The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (8 page)

Even with magesight the footing could be treacherous, and try as he might the sound of their footsteps seemed to echo like thunder.  Yet no one challenged them.  Closer and closer they came, skirting the south side of the road, moving from building to tree to rock, ever watchful for the Censor.  By the time Tyndal and Ansily made it to the top stone step of the quay, the apprentice felt jubilant.  He spied the two crates they had hidden behind just a few days before, and motioned toward them.  Ansily nodded, and they padded as quietly as they could down to the dock, the mist so thick they could barely see even the outline of the crates.

“We can catch our breath and start looking for a boat from here,” Tyndal whispered, as they crammed themselves between the boxes.  He began peering from between the cracks to see which fisherman or bargeman had left a boat tied, rather than carried to the docks.  He suddenly felt very soft hands on his face.

“Tyndal,” Ansily said, in the quietest of whispers, “you
saved my life!
”

“You tried to save min—” he began, when his lips became involved in other pursuits.  Why did women think about things like this when they could be dead at any second? he asked himself, vainly, as he felt his mouth respond to her ardent, desperate kiss.  Her hands seemed to roam all over him, which made keeping a good lookout difficult . . . much less anything else requiring the slightest concentration.

“Ansily . . .”

“I
want
to, Tyndal!” she mewed insistently in his ear.

“Ansily, we’ve got to get out of here, Lespin—”

“Is right here,” boomed the Censor’s voice.  Tyndal froze.  Ansily yelped.  Tyndal sprang from the makeshift alcove, his mageblade in both hands, throwing the girl protectively behind him.  Yet he didn’t see anyone.  Even with magesight, there was no one in sight.

Until there was.  The sinister checkered cloak seemed to slide out of the fog where it clearly hadn’t been, and the smaller of the two Censors appeared, one hand clutching a pendant around his neck, the other holding a warwand.

“Shadowmagic,” he explained, and Tyndal’s heart fell.  “I trained for six months with the Censor’s shadowmagic Master before I was chosen for this post.  Using the river mist to encloud my scrying was clever, lad, but that just suggested where your thoughts were lying.  You couldn’t escape overland quickly enough, even with a horse – one who wasn’t going to throw a shoe, that is.  That left the river.  I knew that if Wantran did not capture you, then you would make your way here . . . just as you did.”

Tyndal aimed his mageblade squarely at the Censor’s heart.  “I’ve dealt with your partner, Lespin.  Don’t make me kill you, too.”

Lespin laughed mockingly through his teeth.  “Old Wantran has seen more wiley witches than you, lad, and lived to tell about it.  And I can see that toy you hold is barely more than simple steel – I won’t even dignify it by answering it with my own.  Lay it down, step away from it, and submit.  For if I have to take you by force, I won’t be gentle about it.  Our orders are to take you alive.  They do not specify that you should be . . . intact.”

The threat was chilling, no less for the matter-of-fact nature of its delivery.  Tyndal didn’t waver.  “If you are so certain that you can take me, then I suppose we’ll just have to see.  You’re a warmage . . . I have irionite,” he said, causing a flare of sparks to sputter from his blade to emphasize the point.  “It took more than one warmage to defeat the Mad Mage of Farise,” he reminded the Censor.

“And he was an adept, not an untrained mageling,” Lespin said, just as matter-of-factly – but the mention of irionite had made him wary.  Tyndal cursed himself mentally for mentioning it.  Rarely was telling your foe about your biggest advantage a factor in heroic epics.  That was the sort of thing the villain did.  “Lay down the blade.  This is your last warning,” he said, moving toward the end of the dock, his wand soon joined by a second.

Tyndal swallowed, stepped sideways two steps to move away from Ansily, and nervously began to draw power from his stone.  He didn’t rightly know what he planned to do with it, but having the power there at his call was really the only leverage he had in this duel.

“Just leave the girl alone,” he said, hoarsely.  “She blundered into this by accident, and she doesn’t know anything.”

“She’s neither of our concern – unless you make her so,” Lespin said.  “Tell me, why do it this way, when you could have avoided all of the pain and agony you’ll face now?  For I won’t kill you, lad.  You’ll go back to Wenshar in chains, tied like cargo.  And there you will have the misfortune to face the ire of Censor General Hartarian . . . and you will learn the meaning of suffering.”

“Because I didn’t stand on a wall and look down at thousands of goblins and piss myself, I’m not going to do it for one lousy little Censor,” he said, boldly.

Unexpectedly, the man chuckled.  “So the tale of invasion is true?”

