and temperature with what was a lavish expenditure of energy.  It was worth it, though, to see the way the former jongleur played to his audience.

“Who among you is willing to face the fey blade of the sorcerer’s black knight?” he asked, sinisterly.  “For all must fight, if any are to pass!”  Rondal decided the moment needed further embellishment, and detonated a popping cantrip as Baston flashed his blade. 

Every man there took to his heels and ran for his life.  Rondal had a hard time containing his laughter, but the men ran so fast that they were out of earshot quickly enough.

Baston laughed, too, but he was still affecting his character, and he was still under the influence of the amplifying enchantment: his laugh was evil incarnate, a hideous peal that rang through the land behind them. 

“I haven’t had this much fun in ages,” the bandit sighed, when he finally stepped down from the rock and pulled back his hood.  Rondal immediately ended the amplifier, and the other effects.  No need for their casual conversation to be heard across the vale.  “If I had known how effective such properties were, I would have added them to my repertoire as a highwayman.”

“And miss your calling as a mummer?” Rondal asked.  “That was magnificent!  I actually got chills.”

“Do you think that will keep them away long enough?”

“The villagers, yes.  Two unsuccessful raids across the river is too much.  But I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Ardone, yet.  He won’t scare as easy as a bunch of villeins who drank their courage.  Hopefully I can get the rails of the bridge finished on the morrow, and the slats soon after.”

“But what will keep them from straying across in earnest?” the bandit asked, seriously.  “I have a better blade, but there is only one of me . . . and it’s the one I value the most.  My wife is quite fond of it, too.”

“I understand.  I’ll have to come up with something more permanent.  Perhaps I’ll send Joppo up to the castle to beg for some archers, maybe a spare knight.  There always seems to be one of those haunting a castle.”

Baston looked troubled.  “You forget, my friend, I am an outlaw.  In practice, even if I’ve yet to be caught.”

“I’d prefer to handle it myself, as well.  And I don’t think old Joppo would be particularly convincing.  Let me think on it,” he decided, “and maybe the answer will come with the dawn.”

Baston yawned.  “I agree.  I’m unused to these late night affairs.  Robbery is a daytime profession.”

*
                            *                            *

When day broke, Rondal was no more near an answer, but he was hard at work.  His muscles ached before the sun had warmed his shirtless back.  Baston would bring him a section of stone rail in the wheelbarrow, the bandit would hold it in place with the help of some wooden braces, and then Rondal would fuse the stone together and place a binding rune on it.  By mid-morning they had made progress as far as the first pier on both sides.  By luncheon they had reached the mid-point in the river.

While they sat in the shade of a birch tree and ate cold sausage, wild apples and cheese  with a little bread and a mug of ale, letting their aching muscles rest, a horseman approached.  Rondal struggled to his feet, but the heat of the day and his own indolence kept him from donning his tunic.  Baston faded into the bush, as quietly as a bandit.  Joppo did not choose to rise. 

The man proved to be Yeoman Ardone, dressed more formally this time in a doublet and matching hat, with a light  mantle of fine cotton around his shoulders.  He wore a sword at his hip, but made no move to draw it.

“I believe I told you to leave this frontier,” he sneered, as he reigned his horse to a halt.

“Aren’t you on the wrong side of the river?” asked Joppo, conversationally.

“Aren’t you speaking to your betters?  I go to Greshal on business.  Quiet, churl,  while I treat with your master.”

“His master is the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge, the same as mine,” Rondal said, crossly.  “And our master bade us to build a bridge.  A bridge shall be built.  Indeed, it is half-finished already,” he said, gesturing to the work.

“A few rocks do not a bridge make,” Ardone sneered.  “Nor will I treat with some footwizard over my rights.  If your master wishes to dispute with me, he knows where my hall lies.”  Zarra and Bastine were standing nearby, the mother looking afraid and the child looking intensely interested in the horse.  She started toward it only to be stopped by the firm hand of her mother.  Ardone took notice.

“You collect rabble like fleas.  Thieves and outlaws, don’t think it isn’t known.  Your ‘master’ should keep that in mind.  Nor has he any rightful title to the bridge.”

“What bridge?” Joppo asked, dully.  “Is the bridge finished already?”

“The . . . bridge you are not building!” Ardone sputtered.

“The bridge that is being built.  The Wizard has commanded it.  I will pass on your objections to my worthy master, but I warn you, Yeoman: he is a man of quick anger and swift action, when he is roused.”

“Angry enough to pillage my larder, no more, it seems.  I saw the sacks at your encampment – they belong to me, and I insist you return them.  And the other items your master stole.  Else I will find a way to thrash this peasant who pilfers ham and salt.  Wizard?  I see no wizard,” Ardone spat.  “I see a couple of churls playing with rocks, a few whores and brats, villeins or runaways . . . and you.  A mason you might be.  But a puny one, if you are,  and no more than an apprentice.  I will tell you one final time: leave off this construction, or it will go ill with you!” 

