High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (20 page)

“So you say,” challenged the Queen.  “Yet other reports indicated that the goblins lack sufficient supply to venture further afield, and there is some doubt as to their organization.”

“They do seem to have pulled back from their advances,” Count Salgo, the Warlord, agreed reluctantly.  “But they continue to . . . to harvest our people like wheat in a field.  There is no end to the coffles of slaves going northward.  Twenty times my men have raided and freed the lines of prisoners, but another caravan departs the next day from their captured strongholds.”

“And more raiders go forth by night into populated areas,” reminded a hook-nosed lord with whom I wasn’t familiar.  “We’ve managed to intercept some of them, thanks to your warmagi, Magelord, but there seems no end of them.  They’re using magic, too.  They’re avoiding our castles, for the most part, and striking at the few villages that are manned.  The cotton harvest will be paltry, this year.”

“I’m sure that’s not the most pressing problem of those people,” I pointed out.  “I’m sending in as many warmagi as I can.  We’ve strengthened the defenses on every castle we occupy, as strongly as we are able.  But we can’t go around goblin-proofing every manor and hamlet in Gilmora.”

“But that just sends people streaming into those castles,” pointed out Count Salgo.  “They’re abandoning their fields and posts and forcing the lords to feed them.”

“Then put spears in their hands and teach them how to drill,” I answered, perhaps a little sternly.  “I can help you fight goblins, but I can’t make them go away.”

“Train the peasants?” asked the Queen, aghast. 

“Why not?  They’ll be fighting for their lives before long, anyway,” I pointed out.  “And every peasant with a spear is an infantryman, not a refugee.  You’ll have to feed them, but you’re feeding them anyway. “

“Peasants make poor warriors,” pointed out a lady on the other side of the table.

“When they don’t know how to fight, yes,” I agreed.  “
Teach
them.  If the Dead God has decided to take the summer off, then use that time to drill those peasants.  They might not be first-line infantry, but they can guard caravans and man a post at a wall if they need to.  That will free up your knights for interdiction duties.”

“And what happens when the battle is over?” the lady persisted.  “We have a mass of armed peasants to contend with.  Gilmora is not used to such things,” she said.  I detected a trace of Gilmoran accent in her speech.

“The battle will not be over for some time,” I reminded her, gently.  “Even if we defeated the Dead God in the field, he still lurks within the Umbra.  He still has the bulk of his armies at his command.  When his legions do come – if not this summer, then surely next – then every trained warrior you have will be worth more than a dozen cotton picking peasants.”

Count Salgo looked at me gratefully.  Apparently this had been an argument he had been making and losing.

“We . . . shall see,” conceded Her Majesty.  “And it is not as if we have had no success in the field.  I hear reports daily how our squadrons are attacking raiders and driving them off.”

I tried to hide the wince I felt.  Those reports glossed over the casualties incurred in those battles.  They were frequent, almost daily, and we were winning the majority of them.  But mostly we were losing good men piecemeal, men we’d want in good order when the attack did come.

“Can we not face them in the field in strength, and drive them from the land?” asked the hook-nosed lord – I believe he was a minister of finance.

“Not when we’re scattered all over, chasing bands of raiders.  If the enemy won’t congregate, how can we face them so?”
S
algo said, shaking his head. 

“Surely they have taken strongholds,” asked the lady with the Remeran accent.  “If we take them back, have we not deprived them of their purpose?”

“So we believed, my lady,” Salgo agreed.  “To test that theory we invested one of their settlements, inside the northern Castle Frayne.  Instead of withdrawing inside and hazarding a siege at the approach of our force, which was of a goodly size, they divided their forces and scattered to smaller hamlets and manors prepared ahead.  We captured a few score slaves, slew a hundred goblins or more, and re-took that ruined fort, but we did not slow their take.  Another coffle left three days later.  They will not stand to fight, not against poor odds.  Most of our military there are cavalry patrols, and they dislike fighting on foot, at night.”

“Are there no rangers to contend with them?” I asked.

“Rangers?  In Gilmora, a region long-settled?  Gamewardens and foresters, perhaps, but the wars of Gilmora are fought on the field between gentlemen,” Count Moray, one of Rard’s closest advisors, observed.

