Enchanter (Book 7) (53 page)

Of course, Excellency.  I understand just how to phrase it.

Where is our witness really?

He’s resting comfortably at Brestal Tower, under Zagor’s care.
 
He answers to his name, now, and his memory slowly returns, but it remains occluded.  His wound is healing without festering, thanks to Zagor’s skill.

Excellent.  It matters not if he actually reveals the name, it only matters that Rolone know he is a prisoner and under interrogation.

Your Excellency is cunning.

My Excellency is tired,
I countered
.  Lord Lorcus will be making his first reprisals in the next few days.  I will be attending, as an observer.  But I’d like to present him with a token of his new lordship, as a mark of my endorsement.  I described to him what I wanted.  It wasn’t complicated, and we certainly had the capability.

I shall attend to the details myself,
he promised
.  Is there anything else?

Yes,
I decided. 
Don’t mention to anyone that Tyndal, Rondal, and Lorcus are back in town.  They were only at Sevendor for a few hours, and I know some folk saw them, but spread the rumor that they have gone back on mission and won’t be returning for a while, if anyone asks questions.

Certainly.  May I ask why?

I’ve become aware of spies, recently.  Those three are significantly powerful warmagi, and I want to conceal their operations as much as possible to my opponents.

A wise course of action, Excellency.  I shall see to it.  I look forward to your return.

I thought about others I could contact, and projects and plans that needed my attention, but as I opened my eyes and saw Alya curled around a giant wool-stuffed pillow, drooling into the silk, I decided my time was better spent by curling my arms around her and joining her in a nap.

It really was the wise course of action.

*

*

When we arrived back in Sevendor, Alya sleepily attended to the children, and after a brief reunion in which presents were distributed in plenty, I retired to see to the business of the domain.  Two days later, I got the call from Lorcus.  I gathered a small party of fellows, made some preparation, and used the Ways to transport us all to his location in southern Rolone.

Shockingly enough, his base of operations turned out to be a tavern because, he explained, there hadn’t been a decent whorehouse in town.  He had secured it by the simple expedient of seizing it as a prize of war, then hiring the barman back at double his wages.  He had closed the place to public trade and set up trestles full of his gear.  Warmagi and his common soldiers, all wearing his apple-and-half-worm badge, scurried through on various missions while Lord Lorcus surveyed the operation through various magical means.

Lanse of Bune had contrived a quick but detailed map of the region, which everyone was using to keep track of movements.  After a welcome pint I walked over and surveyed the positions, while Lorcus explained his battle plan to me.

“First, we’ve got the Granite Squadron,” he informed me, smugly, pointing to a token with his badge painted on it and a tiny figure of a warmage on top.  “That’s Taren, Tyndal, and twenty archers – Bovali boys mostly.  They began assaulting the tower non-magically, striking at the gatehouse and flinging a few nasty things over the walls to incite them.  They will also be building a distracting bonfire in front of the granary, to make it look like its burning.  It’s the highest-value asset in view of the tower.”

“And then what?”

“Then that squadron will withdraw to a farm
here,”
he said, pointing at a spot on the map with the stem of his pipe.  “There’s a barn we’ve commandeered where our horses and such are hidden. That should allow the Granite Tower ample time to send messengers willy-nilly over the roads to Barnor and Gwyliad.”

“Where you can intercept them.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” he asked, scandalized.  “I’d have to send my own men to do it, if they didn’t make it.  No, Min, I want them to arrive breathless, afraid, and desperate-sounding.  If a lad showed up like that, speaking of a raid to you in the middle of the night, what would any good castellan do?”

“Sound the alarm and raise a force,” I proposed.  “Scramble every sword in the castle to ride and march to aid, as oath and feudal responsibility dictates.”

“I so love that you understand the way of things,” he sighed.  “Yes, they will empty both fortresses to go to the aid of poor beleaguered Granite.  It will take them, according to Sir Festaran, eight and nine hours, respectively, to reach their friends by road. When they reach the half-way points on their respective journeys, the Gwliad Squadron, based in a shrine to Morgon, will move to attack the barely-attended keep through subterfuge and the application of some impressive warmagic.  Sirs Rondal and Festaran, with ten good infantrymen from Southridge. 

