The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (29 page)

As they approached the site of the ruined bridge where Yeoman Ardone led them, they met a ragged-looking peasant calmly smoking a pipe, wrapped in a threadbare mantle.

“Ho there!” called Yeoman Ardone, “whose man are you?”

“Why, I answer to the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge,” the peasant said, dully. 

“See?” Ardone insisted to the lead knight.  “See, Sir Helapan?  The man has taken over the bridge and built a . . . oh, dear gods!” he moaned, as he turned to face the bridge.

The stone bridge spanned the entire river, its roadbed complete, covered with tar and river stones against the weather.  But the bridge was not the remarkable thing to the yeoman.  The sight that caused his blood to run cold in his veins was what lay beyond the bridge.

Just to the right of the new-made bridge was a five-story tower of black stone, seeming of great age . . . though he swore it had not been there but two days before.  The spire was thirty feet in diameter and its peak stretched into a wicked-looking angle topped with a light that glowed red with malevolent power.  A high stone wall contained its base, and the shadows of sentries appeared with foreboding regularity.  No man in his right mind would assault the bridge casually, with that fell fortress standing within bowshot.  The baleful sight was so disturbing that the men-at-arms tried not to look at it, their imaginations filled with dread over what horrors might lie within.

“Why did you not say that the man was
fortifying the frontier?
” demanded Sir Helapan.  “Surely you could not have mistaken a bridge for a tower!  I dare think that that was
far
more important intelligence than the restoration of the bridge!”

“I saw only the bridge!” insisted Ardone.  “There was no tower!  I swear it!”

“There is a tower
now,
” the knight said, evenly, “and unless it sprouted up overnight like a mushroom, Ardone, he has been building it for
months
without you realizing it!”

“But . . . but the bridge . . . it was . . . invisible!”

“It seems quite visible to me,” the knight said, irritated.  “As is that damned tower.  The Lord of Sashtalia is going to be vexed at this, Ardone . . . and at the man who allowed it to happen!”

“But . . . but what of the hamsoken?  The bastard beat me in my own home!  In my own bed!  Lying beside my wife, who awoke not at all!  The insult!  And then ruined my manor—”

“As far as the hamsoken goes,” the knight said, coolly, “it seems as if you deserve no less for this astounding error – had you sent word to the castle in a timely fashion, we could have kept this from happening.  Instead you acted as ignorantly as a villein.  And as far as your ruined manor . . . I remind you that it is not yours, Ardone, it is your lord’s.  You are his servant.  And after this . . . I doubt you’ll be enjoying ‘your’ manor again, ruined or not.”

“But—!” the yeoman began to protest.

“Enough!”  snarled the knight.  “Let us at least go tell our master of this sudden change in the defense of his domain together . . . to see what he has to say about men who are blind to what is plain before everyone else’s eyes!”

“But . . . “ the yeoman continued to plead as his lord signaled his men to withdraw.  The peasant who stood in witness of the debate hardly smiled as his betters rode off southward.  Not until they had ridden over the hill did his face split into a grin.

“Why, it worked, Master Rondal!” guffawed Joppo. 

“I thought it might,” Rondal said, appearing from behind a stand of chestnut trees nearby the road.  “It took me all night speaking to my colleagues by magic, but I eventually found the right spell.”  Rondal had hidden in case the knights had turned violent.  He had wanted to be close if Joppo got into trouble.  Baston was across the bridge, ready to cover his escape, but only as a contingency.

“It surely looks evil enough,” the peasant agreed as they began walking back to the bridge.  The massive tower loomed overhead, the steely eyes of the sentries peering over suspiciously, their crossbows at the ready.  There were a few lumps the size of heads hanging from spikes over the portcullis gate, and a foreboding-looking knight in full armor paced, visor lowered, back and forth across the fourth-floor battlement.  He seemed to watch every move that the two made as they came to the bridge.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d shyte myself to tears by now, I would!” Joppo said, earnestly.

“That’s the intended effect, yes,” Rondal agreed as he crossed the threshold of the bridge.  When the two men reached the other side . . . the tower was gone.  In its place was the foundation for the new inn the mage felt should be built there.  With his assistance, and the help of some earth magic, a suitable foundation pit had been easily dug this morning, and already Baston was erecting some magekilned upright posts into the holes left for that reason.  “As far as anyone on the other side of the bridge is concerned, there is a big, mean, ugly, nasty tower just ready to rain down death on anyone who dares trespass over the bridge.  Not until they cross over completely will they see the Birchroot Inn, in its place.”

“That were clever,” agreed Joppo.  Baston waved, his tunic stripped off in the heat of the day.  Rondal waved back, just as a party of horsemen came into view from the other direction.

