High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (29 page)

My goal on this tour was to oversee the progress of the magical defenses, particularly our installations near to the Umbra.  The King’s strategy of containment mirrored the Alka Alon’s, and the castles and forts of the Penumbra were the first line of defense against another campaign into the heartland of the realm.  That it had failed to stop the gurvani’s conquest and use of the Cotton Road for their invasion into Gilmora was well known in court.  There was a hole in the metaphorical wall around the shadow, and it spelled disaster for the Riverlands.

There was a hue and cry among the dispossessed barons of Gilmora, in particular, who wanted every lad with a spear who could be spared to re-take northern Gilmora.  Lords from farther away were more insistent that the King spare what forces he could to effectively seal the hole.  The Iron Ring military order had been established to contain the threat, but it was still in development.  Only four fortresses had been manned around the perimeter of Shereul’s domain so far.  The Megelini Knights had patrolled the frontier aggressively, and Astyral’s magical corps, with much of the Horkan Order of warmagi in residence, held the strategic town of Tudry.  But the cold fact was that our first line of defense was ragged and inconsistent.

It didn’t help that the gurvani were defending their possession of the Cotton Road (which starts as the Timber Road) valiantly.  There had been dozens of attempts to re-seize control of the plank road, but every one of them had been eventually overcome by fresh goblin troops within a few days.   I expected that to herald a much greater thrust, but the forces descending the road were focusing on the human harvest of Gilmora, not preparing for another offensive . . . yet.

While that gave us some valuable time to raise the forces needed for a stout defense, it also pointed to a much different strategy than the full-frontal assault we’d expected.  The King needed to know where to send the troops he was raising in Remere and Wenshar and the Castali Wilderlands, in Gilmora or in the Penumbra, and he was relying on my intelligence to help him make that decision.

So I was off to the front to see for myself.  Yet I didn’t want to just appear in the middle of things and end up getting a bunch of official tours – I wanted to see conditions for myself.  So I had Varen transport us to the site of an abandoned refuge just south of Vorone.  We would make the rest of the way overland.  I’d kept my party small and my itinerary secret to facilitate a fresh look at the place. 

Why Vorone?  Because it was the next largest city to Tudry, and as such it had become a staging area and supply depot for our military operations in the Penumbra.  It was where the refugees from the Wilderlands had congregated.  I was curious to see the city myself, after hearing of its fallen condition from Master Thinradel. 

The transport point was in a wood a few miles away from a manor house where I’d quietly arranged (thanks to the help of the Hesian Order, who had a depot in Vorone) for three horses to be waiting for us.  We were on our way north to the city by midmorning, enjoying the sunny weather and keeping the heat at bay with magic.

The peasants we passed along the road were going about their business with grim determination, and I didn’t see a single one without a stout staff, a cudgel, or a long knife at their belt.  A casual conversation at the inn we stopped in for lunch revealed that gurvani raids from the Penumbra were frequent, even if they were sporadic.  Since most of the fighting men had been assigned to the front, the peasantry who were left had to arm themselves any way they could against the possibility of sudden attack.  The palisades of the town were watched every night, we were told, and many of the nearby cottagers had taken to sleeping in the manor or the small shrine.

The more northerly we went, the worse conditions got.  Before we left the barony we passed two hamlets abandoned in the wake of an attack, half the cots burned husks.  We were greeted at the frontier by four mail-clad men with halberds and crossbows who seemed very curious about who we were and where we were going.  It took a menacing growl from Alscot to quiet them.  He’s a good-looking fellow, but when that pleasant smile turns nasty it can have a withering effect.

The country leading into Vorone was torn, with a ruined cottage for every two that still stood.  A row of thirteen goblin heads on poles at one crossroad warned of the dangers in the land.  As grisly as it was, it was nothing compared to the horrid shrines the gurvani liked to leave behind.