“At the same time, the Barnor Squadron will depart from their base in a smallholding nearby, and Master Cormoran and Lanse of Bune will take the weakened defenses with ten men from the Westwood.  There should only be four combatants left at the place,” he said, tapping the tiny castle that stood in place of Barnor Tower. 

“So what happens then?” I asked, intrigued and amused.

“Why then, all of the military forces in southern Rolone will be concentrated in one place, at one time, road-weary and bleary eyed.  They should arrive about dawn,” he said, glancing at his notes.  “Of course they are wary of bandits, and looking for bandits, so once they’ve arrived and barely caught their breath, we’re going to provide some bandits for them.  Elements from Granite Squadron will burn a cot in this village, here, and add some convincing illusion to convey the idea that there, in fact,
actual
bandits attacking.  Which is just what these sword-monkeys are so terribly eager to engage.”

“And that will be their undoing?”

“In a matter of speaking,” he smiled, his twisted mustache bouncing expressively.  “Betwixt the Tower and the hamlet is a long road of good hard-packed earth, which runs through a marshy region here,” he said, tapping the map.  “For near two miles it is impassable by horse on either side, difficult terrain for a man on foot, and positively challenging to said man when he is weighted by armor.  It’s also simply thick with overhanging limbs. 
That,
Excellency, will be their undoing.”

“How so?” I did enjoy watching Lorcus work.

“Because we have seeded that entire stretch with a glorious array of sigils and charms designed to increase the sense of fear and uncertainty naturally in the mind of a man on such a mission.  Every step taken hence from this point will be laden with doubt and fear,” he said, with professional satisfaction.  “By the time the party arrives at this little bridge, here, they should smell ripe with piss and fear, ready to shoot anything they see in fear for their lives.”

“So what happens at the bridge?”

“They surrender.”

I studied the Remeran’s face thoughtfully.  “Well, I’d
really
like to see that,” I decided.

“I thought you might,” he chuckled.  “I – bide,” he begged, and closed his eyes.  He opened them a moment later.  “That was Sir Tyndal.  They broke off their attack half an hour ago and retreated to the barn.  Their spies report that two messengers have been dispatched by horse to summon reinforcements.  So that part is done.  Nothing left to do for a few hours but sit around and drink.”

“Well, I would like to present you with a little token I had made,” I said, producing the wrapped package from a magical pocket.  “Something to signify your new responsibilities.”

He unwrapped the gift gleefully, exposing a beautiful rod of rosewood and weirwood, a scepter with a snowstone carving of an apple sitting on a snowflake.  Of course the apple had the bite and the half-worm taken out of it.  The worm was of gold, affixed by magic to the stone.  It had been hasty work, but the effect was simple and whimsical.  Lorcus was delighted.

“It’s also enchanted, of course – there is a Waystone behind the head, a bit of knot coral, and I had Dranus fill it with some common and useful enchantments.  I put a few small pockets in it and stocked it with a few of your favorite things.”  I spent the next half-hour showing him how the Wormwand, as he styled it, worked. 

“Ah, I feel properly lordly, now,” he said, smacking the head of the wand into his hand.  “I am a proper lord, aren’t I?  I’d feel awfully foolish if I captured three castles and had to give them back again, just because I’m a commoner.”

“Your patent of nobility was filed at Wilderhall, as was your appointment as Amel Wood’s tenant lord.  One the war is resolved I’ll assign you the deed and make you titled.”

“Fair enough,” he said, as if the entire matter was a bit of a joke.  “I’ve never worked so cheaply before.  Still . . . I think you’ll enjoy the next bit, come dawn.  Go take a nap – I’ll awaken you when it’s time to go.”