“Who are they?” asked the drover.

“Lord Areas and his company,” explained Rondal with a contented sigh.  “I had the foresight to summon them last night – that’s where Baston went so late.”

“I see,” the peasant said sagely, even though he didn’t.

“Let’s go meet the good Lord,” Rondal said, straightening his mantle.  By the time the three men came within sight of the bridge, the wonder was apparent on their faces.  The older man in the center, who Rondal presumed was Lord Areas, had a grin on his face as wide as Joppo’s had been.

“My lord,” Rondal said with a deep bow, as the men drew near, “with the complements of Sire Minalan the Spellmonger of Sevendor, and in accordance to the agreement made between your liege and mine at the Chepstan Fair, I have the pleasure to present to you . . . Birchroot Bridge, restored.”

“So I see!” roared the lord, delighted.  “I came thinking merely to see your start on the work, and I arrive to find it finished?  That is magic indeed!”

“Thank you, Sire,” Rondal said, gratefully.  “I am Sir Rondal of Sevendor, Mage Knight in service to the Magelord.  I’d like to show you a few special features of this structure, in person, if I may . . .”

For the next hour Rondal showed the amazing bridge to the Lord of Birchroot.  The old man was astonished enough at how cunningly the stones of the bridge were fused together, but when Rondal showed that the bridge’s roadbed was enchanted against rot, pest, fire, neglect and age the old knight was thrilled.  It was when Rondal demonstrated the complex illusion that Lord Areas truly appreciated the sorcery.

“From the other side of the frontier your bridge seems protected by this dark tower,” he explained, “and every man who sees it will see something slightly different.  The spell merely puts the suggestion in mind, not the details.  So one man will see a dozen archers, another will see a few pikemen, still others will see horrific creatures ready to tear them to bits.  Whatever a man fears will be within those imaginary walls.

“Only when he has paid his toll and crossed will he come to here, in Birchroot,” he continued, stopping on the bridge.  “And to keep the thing defensible,” he added, pulling a short hafted lever, which caused the last four feet of roadbed that connected to Sashtalia to rise and block off the way, “I added this little drawbridge.  Controlled from this side.  So your man has control.  The illusion I squeezed into a melted bottle of peppercorns, as I had no real thaumaturgic glass.  But with the piece of snowstone and the power of the enchantment . . . I’d say that the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge will stand guard on your borders for at least five years, my lord.”

“That is ingenious!” laughed the man.  “Not only have I a way to Jerune, now, but I can deny my rivals in Kesteldor, Lord Forgos, the same to my villages!  Whatever bargain was reached between your master and mine, Sendaria seems to have the best of it!”

“Good relations are all the Spellmonger desires,” assured the young knight mage.  “But I do beg a boon from my lord, if he see fit to grant it to one who has worked so diligently on his behalf.”

“Aye, and the boon would be?” asked the lord, warily. 

“I merely wish to have this man and his wife be given the post of tollman for the bridge, and ask that you give him leave to build an inn on this site.  He is an honest man, and well versed in hospitality.”

“Someone must collect the toll,” reasoned the old knight.  “I care not who.  I ask for one penny in three as my tribute, with one being devoted to the upkeep of the bridge, the other to the maintenance of the bridgekeeper.”  That was a fairly standard division of revenues for such a post . . . but Rondal refrained from pointing out that his bridge would need no maintenance, not for centuries.  Baston could keep two out of three pennies he took in toll, making the bridgekeeper of Birchroot Bridge a worthy post.

Rondal vowed to stop by the manor and prepare the parchment for the appointment, but did not mention it to his friends until the lord had mounted and left with his gentlemen.

“So now you are free,” he pronounced, after he told them of his deal with Lord Areas.  “When I am done, you shall be Baston the Bold, Bridgekeeper of Birchroot . . . as far as anyone on this side of the bridge is concerned.  As far as Sashtalia goes, you shall always be the Hooded Warrior of the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” the minstral-cum-bandit-cum-inkeeper said, as he realized the implications.  By holding a post for the lord of the domain, he was under that lord’s protection – as was his wife and children.  Even if Zarra’s former master did find her before her term expired, he could not merely abduct her without Lord Areas intervening to protect his man.  Zarra was, for all intents and purposes, free . . . as was Bastine.

Rondal and Joppo spent one last night at Birchroot, as a grateful Zarra had insisted on cooking a proper meal for them.  With some of the money from their hamsoken raid she purchased a piglet and some good brown bread and proceeded to cook the first meal on the hearth of the Birchroot Inn.