“I was there.  It was my home,” he said, defiantly.  “Now it’s overrun, as is everything in the Wilderlands.  All the way to Tudry,” he said, miserably.  “Even now my master fights them while you fight him!”

“Then you will be fortunate enough to avoid that fight,” Lespin said.  “Goblins are not the Censorate’s concern.  Renegade magi are.  Ready, b—ahh
hhh!
” Lespin’s sentence died in his throat as his eyes opened wide in surprise . . . moments before he was blown unexpectedly off the dock, dozens of feet into the air, and splashed far downstream into the river.

“Tyndal?” squeaked Ansily.

“I didn’t do that!” he insisted, looking around wide-eyed for the source of the attack.  It didn’t take long. Just as the Censor had emerged from the shadows, a magelight suddenly appeared over the river, twenty paces from the dock. 

Under the pale glow of the arcane illumination Tyndal could barely make out two figures in the thick river mist; but where he expected to hear the slap of water against the boat they would have had to be standing on, there was nothing . . . and as the glow came closer and the figures more distinct, the apprentice could tell that there was, indeed, no boat.

“I hope you weren’t looking forward to handling him yourself, Tyndal,” the warm, yet stern voice of Lady Pentandra said.  “We don’t have time for a glorious duel.”

“L-lady Pentandra?” he asked, mystified, as the famous thaumaturge – and beloved colleague of his Master – stepped lightly and gracefully onto the dock, her slippers not even wet.  A thick woolen cloak of pale blue surrounded her, making her seem semi-divine in the glow of her light . . . and a slender wand was in her own hand. 

Next to her was the shorter, clumsier form of his fellow-apprentice, Rondal – a left-over Master Minalan had inherited from an errant competitor, back in Boval.  Rondal had been tasked to stay with the rest of the refugees, just as Tyndal had been tasked with protecting Alya, so his presence meant something important was afoot. 

“I told you I was on the way,” she said, a little irritated.  “My barge is still a mile downriver, but when I felt someone clearly using a lot of magic all at once, I felt compelled to hurry.  I built a . . . bubble chariot,” she explained,  clearly simplifying a complicated spell into an inadequate description.  “We were able to glide along much faster that way.  And it looks as if I made it in the nick of time . . . although I’m
sure
you could have handled it,” she added, when she saw Ansily’s frightened form behind Tyndal.  “And who is
this?
” she asked, curiously.

“Ansily of Roxly,” Tyndal explained, pausing only to sheath his mageblade.  “She’s an innkeeper who . . . she’s been helping me protect Alya.  She’s safe,” he added, hurriedly.

“Ah.  Yes.  I see,” Pentandra said, a twinkle in her eye.  “Well, she will have to stay with Minalan’s family awhile longer without you, I’m afraid.  Things in the Wilderlands are moving, and your Master has called all his allies to him, you included.  Your Duchy needs you, Tyndal of Boval,” she said, formally.

Tyndal blushed, and was thankful it was dark and misty, and he could hear Ansily gasp behind him.  He took her hand and squeezed it. 

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he said, reluctantly.  “Please tell Alya, and Master Rinden and Mistress Sarali and the bakers, will you?  And then get back to Roxly where it’s safe for you.”

“You have to . . . to
go?
  But you
saved my life!
” she said, staring at him intently.

“He has other lives to save,” Pentandra insisted.  A bell rang downriver as her barge finally rounded the bend.  “And we cannot tarry.  That Censor will wash ashore eventually, and we need to be leagues away when he does.”  Rondal looked disgusted as Ansily nearly crushed him with the force of her embrace.

“I’ll come back,” he promised, lamely, after she kissed him.  “I’m sure it won’t be long . . .”

There were a few tears and a lot more kisses before the barge thudded against the wadded rag ball that protected the hull from the stone quay.  “Now, Tyndal!” Pentandra insisted, as Rondal stepped into the barge.  One last kiss, one last tear, and one last squeeze of Ansily’s hand, and before he knew it the dock and the tiny village of Talry disappeared into the fog behind them.

“You did well there,” Pentandra soothed him when he let out one last ragged sigh.  “Truthfully, you held off two trained Censors.  And protected that . . . protected your master’s bride,” she said, softly.  “That was nobly done.”

“It was desperation,” Rondal said, sourly.  “Did you see how much he was shaking when we showed up?”

“That was valor,” corrected Lady Pentandra with a tight smile.  “And the chill of the mist.”  Tyndal looked at the master mage gratefully.  “In fact, let’s get you below to my cabin and find something a little warmer for you to wrap up in.  I daresay you left your mantle and cloak back at the bakery?”