We passed through two checkpoints before reaching the city gates.  Each time the men were clearly expecting a bribe and quickly backed down when it was said we were on the King’s business.  The roads around the checkpoints were dotted with makeshift encampments, some no more than a lean-to made from branches and rushes.  Some were fortunate enough for a bit of blanket or sackcloth to tie overhead.  The inhabitants of the shelters were gaunt and bony.  They wore rags, sometimes, or clothes clearly looted from their betters and ruined in their fallen estate.

“Huin save them,” Sir Festaran said, making the sign of the Good God.  Alscot laughed.

“This lot?  They’re living the life, compared to some poor sods I’ve seen.  They’re not half starved yet.  It is still summer.  Wait until winter,
then
you will see them in trouble.”

A little closer to the gate, in what may have once been a hayfield, a much more vast camp was spread.  Here the shelters were more substantial and the refugees perhaps a little better fed, but the look of fear, grief and hopelessness in their eyes was unmistakable.  As was the smell.  There is a stench of despair that accompanies such loss, and it hung over Vorone like a cloud.

Nor was that the only encampment.  We passed three more, of various sizes, as we made our way to the city gates.  The closer we got, the more they became little shanty towns.  One even had a kind of market, where folk bartered what few belongings they had left for the basic necessities of life.

I heard accents from the Minden vales, from the foothills of the Wilderlands, from the Pearwoods and from other remote places as we rode by.  There were a couple of bored-looking men with spears posted at the entrance to the settlement, but apart from that there seemed to be little order.  There was a little cluster of huts in one copse of woods which proved to be a primitive brothel.  Widows and maidens alike had been prompted by necessity to sell Ishi’s blessings to sustain themselves.  Old men and women who had walked for hundreds of miles through the Wilderlands peered up at us, their eyes hopeless, their wrinkled faces begging toothlessly for a few pennies. 

It was a scene that evoked my utter pity.  These were the lucky ones, I reminded myself.  These were the ones who escaped.  But to leave the danger behind to be forced to live like this . . .

“How many are there?”  I asked in wonder.

Sir Festaran’s eyes got a distant look in them.  “I would say . . . Thirty thousand.  Maybe thirty-five.  On this side of the river,” he added.  “I haven’t seen what lies beyond it, yet.”  Vorone was bisected by a beautiful river surrounded by picturesque hills.  It supposedly marked the beginning of the Wilderlands, by some estimations, but it was situated where it was mostly for the delightful view.  Defensively, it was a poorly-situated location.  The city, proper, was on an island in the middle of the river, and it was covered in gorgeously appointed residences . . . but little fortifications.

As the Ducal summer capital, Vorone had been designed as a resort domain featuring hunting and fishing and hawking, not the production of crops to feed the people.  The artisans there were used to selling their wares to the idle aristocracy of the court, not crafting weapons of war.  As a staging ground it was only somewhat strategically located and not particularly suited to the task.  I know – I’d led an army from Vorone, once.

The guards at the gatehouse were taciturn, and continued to doubt our story until I pulled rank on them.  They did not want to let us in until we told them our business.  I insisted that our business was private, and they pointed out that it was their business to keep the wrong sort out of Vorone.  So I pulled rank.  I was, technically, still a Marshal of Alshar, entitled to press into service any loyal Alshari warrior into service in defense of the realm.  Once I’d given him my warrants, we were escorted through the city to the quarter with the wealthiest inns.

The Arcane Order had yet to establish a chapterhouse here, and to look at the place I wondered if we ever would.  There was no real reason for this city to exist, anymore.  The Duchy of Alshar was riven.  In the north the Dead God’s Umbra rotted away, spreading to the Penumbra, while in the south rebellious barons had seized the moment – and the coastward capital of the duchy, Falas – and cut off all but nominal ties to the Duchy.  That left a thin strip of free land between the two, a mere stump of a proper Duchy.  There was no political cohesiveness anymore.

That was sad.  Once Alshar had been . . . well, if not mighty, at least picturesque and colorful.  The Dukes of Alshar had distinguished themselves in several important ways over the centuries.  Now the heir to the coronet, the future Duke Enguin, was a virtual hostage to the King and Queen against his cooperation.  He had been granted the nominal title to his broken duchy but not invested in it.  The nobles who remained “loyal” were loyal to King Rard, not that poor orphan boy.