“You know, as shy as you are, you would have made a decent minstrel,” Baston commented, after they had demolished the piglet and the vegetables Zarra had gathered.  “Your voice isn’t bad, you just have to work on your stage presence.”

“I’d be as suited for banditry as I would be for performance,” the knight mage said, making a sour face.  “Books are my ally, my friend, not a sword.  Or a stage.”

“But you performed as the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge so admirably!” assured the bandit.  “Really, I believed every word.”

“Well . . . that’s because I wasn’t lying.  Not exactly.  I am the wizard of Birchroot Bridge, at least the wizard that built it.  I feel a bit attached to the thing, now, and I’d be upset if someone came along and messed it up.”

“That’s my sweat on those rocks as well,” reminded Baston.  “And to us, you’ll always be the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge.  Only . . . what should I do if someone comes seeking him?”

“Just tell them he’s away on business,” Rondal decided.  “But that he will check back periodically to ensure his friends are doing well.”  He belched pleasantly, the taste of the pork haunting his palate.  “Besides, it’s never a bad idea to know ahead of time that your innkeeper used to be a bandit.  That way you don’t feel as bad about his rates.”

“Ah!  I haven’t even gotten the roof on, and already folk are complaining about the rates,” grumbled Baston, good-naturedly.  “Besides, I’d better be a bandit, to get some of the tight-fisted villagers around here to part with a penny without a sword at their throats.”

“Oh, I think you can count on a lot more trade in the future,” counseled the wizard.  “Now that there is a magelord in Sevendor, this bridge is going to see a lot of use.  Especially if Sire Gimbal continues his aggression against us.
”

“You think?” Baston asked, curious.

“In fact, don’t be surprised if you see me this time next year, building another bridge somewhere else, or a wall, or a well, or . . . or whatever folks need.  Magic in service of the people,” he said, proudly.  “This is what the Magelord meant, I believe,” he said contentedly as he watched Bastine playing in the dirt of the inn’s future floor.  “This is exactly what he meant.  More bread, please?”

“The Secret Of Westwood Hall”

A Spellmonger Short Story

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © Terry Mancour 2013

I had lived in Sevendor for over a year, now, and while I had visited every other Yeomanry in my domain, I had yet to visit Westwood Hall, which is one of the closest manors to the castle.  It wasn’t a purposeful slight – I had been busy.  But now that the battle was over, the dragon slain, the harvest well in and the winter stocks filled, I had a need to.  It was time to collect my new apprentice, and Westwood Hall was her home.  I felt obligated to go escort her personally, meet her kin, and do my best to ease her into life at Sevendor Castle.  She was just thirteen, after all.

Dara had returned in triumph to Sevendor after the Battle of Dragonfall, laden with honors and riches.  I mean that last literally, as the wealthy folk of Gilmora had gone out of their way to laud the girl they called the Hawkmaiden, and a lot of that laud was in the form of the heavy gold chains the Gilmoran ladies found in style at the time.  Since the danger of dragons and the depredations of the gurvani invasion of that fertile land had driven the traditionally gracious folk of Gilmora to crisis, Dara had found herself gifted with no less than seventy gold chains, many heavy with semi-precious stones.  I had seen her try to wear them all at one time, and the poor girl nearly broke her neck.

That was in addition to the small chest of silver and gold the city of Barrowbell had given her.  Considering that her people were poor woodsmen, that made her the third or fourth wealthiest person in Sevendor, and easily the wealthiest among her kin.

Not that the Westwoodmen had much use for gold, save to pay their taxes and buy the few things they couldn’t make themselves.  They were the most self-sufficient of my manors, sending only a few folk to market every week with furs, nuts, berries, mushrooms, and hides.  They brought back flour, rye, barley, and oats, and maybe some wool or cloth.  But for the most part the Westwoodmen lived an insular life deep in their forest home.

Dara could not remain in Westwood Hall and be my apprentice, however.  I needed to be able to teach her, help her cultivate her maturing Talent and instruct her in how to channel the powerful forces she now controlled.  That meant daily exercises, for a while, and specific disciplines.  That meant she would have to leave her home and move to mine.

My wife insisted on accompanying me, on the pretext that Dara’s service to the realm, and the valiant fighting of the Westwoodmen, deserved the honor and attention of the Lady of Sevendor.  In truth I think she just wanted to get out of the castle and away from our greedy baby.  We made a room ready in one of the turrets in the keep for her, and then sent word that we would arrive the following day. 

I took only a small party to help, just Alya, Master Olmeg and an associate Green Mage, Master Minnik, who wanted to discuss the proposed new forest land to be cultivated on the edge of the Westwood, in the magical soil within the snowstone circle.  I included a couple of lads from around the castle as porters, but the trip was only an hour by foot . . . and you couldn’t reach Westwood Hall any other way.