With that he reigned his horse and quickly turned about . . . but in doing so, he came near to Zarra and Bastine.  When the woodwife tried to keep her child in hand, she got too close to the Yeoman, and he slipped his boot from his stirrup and kicked Zarra in the face, hard.

She fell back, her nose bloody and her daughter screaming in terror.  Ardone added a cruel laugh and then spit again, hitting the little girl on the crown of her head, before he galloped off.

Rondal nearly drew the one warwand he’d brought and blasted the man until it was depleted.  But he knew that would cause problems for everyone.

Yet he could not let this stand.  While he knelt next to the frightened woman, his anger grew.  He shared his own master’s hatred of bullies, having been apprenticed to one and having served under another.  The man had wounded an innocent, and then had humiliated a little girl for no purpose.  Suddenly the matter became something far more important than a mere bridge.  Rondal decided he needed to teach the man a lesson, a lesson only a High Mage could deliver.

“You will heal perfectly,” he consoled Zarra.  Baston was already livid, and was ready to follow the man and seek to slay him in his anger.  Rondal cautioned restraint.  “I am as angry as you, my friend, but killing the man will not solve that.”

“I’m willing to venture to test that theory,” Baston whispered, coarsely, as he stared at this wife’s bloodstained face.

“If you want revenge, I will get enough for both of us.  Tonight we shall pay Yeoman Ardone a visit . . . and return his sacks to him.”

That night, long past midnight, a strange mist fell over the manor hall at Riverside, covering the entire manor grounds in fog four feet deep.  The watchman on duty thought little of it, until he heard the strange noise coming down the road.  It sounded like no animal or man he had ever heard, and as he peered into the darkness, his blood ran cold at the sight that loomed ever closer to his post.

It was shaped like a man, and at first that was his thought, and he readied his horn and his sword.  But it moved unlike any man ever born, though it had two legs, two arms, and a semblance of a head atop its body.  And as it came nearer, the watchman could see that it was easily twice the stature of the tallest of men, a giant . . . made of burlap.

He stifled a scream in his throat, gathered his courage, and blew his horn frantically as the monstrous thing approached the gate.  He stopped only when he heard the sounds of the other manorial staff rousing and arming themselves.  Still the horrific figure came, one relentless, inhuman step at a time.  The guard dropped his horn and hurriedly fitted a bolt to his arbalest, took aim, and fired.  His aim was true, and the bolt sunk deep into the creature’s faceless head . . . and did nothing. 

The guard managed a second shot, moments before the monster reached the gate, and while it was as true as the first, it had the same lack of effect.  At the last second he dove from his perch, narrowly avoiding the first great collision as the figure began to bash the heavy wooden structure into kindling.

From his vantage point, Rondal was pleased with the effect.  He had always been disappointed that one of the areas of magic he was best at, earth magic, was not more useful for warfare.  Apart from throwing rocks really hard, undermining a wall or building one, there wasn’t much use for the discipline.  Rondal had always thought that was a shame, and had resigned himself to throwing rocks . . . when he had had an idea.

Earth elementals were not actually alive, after all, merely the manifestation of natural energies through the template of a complex magical architecture to give it form and purpose.  You could not make one angry.  If deployed at a foe, the most you could hope for was to blind them, or get them very dirty.  The magical architecture was just not cohesive enough to keep the soil in the elemental bound together in a large enough mass to be dangerous.

The burlap sacks, however, kept the dirt they had painstakingly filled them with concentrated, yet loose enough to be pliable.  The pliability allowed the elemental to move, while the structure of the sacks allowed it to have mass and form.  While the sacks spewed dirt from their seams with every movement, gradually reducing the mass and effectiveness of the elemental, it was a slow process.  But not slow enough for the folk of Riverside Manor.

A half dozen had poured out of the manor house armed for a fight with everything from swords to axes.  They balked at the powerful, shadowy, inhuman giant that was suddenly inside their compound, and some took to their heels that instant.  As the braver among them began to fire crossbows and arrows at the construction, as it strode through the gate and began demolishing a shed, Rondal and Zarra snuck in behind it, using the distraction of the fight to avoid notice, along with a charm to help.

They skirted the edge of the fight, sticking to the shadows, until they came to the door of the manor, which had been helpfully left open.  Walking boldly into the great house, Rondal looked around for the staircase that led to the second level. 

“I’ve kept everyone upstairs asleep,” he explained to the dazed-looking woman who followed him.  “But I don’t know how much time it will take for them to slow down my elemental – it should go on mindlessly destroying buildings until they poke enough holes in him for the dirt to leak out and the pattern to dissipate.”

Rondal stopped in the kitchen long enough to grab a broomstick, and then lead Zarra upstairs where the Yeoman and his family slept.  The Cat’s Eye spell kept them from having to use a magelight or a taper, which might have attracted attention from the men outside, and allowed them to creep into the chamber where Ardone and his wife lay in an enchanted slumber.