“Not anymore,” I observed.  “If the gurvani will not stand as a large band, then let us send in commandos to root them out, band by band if necessary. “

“Of what use will that be?” demanded the Queen.

“It will deter their purposes, for one thing,” I said, ticking off my points on my fingers, “which is always to our benefit.  It will disrupt their slaving and raiding.  It will demonstrate to the people that their king defends them,” I reminded them, “and it gives them hope.  They can gather valuable intelligence on the ground and that could let us know their plans.  And it could stem the flow of prisoners into shadow.  Have not the new Royal Commando units been commissioned?  I thought they were designed for just such a purpose.”

“Commissioned and officered,” admitted Salgo, “but still recruiting.  But we can find some rangers, I think.  The mercenary companies are responding to our bonuses.  Many of those men fought in the jungles of Farise, or in the Wilderlands last year.  I can probably get some deployed in advance of the Commandos.”

“Anyone on the ground, fighting and organizing resistance behind the lines is going to be helpful.  In the meantime, we strengthen the strong points and protect as much of Gilmora as we can.  And we rescue as many prisoners as possible.  Every one feeds Shereul’s dark purpose, and eventually feeds his soldiers on the field,” I said, as convincingly as possible.

“What of the Alka Alon?” the ancient Prime Minister, Count Kindine, asked suddenly.  “Can they not assist us?”

Everyone looked to me expectantly.  It was well-known that I was an ally of the Tree Folk, and the story of my suddenly-appearing embassy was widespread, at this point.  I’m sure that it had been noted that Lady Fallawen was now in residence in my quarters at the Order.

“As to that,” I began with a deep breath, “I have recently been in council with the Wise among the Tree Folk.  There is much concern among them about the Dead God, which they call the Abomination.  Enough concern that – with a little encouragement – they agreed to lend us some material aid.  More irionite,” I said, earning several surprised looks, “and a conditional, limited alliance.  Technical support.  Assistance in intelligence and such.  In return for similar assistance from us, when they require it.”

“Does that mean warriors in the field?” asked Salgo, interested.

“Not many,” I admitted.  “The strength of their alliance will be in their counsel.  But don’t discount that wisdom.  Without it, we would have lost Cambrian, and Shereul would have one more dragon in his keep.  But against Shereul, himself, they have little to offer us of yet.  They are . . . studying the matter, as is the nature of their race.”

“Are they not masters of magic?” asked the Queen.  “I find it difficult to believe that they cannot kill one goblin!”

“He’s already dead,” I pointed out.  “That’s part of the problem.  You are thinking of him in temporal terms, in how many soldiers he can put in the field.  But that is just part of this tapestry of evil we face.  Shereul is
powerful,
” I explained.  “And he’s not even alive, so that limits the ways he’s vulnerable.  He’s essentially a magical construct based around the pattern of a dead goblin’s brain.  And he has unfathomable power at his disposal.  He’s got access to more power than all of the High Magi put together.  You can’t stop his heart, you can’t blind him, and you can’t poison him.  He doesn’t eat.  He doesn’t sleep.  He’s well-guarded, and he’s aware of everything within the Umbra.  So no, the Alka Alon don’t have an easy answer to him.  Or even a hard one.  But that doesn’t mean that one doesn’t exist.”

“So they do virtually nothing?” Grendine asked, annoyed.

“They are studying the problem.  Look, part of this is a matter of perspective.  The Alka Alon live for centuries, millennia, even.  From their point of view, the Dead God
just
appeared.  They’re still evaluating him and what he means.  How to fight him is next, I’m certain.  But they aren’t going to do anything until they know what he is and how he works.  And until they do, they’re arming us and helping us in subtle ways.  Like using their ways to transport our army into the field.”

“That
was
clever,” admitted the King.  “If that is the kind of assistance we can expect . . .”

“Their support is not unanimous,” I warned.  “This is a cautious, tentative alliance, Your Majesty, and I encourage you to treat it delicately.”  Time to break the news. “One of the results of the recent council concerns you, Majesty.  The lords of the Alka Alon council have asked that I be the intermediary for relations between our realms.”

“It is my right alone to appoint my ambassadors!” grumbled Rard.

The Queen put her hand on his arm.   “I’m certain Magelord Minalan can be trusted to represent us in good faith, Lord,” she assured him.  “That simplifies things, really.  Of course, sending a message to your little castle when we need to speak to the ambassador is inconvenient . . .”