*

*

One of the Ameli peasant boys who had insisted on accompanying Lorcus on his quest for vengeance against his home woke me an hour before dawn, which gave me enough time to splash water on my face, grab a cup of ale, use the privy, and dress.  Lorcus had horses waiting for us all, so that we could ride the six miles to the ambush “like proper gentlemen”. 

“Here,” he said, pushing a hastily-made baldric with the apple-and-worm on it.  “This way you’ll be one of my men, not a baron for the day.”  I put it on without argument.  I was just here to watch.

We arrived at the turn toward the village a few minutes after the column from Granite Tower had turned down it, marching at quick speed.  Lorcus tarried until the twenty-five men from the Granite Squadron arrived.  Then we all followed the road at a leisurely pace, the bowmen in front of the horsemen.

It was a lovely morning, with just a bit of rain, but less than a mile down the road the trees started closing in on the road oppressively, and the fetid smell of stagnant swamp filled the air with a faintly sinister smell.  We came across the trace remains of the warmagic sigils, which Lorcus pronounced satisfactory. 

“I just got word,” he said, a few moments later, a delighted grin on his face.  “Both other castles have fallen.  After these gentlemen surrender, we’ll own half of Rolone.”

“That is good news,” I agreed.  “Congratulations.  Now that you’ve taken them, do you think you can defend them?”

“Oh, aye,” he dismissed with a snort.  “We’re not as dumb as those Riverlords.”

A few minutes later we heard screams and the unmistakable sound of bowstring ahead. 

“I believe they have gotten to the bridge,” Lorcus nodded, smiling.  “Prepare for battle!” he ordered everyone, and the Bovali bowmen nocked arrows while the warmagi hung spells and drew their blades.  I lit my pipe.  The air was heavy and dank.  “Forward slowly, no one fires without my order.  We want these fellows to have a chance to surrender.  I’d like the ransoms.”

We moved more slowly up the road, and before long we caught up with the first fleeing Rolone soldier, who was so relieved to see us he broke down in tears before surrendering.  After that two more ended up in our hands, then a party of five, before we encountered the main group retreating in rough fashion.

“HOLD!” Lorcus bellowed, and his men quickly took defensive positions, bows raised but not drawn.  He rode forward before the line and halted his horse.  The green-sashed archers seemed cocky, but level-headed.  “Who are you men?”

“Duin’s blood, we’re the men of Rolone!  Fall back, the marsh is accursed!” someone shrieked.

“Quiet!” called a commanding voce.  A knight on a spooked-looking charger rode forth from between the infantry, a battered brass sunrise on his breastplate, his sword drawn . . . and his reigns slack.  His left arm ended at the elbow, where a small buckler was fastened.  I’d heard of the old soldier, one of the strong arms of Sashtalia in his day, until he lost his shield arm in battle.  He was guiding his horse with his knees.  “I am Sire Ansonal of Gwyliad. Who are you men? There are . . . things in the marsh, and the bridge is broken.  You must turn back!”

“I am Lord Lorcus of Amel Wood,” Lorcus said, proudly.  “I am on a mission of retribution for at attack on my domain that issued from Granite Tower, on the order of the Lord of Vorone.”

“I –
what
did you say?” asked the Dawn Knight, confused. “There is no lord of Amel Wood – it is a Ducal property.”

“Not for a year, my lord,” Lorcus assured him.  “And a few weeks ago I was appointed tenant lord . . . just before the raid your liege ordered on my land.  Hence my presence in your gorgeous domain,” he said with a polite bow.

“So . . . what is your purpose here?” he asked.

“Why, we wish to bar the road, my lord,” Lorcas informed him.  “We are, after all, at war.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” confessed the old knight.  “Young man, there are
things
in the swamps coming toward us.  If you do not move, we will be overrun!”

“That is unfortunate, my lord,” shrugged Lorcus, sympathetically.  “And I would be happy to allow you passage . . . as our prisoners.  Otherwise you may turn and contend with the creatures, or you may elect to charge us at your convenience – to your peril.  I leave the decision up to you, Sire Ansonal.”