Westwood Hall was built on an east-facing rocky spur of a wooded mountain on a fifty-care cleared site in the midst of the forest.  It is technically a manor house, but in this case that just meant it was big. 

The main structure had begun as a single story long-house, perhaps forty feet long and fifteen across, made of stone – now a brilliant-hued white.  From there various additions and appendages had been added over the years: a timber-framed second story, a stone round-house thirty feet wide, attached by a wooden walkway on the north, three bays protruding behind it, all at different lengths and designed for different functions, lean-to sheds and odd additional rooms of timber or stone, and of course the five-story high watchtower that looked out over the forests to look for smoke. 

It lacked a real wall or any hedge because fifty feet in front of it the rock split into a seventy-foot crevasse that was nearly impossible to pass – and then an even more impossible-climb on the other side.  

The only way to reach it from the rest of Sevendor (apart from using magic) is to travel along the exceedingly narrow wooden span that bridges Westwood to the rest of the Vale.  The forest-side of the compound is un-hedged and un-diked as well, I learned, as the possibility of an enemy getting behind them in this country in any force was negligible.

Nevertheless, the watchtower was manned, day and night, a constant vigil over the forest.

The Westwoodmen tilled about twenty acres but grew little grain, apart for some barley.  Instead they hunted, ran the valley’s tannery, collected nuts, berries, and mushrooms, and oversaw the (until I showed up) limited lumbering operations of the Westwood.

The Westwoodmen were a breed apart from the other Sevendori.  While they did occasionally take wives from the rest of the vale, mostly the twelve families in the hall intermarried, or married the secluded folk even deeper in the ridges, making everyone uncomfortably related to everyone else.

They were darker complected, and all had black hair, save for a genetic streak of green-eyed redheads that sprang up a couple of times a generation.  They were shorter, but well-proportioned and well-muscled.  Indeed, some of the oldlings looked like great knotty roots, growing near the fire.

Nearly everyone wore homespun wool dyed a dark green, the women wearing floor-length gowns of it over muslin under dress, while the men wore thick woolen vests, strapped with leather and iron buckles.  All wore thick, sturdy boots of their own manufacture.  And most wore leather or buckskin hooded mantles, also dyed green.

There were no villeins among the Westwoodmen, all were free – although all were subject to the iron rule of the Woodmaster of Westwood Hall. 

The life of the Westwoodmen was at once both harder and easier than that of their Sevendori neighbors.  They ate meat regularly, for instance, whereas meat was considered only a festival treat for most of my villeins.  They also brewed mead from wild honey they discovered in the forests.

We were allowed across the bridge one at a time – because honestly there’s not enough room for two.  It’s sturdy enough, but narrow, and without a rail or ledge.  The first ten feet of it is stone, and after that it’s rough-cut wood held together with rope.  On the other side were two walls that acted essentially like crenellations.  A couple of boys with bows or arbalests could stand there and make crossing the span deadly.  And the last ten feet of it were designed to be able to collapse, to make an assault even harder. 

We were welcomed on the other side by Kyre, Woodmaster Kaman’s eldest son and heir.  He was a sharp-eyed lad not much older than Tyndal and Rondal, but he commanded the men of the Westwood as if he were a leader thrice his age.  He did so not out of position or nepotism, but because he was utterly confident in what he said, and everyone who heard him listened.

“Welcome to Westwood Hall,” Kyre said, chuckling at the terrified glances Alya was giving the last few steps of the bridge.  “Careful with that step, milady, it’s a long one.  Magelord, Lady, honored Masters . . . I take it you’ve come for my sister.”

“Indeed we have,” I agreed, “if she’s ready to depart.”

“She’s been packing for days.  If she’s not ready yet, she’ll never be.  Follow me, and I will present you to the Woodmaster.”

He led us across the neatly-appointed snowy compound, where skins and hides were hung in various stages of cure, and into the main hall, where a number of Westwoodmen were seeking the warmth of the fire.  A number of them I recognized from our service in Gilmora, and a few still bore bandages or other reminders of the battle.  They all hailed us loudly and informally with a kind of half-grunt, half-wolf howl that was distinctly Westwood.

The room was dark, of course, there being but one small square window to let in the light and let out the heat.  I put a small magelight in the air overhead, just enough light for everyone to see, but not so much to make everybody blink.   “That’s better,” I said, surveying the room – and some of my subjects – for the first time.