He nodded, then dutifully followed her down the steps to the tiny cabin, after listening to her instruct Rondal in keeping the water elemental that was speeding the barge upriver operating properly.  Finally, she cast a magelight and lit up the curtained alcove that concealed the lady’s quarters.

“Go ahead and get out of those clothes, they’re filthy,” she said as she began looking through her baggage.  “I had a few things made for Rondal, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing . . .”  Tyndal blushed, but peeled his sweat-soaked tunic off his body.  He was reluctant to part with his breaches at the moment, and it took Pentandra only a moment to realize why.

“Oh, blessed Trygg’s bounty, you were . . . she was . . . oh, dear,” she said, shaking her head.  “You saved her life, and she was going to give you a hero’s reward . . . until I came along.”

“I’m not complaining, milady,” Tyndal said, hurriedly.  “I was just—”

“Shhhh!” the beautiful mage said, shaking her head and smiling.  “Sometimes the gods are cruel to us, Tyndal, putting what we desire so close to us as to appear in reach . . . only to have it torn away again.  That’s especially true for we magi, when so much has fallen so suddenly on our shoulders.  Sometimes the gods are cruel to us . . .” she said, waving her hand to cast a spell, “and then sometimes they can be just as kind.” 

She removed the light blue mantle from her shoulders, allowing it to fall to her tidily-made bed.  Her gown, a traveling garment made of finer cloth than he’d ever seen, was held in place by three buttons, which she quickly unfastened.  “You’re going to war, whether you know it or not, lad.  You may not return to fulfill your promise to that girl, no matter what gods you swore to do so by.  Sometimes,” she continued, stepping naked out of her dress, “the gods can give consolation . . . and if they can’t or won’t, then a mage has to step in to fill the need.”

Tyndal’s head spun as the warm, soft flesh of the older woman pressed against his bare chest.  She smelled so different than Ansily, more floral, less . . . innocent.  “I cast a spell of silence,” she whispered into his ear unnecessarily.  “Until it’s dispelled, you can make as much noise as you want, and no one will be the wiser.”

Tyndal relented, despite himself.  Pentandra was not the prize he had fought for . . . but she was a kingly consolation for his efforts.  She was mature and skillful, wise and beautiful, enchantingly adept and winsomely compelling.  His youth, his desire, his fervent need swept away the guilt he felt for letting his body take him to where his heart had not led him . . . but his body didn’t seem to care.

And when he finally arose to the dawn and stumbled out on the deck bare-chested to witness a sunset over a strange and new shore, no one
was
the wiser . . . save Tyndal.

“Victory Soup”

A Spellmonger Short Story

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © Terry Mancour 2013

Early Autumn, the Alshari Wilderlands

“. . . when the clash of two strongly opposing forces happens in such a short period,” Rogo Redshaft lectured me as we rode eastward, “the results can be
catastrophic.
  Especially in the early period.  That’s when your basic assumptions get challenged, and everything you
thought
you knew is suddenly
wrong
.”  He spoke in a low, deep, calm voice with just a trace of Wilderland lilt, but his words were coins for my eager hands. 

“It can be hard on a man, to face a situation that seems hopeless at the outset,” he continued, steadily.  “But your die was cast, and you have little choice but accept the situation as it
is
, and not as you
wish
it would be.  You must act, though every part of you wants to freeze up or flee.  What you do at the beginning is
critical
.”  He barely emphasized the word, but that just seemed to lend additional gravity to his advice. 

I reflected on his words of wisdom in this most important of endeavors as the horses walked leisurely along the road through the hilly woodlands on either side of us.  We had stopped passing cultivated fields yesterday, and were now in the forests that ranged the northern frontier between Castal and Alshar.  Redshaft’s home was near here, a few dozen leagues east.  I, myself, had a date at Wilderhall, before catching a barge and proceeding south to more important business.

But the important thing was that we were riding
away
from war and battle, away from the thousands of goblins who had inconveniently invaded the northwestern human lands.  We had fought hard, fought all summer long, and now with the chill of autumn in the air, our purses rich with spoil and wages and reward, warrants of leave in our hands and our honor straining from the weight of our glory . . . and we couldn’t get away from that wretched battlefield fast enough.  I had chosen to ride away, with my two apprentices, from the Battle of Timberwatch and its aftermath in the company of a group of auxiliaries who had served under me there, the Nirodi Free Mounted Archers. 

Their captain, Rogo Redshaft, was a learned man, an able commander, a veteran of many battles and had decades of experience.  He was universally respected among his comrades, hardened mercenaries all, even though he was common-born and a bowman, at that.  The Nirodi were famous for their puissance, however, and Redshaft epitomized the professionalism of his men.  They had performed heroically for weeks under his calm, deliberate command. 