I sighed again, as respectfully as I could.  I was prepared for this, actually, and while I had planned to present the gift at a more formal setting, this seemed like an appropriate time.  I took an elaborately decorated box out of my sleeve. 

“I, too, have considered this need.  This, Your Majesties, is a special enchantment,” I said, withdrawing the device from its protective bag.  “A Mirror of Sevendor.  Drop this stone carefully into a clear basin of water and invoke the command.  A similar enchantment will summon someone at Sevendor Castle to get my attention and speak to you.  I’ll be able to see your reflection in the water, as you see mine, and our voices can be easily heard.”

“That . . . that is magic indeed!” Rard said, impressed as the implications set in

It
was
impressive, too.  It was an improvement over the enchantment that allowed the original Mirror I’d installed at Sevendor to work, courtesy of Master Andalnam’s hard work and expertise.  Because of that, Alya could get in touch with me essentially wherever I was in the world.  The experiment had worked so well, and we had a small store of sympathy stones (the heart of the enchantment) to use, that we had decided to expand the experiment into something useful to everyone.  I had Banamor commission several of them from Andalnam for use in official kingdom and order business.  A direct line of communication between me and Rard counted as official business. 

“I advise you entrust it to the care of your Court Mage.  He can get in touch with me at need.”

“This . . . this is a rich gift, Spellmonger!” Rard admitted, once he appreciated the utility of the enchantment.  “Never had I considered magic to be so . . . useful!”

“You’re quite welcome, Majesty.  But that is not the limit of my gift.  I propose to establish a number of such enchantments to help speed messages between our far-flung frontiers.  It would be of great service if a mage in Barrowbell could speak to a mage in Wilderhall, for instance.  More secure than messengers, and far, far faster.”

“That would be a boon, indeed,” marveled Salgo.  “For logistics, reinforcements, intelligence . . . Master Minalan, you have truly impressed me!”

Most of the High Magi could already communicate between each other mind-to-mind, which was even more efficient, but that was a closely-held secret as well.  The proposed Mirror array was the next best thing.  Banamor had actually given me the idea, when we had been looking over an embarrassing wealth of magical sympathy stones he had accrued as part of a mineral mining operation.  He had thought it would be a useful service, if a mage in one town could speak directly to a mage in another, without the need for irionite.  We had discussed the idea several times. Eventually we had come up with the idea of the Mirror Relays.

“I would make them permanent centers of communication,” I proposed.  “Each city would have a Mirror that would be tied to a central location.  Messages could be sent to the hub of the wheel, and then re-directed to the appropriate spoke.  Our Order would run the service,” I continued, “and charge a moderate fee for public use.  But it would allow vital messages to be given immediately, securely, and without mistake.  The hub could be located in our Order’s tower, near to the court, where information could be disseminated quickly.”

There was a strong burst of discussion among the court as the ramifications of the system were considered aloud.  Finally the King called for silence.

“What would you need from us to make such a plan work?”

“Merely a charter for the service and permission to build the towers,” I decided.  “I need regional chapterhouses for the Order, anyway, and this will help cover that expense.”

I had nine sets of enchanted stones now, and we were planning on setting up the system regardless of the king’s permission.  I had brought the nine halves to Castabriel, where a chamber had been prepared in an old storage room at the temple with nine basins.  The other halves were being sent to important magelords and high magi across the kingdom.  Sevendor, of course, but also Wilderhall, Remera, Inarion Academy, on the coast; one to Alar Academy in Wenshar, one for Darise, in the Remeran delta, one for Darkfaller castle in Gilmora, and one for an as-yet undecided location in the southwest of the kingdom.  As most of that region was now rebelling against King Rard’s rule, that placement would be tricky.  One I would take to Tudry, in the Penumbra in the north.  I was scheduled for a tour of the fortifications there in a few weeks, and that would help tie together the great net nicely. 

There would be more basins added as we identified appropriate places for new towers.  And having someone on-call, day and night, required a certain amount of upkeep.  But Banamor’s proposal included fees for the service that would support the magi manning the basins and then some, if his projections could be believed.

I saw it as a great service in general, and forced him to keep the fees reasonable.  It would also speed Order business.  Each Tower would serve as a chapterhouse for Order business in the region: recruiting, testing, administration, licensing, and so forth. 