Meanwhile Vorone suffered.  Bereft of any greater purpose than protecting refugees and storing supplies destined for the fortresses and armies in the north, Vorone was now a ghost of its former self.  The inns were crowded with desperate men and women who squandered what money they had salvaged on a hostel’s roof.  Shops and artisans who once peddled their wares had closed their doors or worked only by appointment, we were told at the inn we chose: the
Silver Pillow
.  Once the homey haunt of knights and lords, the aristocracy who lived within its shabby luxury now were the dregs of the Wilderlands.  Most did not have the funds or the means to go further south.  Others schemed to recover the lands they’d lost in the Penumbra. 

Most just worried and complained and took the innkeeper to task for his poor fare. 

We learned at table that evening that the city was ruled by Baron Edmarin, now, on behalf of the Duchy.  Mostly His Excellency’s job was to keep the nearby army camp provisioned and provide place for refugees to be quartered.  Actual city services and administration were nearly nonexistent and a rampant criminal underclass had erupted in its place.  Gangs ran rampant, their affiliations declared by colored armbands or baldrics.  Their influence was largely reserved to the camps and to the poorer parts of town, but if what you did failed to involve the soldiers moving through town, it wasn’t regulated by what was left of civil authority.

Some things were had at a bargain.  Beer, spirits, smoke and food could all be had at a price, and the choice of whores was limitless.  That made the inns and taverns nearest the army encampment lucrative waters for the criminals who procured the whores and then robbed the clients. 

Nor did the mass of displaced folk feel that they could easily flee.  Farther south there was the devastation of Gilmora, and the way along the Timber Road was shut to them.  To the west were the imposing Mindens.  After the scant foothills, which were sparsely populated at best, the highland countryside at the source of the Poros and the Nuliyar rivers was torn and broken and nearly uninhabitable, the lands subject to the same goblin raids that they were fleeing.  Only to the east did the hope of escape lie . . . and Castal, it seemed, had shut its frontier to most of those who fled.

I was appalled to hear that.  I checked with Master Hartarian, mind-to-mind, and the royal court wizard reluctantly agreed that the rumor was true.  While the kingdom’s policy was officially to allow the refugees to cross the frontier, the Duke of Castal had elected to restrict the access to a reasonable number, lest his facilities be overwhelmed.

The Duke of Castal was Rard’s son, Prince Tavard.  As such, he would not have done anything as Duke of Castal that his father and monarch did not want him to.  Rard was gaining prestige and respect for publically protecting and aiding the refugees on the one hand, and then denying that protection and aid when it came to carrying through.

Sure, refugees are a logistical nightmare.  How you fed, clothed, and housed a displaced population was daunting, akin to supplying an army’s needs without the resources an army has to offer in return.   But to promise aid and protection in public and then
deny
it . . . that was contemptible.  It wasn’t a universal closure.  Sufficient coin or the proper documentation would carry you through the checkpoints, as it always does, but if you were destitute you were unlikely to cross.

Not only did that leave me doubting the humanity of the royal house, it gave Shereul a mass of humanity upon which to potentially feed close at hand to the Penumbra.  That was a danger I could not ignore.

The next morning I made my way to the impressive-looking palace and demanded to speak to the Baron who had been given the job of running the city.  I detailed Sir Festaran and Alscot to quietly investigate the refugee camps and the army encampment, respectively, while I took my concerns to the military governor.  It took three hours and four levels of flunkies, but I finally managed to catch him preparing to go hawking just after luncheon.  And just before I started magically tearing the place down.

I had mixed feelings about seeing the mildew y old palace.  It had been at Vorone where I had effectively blackmailed the Duke into giving me what I wanted – an army and a marshalate - and convinced him to enter the war in earnest.  It was a decision which cost him his life, and that of his wife.   The place was far shabbier than it was two years before, although it didn’t lack for servants.  But instead of the stately demeanor of a Ducal household, they carried on with little regard for propriety or the sanctity of the property in their charge.  It felt more like an army camp or bandit’s lair than an administrative center.