It hadn’t been easy, being his commander.  I had always felt as if I was ordering my father about even as I had given him orders during battle.  Yet he had executed my orders as well as any commander could expect – and far better than a mediocre general like myself deserved.  The ghosts of the men who had died at my command were beginning to haunt me.

But I had a hard time feeling somber that beautiful day, for which I suppose I should feel at least a little guilty.  I’ll have to crave the gods’ pardon for that, however: after weeks of blood and death and battle, I was
finally
at leave to pursue the truly weighty matters that encumbered my mind.  Thoughts of politics and panoplies of war, of retribution and revolution, of magic and manipulation faded from importance to me with every hoof beat.  I had the ear of one of the wisest men I knew for days to come, as we returned to Castal, and I wanted every scrap of advice I could on the subject he knew
best.

“So there’s no room for error, in those first moments,” I repeated, like a good student.  “But that would seem the best time to me for some element of conciliation, some willingness to—”

Rogo chuckled wryly.  “One would
think
, wouldn’t you?  But from the moment the contest is engaged, it’s a test of wills.  One you must not lose, or all else is lost before it begins.  Nothing is what it seems.  You have little idea how important the smallest of your decisions could become.  It’s a struggle, a constant challenge to your sanity and your heart.  But one that you can not lose, else . . . well, the result can prove . . .
catastrophic
.”  His tone was even more dire than usual.  That was pretty dire.

“So how might best I prepare—?” I swallowed hard. 
This
is what I’d been asking for.  The benefit of his wisdom.  There had to be some key, some secret . . .

“
Prepare?
  There is little that can prepare you for
that
, my boy,” he said, with sad humor.  “You cannot prepare for that day.  You must just face it, and do not yield against it. 
That’s
when you discover what kind of man you are.  You can daydream about what you will do  beforehand  all you wish, but when that day comes . . .
no
amount of preparation can get you ready for that conflict.   Every situation is different.  But there is only one rock you may cling to, one thought that must sustain you, or any of us:
you are
committed
.”

“Committed,” I repeated, my mouth dry. 

I heard a snort behind me, as my apprentice, Tyndal, rode up from the rear of the column to join us.  He was five inches taller than he had been a year ago, and rode his palfrey like a warrior now, not a stable boy. 

“Huin’s sack!  You make marriage sound so
appealing
, Captain Rogo.  If that’s is a man’s future after being wed, it’s a wonder anyone ever
gets
married!” 

“Oh, it’s for the bravest alone, and not just any summer soldier,” the Nirodi captain chuckled.  “I’ve been with my wife for twenty years and
four
.”  Rogo sat up in his saddle and again looked back to make sure that the rest of his men were riding peacefully in formation.   “And there isn’t a day I don’t see her face that I don’t regret.”  I could see it in his eyes, the longing, the hunger to see his wife and children again.  It had been months.

He and two dozen of his men had taken their leave of army life as quickly as possible after the battle, as a vanguard for their fellows, headed for the green lands of the Castali Wilderlands.  They would bear the tale of the glory of battle, list and mourn the dead, and prepare the town for the rest of the company.  Most of the Free Mounted Archers were policing the battlefield or helping range the northern wastes, still, but would be following soon enough as reinforcements replaced them for the long winter garrison duty.

Nirod was a free commune, without a lord, but Rogo commanded a lot of respect there thanks to his position as Captain of Archers.  There was much to prepare before the rest of his men returned.  Solace for the wounded and the weary.  Widows to console and dead to bury.  Estates to be divided and loot to be shared.  A smart commander made certain that those details were attended to with as much attention as his preparation for a campaign – and Rogo Redshaft was among the smartest commanders I knew.

“Happily?” Tyndal asked, an eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Oh, a good nineteen of ‘em,” Rogo admitted with a twinkle in his eye.  “But that’s the point: it took us a bit longer to smooth out the shaft, as you’d say, but the wood was solid.  The first five were . . . painful.  It was just because I was a damn fool who thought I knew better, and she was a maid with a head full of fluffy fantasies about the subject instead of proper sense.  We flew true, in the end, but it could have gone smoother if I’d been less twitterpated and stood my ground.  Instead, she stopped respecting the man I was, when I retreated.  If I had won a few of those battles in our maidenyear, we could have gotten to the pleasant part a
lot
sooner.”