I left court that day with smiles and even a few embraces, and was asked to return the next afternoon for a private audience with Their Majesties, as well as other consultation.  Of course I was at Their Majesty’s service.

I insisted on a quiet dinner with Alya and Pentandra that night, instead of accepting any of the dozens of invitations we’d received when word of our arrival had spread amongst the aristocracy of Castabriel.  The last thing I needed was to be beset by sycophants and mindless admirers when I was dealing with the King.  I was going to be facing Mother the next day, I knew, and the last thing I needed was an over-stuffed head or a hangover.

Pentandra wanted to know everything, and Alya was curious about the meeting as well.  I gave an honest account, particularly promoting how well they received the idea of the towers with their Mirror Relays.

“An official charter would be lucrative,” Pentandra noted.  “Our expenses are already over the top of the tower.”

“I don’t like the idea that they can call upon you, day or night,” Alya said, shaking her head while she nursed the new baby.  “You are gone far too often already.”

“This will keep me from having to run to Castabriel every time Rard needs something,” I pointed out.  “That means far less trips on the river.  Trust me, this will save time in the future.”

“I still can’t believe you thought of it,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.

The next day I dealt with a bit of last-minute Order business before returning to the palace for my meeting.  This time we were out in the gardens, where the yellow roses the queen favored were starting to bud.  A few had even bloomed.

“Not as pretty as the garden in Wilderhall,” she commented, once I was shown in to where she was seated, “but with all the work we have in front of us, we can barely afford the time to journey there this year.  Pity,” she said, shaking her head.  “But then we have an open rebellion on the Alshari coast.  The Duke of Merwyn is grumbling, and we have a wedding to plan.”

“Wedding?” I asked, curious, as I took a seat.

“It isn’t public knowledge, but we have negotiated a match for my son.  A Remeran girl, a niece or some relation to the Duke.  She’s on her way here now for an interview.  And we are trying to get Rardine a husband by next year. 
That
will be more problematic.”

I thought about the vicious, bloodthirsty little bitch and tried to imagine being married to her.  “I can see that,” I agreed, without elaboration.

“It’s the consanguinity issue,” she said with a frustrated snort.  “And finding a suitable candidate.  The sooner the Heir can be wed and produce an heir of his own, the more stable the realm.”

“Inarguable,” I agreed.  “But surely Your Majesty did not ask me here for my matchmaking advice.”

“What?  No, Spellmonger, I want to know how soon you can finish up this war against the goblins,” she said.  “It was politically useful, but now it’s becoming distracting.”

I just stared at her.  “You Majesty, were you not in council yesterday?  The war will not be done until Shereul is destroyed.  And not even the Alka Alon can manage that.”

“I’m not talking about destroying the thing,” she said, frustrated, “I’m talking about ending the
war
.  This uncertainty in Gilmora is making a mess of things.  It was one thing when the fighting was all out in Alshar, but this is just unacceptable.  What must be done to drive them back to the north?  I know what that dullard Salgo thinks.  What is your opinion?”

What was I to say?  “Majesty, if there was a simple way to do it, I would have figured it out by now.  But not only are Shereul’s plans unknown, they cannot even be reasonably guessed at.  He is not just not human, he’s not even
alive.
  And his . . . condition gives him perspectives we cannot even guess at.  I know he wants to exterminate all humanity, and likely all of the Alka Alon, too.  Just how he plans to accomplish that is his secret to share.”

“Yet, every army can be defeated,” she pointed out.  “Or subverted.” 

“Were the gurvani in Gilmora led by a living shaman, prone to the weaknesses of the flesh, we might have a chance.  But Shereul is not going to respond to us the same way.  His legions are motivated by fear, awe, greed, and revenge, but also by his power.  They would rather face death than their dreadful lord.  They know they are pieces on the board to be expended, and they accept that role gladly.  Defeating foes who do not mind dying is difficult.”

“This is just unacceptable,” she fumed.  “Salgo said as much, though he put it in more military terms.  But it is hard to sustain a banner call for troops when the goblins aren’t on the move.”

“I find that troublesome too, Majesty.  I’m looking into that.  The Alka Alon are helping,” I added.  “In small ways, now, but soon in much larger ways.”