They were a hairy bunch.  While the average Sevendori peasant usually hacks off his own hair or pays  a barber to do so, both the women and men of Westwoodmen preferred long hair , and  wore it loose, tied back, or braided.  The men had uniformly dark beards, save where it was touched with gray, and their arms looked as shaggy as the beasts they hunted.  The had either broad, friendly faces with wide shaggy beards, or thin, hawk-like faces with long noses and sharp chins, with just enough beard to dignify the name.

The women were strong and rangy, with hauntingly winsome features or the same broad faces as their men.  None of them were portly – they worked too hard, and had bread too infrequently. 

Master
Kaman was seated in a large, throne-like chair near the fire, his sword arm bandaged and in a sling, still wounded from the battle of Cambrian Castle.    His face was quick with a smile and a laugh, and he favored me with one of each as he greeted me to his fire.

“Magelord!  Welcome to the Westwood Hall!  Come in, come in, the fire won’t mind at all!”

The fire, I discovered, was a central feature of the Westwood culture, even more so than for most folk.  They were almost fanatical about it, treating it almost as a member of the family, as if it were eavesdropping on them. 

The fireplace was not at one end of the Hall, as was true with most manors, or even placed against a rear wall.  The fire was built in the center of the room on a three-foot tall stone platform – all white, now, save where the fire had scorched it.  The chimney was likewise of stone, supported by three great long slabs of basalt protruding from the base in an equilateral triangle, then narrowing into a chimney about three feet wide above. 

The fire was massive, the central feature of the hall, large enough to place a six-foot long log upon.  There was enough space around its periphery for twenty adults to stand comfortably, shoulder-to-shoulder.  

I later learned that their custom demanded all weddings, funerals, naming ceremonies, and oaths be made before the roaring flames, or they were not truly considered valid.  I also learned that, since the Night of Eversnow, or whatever people would eventually start calling my son’s birthday, the Westwoodmen had seen their fireplace turning white as some sort of divine signal.

I was ushered into a chair next to Kaman’s, and it occurred to me that a round fireplace meant there was never one spot that was more favored than another.  It was an actual chair, too, unlike the benches and stools everyone else had.  No silly canopies, but I noted a strong wolf motif in the ornamentation: the legs of the chairs were shaped like canine feet, the arms carved to look like realistic paws.  Two wolf heads were carved into the back posts – neither snarling nor smiling, they peered ahead into the fire with unwavering clarity.

Of course, there were three or four actual dogs near to the fire, as well, big black shaggy brutes who resembled canine versions of their masters, and while they seemed accorded far more respect that the curs around the castle, that didn’t stop
Kaman from shoving a large one away from his chair with his boot. When he sat back down

“A drink!  A drink for the Magelord and his lady!” he called.  “And such a beautiful lady, as well!  Prettier than my late Gessi, the fire remember her eyes, and as strong as iron!” he declared.  Alya blushed politely at the compliment.

“The truth in front of the fire, Magelord, but when you were absent and that louse Gimbal struck at Sevendor, your Lady was as stern as any queen of legend, ordering troops and seeing to our defense.  I wish you could have seen her, standing on the battlements of the Diketower, calmly telling your men to slay everyone who crossed the forest line . . . most maids would blanche at such work, but she led us like a seasoned general!”

“I had the brave folk of the vales to protect me,” she demurred.  “It is easy to give the orders.”

“It’s not easy to give the right orders,” Kaman said, shaking his head.  “I’m no man of war,” he declared – despite having just returned from one where he had been among the greatest of my men, “but plenty of idiots would have found a way for us to be defeated.  Not Lady Alya: when Gimbal called upon Sevendor to surrender, she  told him she’d do so when he was standing over her bloody body in Castle Sevendor, and not before!”

I had heard about that – it seems like I missed a lot, when I was off watching Duke Rard II become King Rard I.  My belligerent neighbor, Sire Gimbal, had used the opportunity of my absence (and the absence of almost all the High Magi from the vale) to try to conquer my domain.  While he had hundreds of men and the help of the sinister Censorate of Magic, my stout Bovali and Sevendori managed to sustain an admirable defense without me.

I had known Alya and Cei had run the defense – I had not heard much of the details.  I had been too busy afterwards taking over Sire Gimbal’s domains with a mercenary army, because it seemed silly not to let his unguarded castles just go  vacant like that.  And after that we had been deployed to Glimora, so there was plenty I was still catching up on.

“It is true, Magelord,” Kaman’s son Kyre said, from the stool next to his father.  “I was running a message from Caolan’s Pass when Gimbal’s herald came to treat with her – soft as silk and as hard as iron, she was, my lord.  Sir Bromul offered her safe passage away, and she declined.