“So what’s the ‘pleasant part’?” Tyndal asked, freckles dancing in a smile.  He had a young man’s natural skepticism about matrimony, compounded by the obvious but unspoken fact that he had mislaid his boyish virtue sometime between leaving Boval Vale and arriving at Timberwatch.   When a young man first discovers the pleasures of the flesh, it’s often hard to make taking a wife seem appealing.  Especially a young man whose life has been steeped in danger and adventure and exotic places.  I understood that.

In fact, I was understanding that all too well.  Hence my long discussions with Captain Rogo.  It wasn’t that I didn’t love Alya – I
did
– and I
wanted
to marry her.  I just knew ass-all about
being
married, save what my Dad had imparted to me.  And he wasn’t around.

“The pleasant part?” Rogo asked, sitting back in the saddle and dropping the reins to remove his riding pipe.  “The pleasant part is this: riding back after battle, bone-tired and weary, knowing there’s a warm hall, a hot kettle, and a warm ass to back into on a cold night.”

“An inn and a whore will provide as much and for less coin,” Tyndal said, crudely. 

“A whore wouldn’t dice with Ishi nine times to prove seven stout children,” Rogo countered.  While he didn’t seek to correct the new-made lordling, I could tell he wasn’t pleased with Tyndal’s attitude. 

Tyndal looked as if the notion appalled him.  “Children?  All the
more
reason to stick with whores!”

“Comfort and love are all the reasons you need to wed,” countered Rogo.  “You can’t trust a whore.  Nor will an innkeeper hold you in the middle of the night when the terrors come.”

“But a wife just grows old and fat!” my apprentice dismissed with a face.  “And
plain!
  Even the noble ladies I’ve seen, they get old and fat just like the goodwives.  You can find a new whore every night, each younger and prettier than the last!  And with a whore the only argument you have is the
price
.  With a wife . . . the
argument
is the price!” 

I didn’t know a lot about his home life, before I discovered his Talent, but apparently Tyndal’s parents had not been the ideal of matrimony the gods had intended.  His sire was long dead now, and his mother a refugee caring for his half-sister (paternity unknown) in the south. 

Rogo smirked knowingly.  “Nay, lad.  You’ve got it wrong.  The argument is the
prize
, not the
price
.  But you’ll learn.  I remember being your age myself, and always thinking with my shaft.  If you’re lucky enough and don’t die a glorious hero, perhaps you’ll learn to appreciate the comfort of a goodwife compared to the charms of a whore.”

“May the gods save me from any other fate!” he said, disgusted.  Tyndal was enchanted with errantry, even after all he had seen and done at Timberwatch.  His youthful passion wasn’t dampened by even that horrid bloodbath.  And ennobling him hadn’t reduced his ego one bit.  I was about to intercede – the conversation had turned from the friendly bantering between camp-mates on campaign to coming dangerously close to being insulting to one of them – when one of Rogo’s younger Nirodi scouts came galloping back from the vanguard, and nearly skidded to a halt in front of us.

“My Lord!” he said, quickly and earnestly, “trouble ahead!  A conveyance of supplies from Wilderhall has entangled with some gurvani, apparently.  The men are mere militia, but they have the band pinned to one side of the road ahead.”

It took me a moment before I realized that the scout was talking to
me
.  He’d addressed his report to ‘
my lord’
, and that meant . . . oh. 
Me.
  I was a lord now, too.  By the Gracious Hands of Rard and Lenguin, Dukes of Castal and Alshar, a Magelord and Knight Magi of the Realm.  I’d been ennobled, and I wasn’t quite used to that yet.  Particularly being called by title.

I can’t say it had shrunk
my
ego much, either.

"Gurvani, you say?” I asked, the prospect of battle suddenly sounding preferable to discussing the merits of matrimony with these two.  At least less bloody. 

“My Lord,” Rogo reminded me, “we are on leave.”  His tone wasn’t begging or pleading or even requesting, it was merely informing me that this wasn’t necessarily our fight.  Hell, I wanted to get home to Alya as much as he wanted to return to his wife – more, perhaps – but damn it, I had responsibilities.

“We’re also at war,” I countered.  “And this road is filled with refugees and supply shipments.”  I looked behind us, at the bulk of our little column.  Together with my two apprentices, there were slightly more than two dozen.  Not enough to make much difference, if there was a large band, but quite enough to finish off a small one decisively.  “We can at least stop and find out if they need assistance,” I conceded.

“And it might be a trap,” Tyndal said, eagerly.  He wasn’t done killing goblins this season, apparently.

“Then let’s go see to these goblins,” Rogo sighed, expertly stringing his bow from the saddle.

“It really would be impolite not to,” I agreed, the thought of the comforts of matrimony receding for at least another day in the process. “Perhaps we can find out how the gurvani feel about marriage.”