“As to that,” she continued, her mind switching subjects, “I am unsure that I am altogether comfortable with the idea of you negotiating treaties with other realms.  Particularly . . .
those
people.”

“The Tree Folk?” I asked, surprised.

“The Alka Alon have been lurking on the edges of human territory for years,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  “That’s where I would keep them.  As helpful as they have been, history is replete with examples of the Alka Alon’s interference bringing deadly consequences to humanity.”

“To be fair, most of those examples are legendary, not historical,” I said, although I knew she was correct.  “The Alka Alon have an interest in defeating Shereul, too.   They have little interest in the affairs of men, otherwise.”

“Yet it comes to me that they have begun to transform themselves into human bodies,” she accused.

“Human
ish
,” I corrected.  “That’s more for simplicity’s sake, when dealing with our people.”

“Mayhap.  I still find it disturbing.”

“As I find the tales of gurvani torturing children in front of their mothers before sacrificing them and eating their flesh,” I pointed out.  “Majesty, we live in a strange age.  The Alka Alon admire beauty in much the same way we do.  They have no designs on our lands, they simply want to help.”

“They are useful,” she admitted.  “Their appearance at the coronation convinced plenty of peasants that Rard was ordained by the gods.  But I do not trust them, Spellmonger.”

“They have not betrayed us yet,” I pointed out.  “They’ve helped us.  And we, in turn will help them, at need.  We couldn’t have slain that dragon without them.”

“I know they are powerful,” she said, patiently.  “That is why I fear their meddling.  We have no leverage with them.  No way to . . . express our displeasure.  Or manipulate policy.”

“You mean, no way to spy on them and assassinate them if they don’t do what you want.”

She looked at me sharply.  “You endanger yourself, Spellmonger!”

“Mother, let’s dispense with the innuendo for a moment.  You’re right, they
can’t
be trusted, entirely.  While some kindreds of the Alka Alon are admirers of humanity, others are decidedly not.  Some even harbor ill will.  And no, there is precious little way to infiltrate the Alka Alon.

“But we can’t win without their help, and I don’t think they could win without our help.  The necessity of an alliance is seen on both sides.  And at their council I . . . I essentially bribed them into helping us.  I have things that they want, thanks to some magical experiments—”

“The snow that never melted,” she supplied, a faint smile on her wrinkled lips.  “I’ve heard the tale.  Remarkable!”

“A happy accident,” I dismissed.  “But useful.  The Alka Alon love the stuff.  So do the Karshak.  I’m using that as my leverage, right now.  And I’m studying the situation to see if I can gain more leverage.  But the Alka Alon trust me, not the . . . royal house.  I assure you, I negotiated with only the best interests of the kingdom in mind.”

“That remains to be seen,” she said, impatiently.  “Just keep us informed of your discussions and progress in the alliance.  I suppose if you are the only one the Alka Alon desire as an ambassador, we are left with little choice.  Just see that it does not become a distraction.”

“To the war effort?”

“To the
consolidation
effort,” she replied, swiftly.  “While we were meticulous preparing the way to the throne, there is still plenty of resistance to our rule.  At least a dozen noble families of great power are uneasy with the regime.  And that is as important a war as the one in Gilmora.  The Alshari rebellion sets a bad precedent.  If even
one
of those major houses decides to rebel, it could be disastrous.”

“I’m afraid I cannot be of much help to you there, Majesty.  I’m a Spellmonger and a warmage, not a courtier.”

“You are
The
Spellmonger,” she corrected, “and this
is
a war.  One where the battlefields are banquets and balls, court functions and hunting parties.  While your point about the power of the goblin king was well-taken, Son-in-law, in truth power is power.  And war is war.  In this war the troops are daughters to be married and sons to inherit.  The armies are dynasties, and the swords are gossip, reputation, and honor.  And in this war even you, Spellmonger, are a piece on the board. “

“I barely know any nobles,” I protested.  “None of the important ones, anyway.  And I don’t usually attend that kind of party.   Majesty, if the Magocracy taught us anything it was the danger of magic and politics mixing.  I’ve gone out of my way to keep arcane affairs separate from the mundane.  Yet you’re asking me to do just that.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she said, sourly.  “You know as well as I that politics and magic
always
mix.  Like that idiot Dunselen, who thinks he’s a warlord, now.  You need to see to him—”