High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (45 page)

The castle was bustling when we arrived – our men crowded an already crowded yard, and the stablemaster was at ends trying to find adequate space for our mounts.  The castle was on alert, I could tell.  Militiamen were training in the yard and the sentries on the watchtowers seemed a lot more alert than they normally were. 

Sir Roncil met us in the yard, in a hauberk and surcoat, his Wilderlands great sword at his side.  He looked grim, after he met us with a stirrup cup.  He was a big man, strong of arm and dour, as all the Wilderlands knights tend to be, but I could see signs of his Riverlands bride slowly eroding away the roughness.  The Riverlands-style surcoat, for one, and the way his hair was neatly trimmed.  In the Wilderlands the fighting men prefer to let their hair grow longer.  His was trimmed as neatly as a courtier.

“Lost a whole bloody manor over this,” he fumed, darkly.  “I’ve got that ignorant little turd who irritated his own folk up in my solar, at the moment.  He’s demanding that I ride to put down the rebellion and restore his rights.  Meanwhile I have a delegation from the villagers who are demanding that I remove him from office, and threatening to burn more manors if I don’t.”

“A difficult situation,” I agreed.  “I’m here to help, I promise.  I brought men, but only if we need them.”

“It sounds as if you have more of an issue with diplomacy than warfare,” agreed Sire Cei. 

“What I’ve got is the greatest collection of idiots in the Duchies!” snarled Sir Roncil, as he led us into the hall.  “The greatest solace comes from knowing it’s a mess I inherited, and didn’t create.  But that is weak balm for this wound,” he said, shaking his head.  “I’ve heard some disturbing things out of Posendor of late.  I should have anticipated this raid.”

“How far is Jisket from here?”

“Eighteen and a half miles by road, Magelord,” Sir Festaran answered promptly.

“Lorcus, take Sir Ryff and ten men and investigate,” I ordered.  “Figure out what happened, and most importantly, find out who those raiders were.  We’ll be awaiting your report here at the castle.”

“At once, Magelord,” Lorcus agreed.  Sir Ryff followed him – he wasn’t pleased by the prospect of being under the command of a commoner, and a warmage at that, but Lorcus was an easy man to follow.  And the perfect agent to determine who had been behind the raid.

“Is it wise, sending so few men?” Sir Roncil asked, as more substantial provision was brought out from the kitchens to feed us at the high table he led us to.

“The men are more for show than anything,” I conceded.  “Lorcus is adept at this sort of investigation.  The presence of my men will demonstrate that I am taking the issue seriously, and that will both soothe the peasants and inform our foes just how responsive we are.”

“One of the reasons for these raids is to test our response,” agreed Sire Cei.  “For example, how quickly we can get men in the field, and how many.  And from where.  Ten men in the arms of the Magelord should be sufficient to demonstrate that.”

“For now.  I’m less worried about further raids and more worried about a peasant revolt.  That stupid lordling mismanaged the entire affair.  How I wished he’d followed Lord Vrey into exile!”

Lady Sarsa joined us in the garden that evening, having returned from a trip to Trestendor to see her brother.  She was even more incensed at the petty lord’s mistakes.  Everyone in the castle could hear her shriek at him and his wife after they sought her out, thinking she was the gentler , more sympathetic soul between lord and lady.  They were mistaken.

“It has taken months of careful work to even get the people of this domain to consider liking us,” she explained to me over drinks that night.  “I’ve made personal stops and distributed alms throughout the domain, but the people are very suspicious.”

“My lady wife enjoys a better reputation than I,” Roncil agreed.  “I am but a Wilderlands knight, to them.  She, at least, is Riverborn.”

“They will learn to follow you once they see you in battle, my love,” Sarsa assured him.  The two seemed like an odd couple – both were striking, more than attractive – but there was a lot of genuine affection in the union.  They were two powerful people who were courteously making room for each other in their lives.  The domain, despite its current antipathy, was prospering as a result.

“Farm production is actually up,” Roncil told us.  “The harvest this year should be bountiful, Huin willing.  And now that there aren’t a lot of whopping great garrisons to pay for, folk have a lot more for the table.  But it’s as if they’re waiting for me to suddenly turn into a monster and demand their daughters, or something.  There’s the beginnings of civility, but that’s a long way from trust.”

“They followed you into battle,” I reminded him.

“A few, and I had to bribe them heavily,” he reminded me.  “They’re among my most loyal men, and I still wouldn’t trust them to back me in a rebellion.  I don’t blame them for their mistrust, after what Lords Vrey and Gimbal did to them.  But they would be a damn sight easier to rule if they could accept that I’m not going away, nor am I planning on taxing them to starvation.”

“The people are angry about the incursion,” Lady Sarsa added.  “I’ve heard from them all the way back to the castle.  They’re outraged that Posendor would dare to attack us, and they’re outraged that their manor lord blamed them for the attack and did not mount a defense.  They barely consider the idea that their lord would avenge them.”

“A hundred men raiding a few manors in Posendor would teach them the cost of doing such business in Northwood again,” Sire Cei agreed.

“And invite greater retaliation,” I pointed out.  “I don’t want a war with Fleria, right now.  I’m still recovering from the one with West Fleria.”

“It likely will not come to open war, Sire,” Sire Cei tried to reassure me.  “Burn a few cots, trample a few fields—”

“Let’s see what Lorcus has to say,” I said, frowning at the casual way my castellan proposed punishing a neighbor by ruining the lives of people who had nothing to do with the quarrel.  We spent the rest of the afternoon in conference with the three Northwood peasants who represented the aggrieved folk of Jisket Village.  They were angry mostly about the haughty way that their lord had insisted they leave off burying their own dead and repairing their own hovels when his home had been damaged but lightly. 

The men weren’t timid in their assessment – they were peasants who were fed up with their overlord.  A far cry from open rebellion, perhaps, but if the attitude of these three ostensibly cool-headed leaders of the villeins were any indication, it wouldn’t take too many more missteps to see it happen.

“We have to do something about this,” I instructed Sir Roncil, after our meeting.  “You need to replace that man, at a minimum.”

“Agreed,” Roncil said, nodding.  “I’ve never particularly liked him, but I’ve had no cause to complain, until now.  That manor will cost some coin to replace, too.”

“Don’t worry about the money,” I promised.  “I’ll help rebuild it.  I just want the place run smoothly.  Think on with whom you will replace that ignorant little man, while I figure out how to deal with our foes to our best advantage.”

Lorcus reported back late that evening, mind-to-mind, after spending the afternoon interrogating the witnesses and the night haunting the taverns along the road that ran between Northwood and Posendor.  He didn’t disappoint me.

The men from Posendor were originally cronies of Lord Vrey who felt more loyalty to Fleria than to their lord – and none to Sevendor, naturally.  There were a few hundred of them that slipped over the frontier into Fleria and took up arms for Flerian lords.  The lord of Posendor, Nimrain, has taken quite a few of them into his service.  He’s also had designs on Northwood of his own, but had his hand stayed by the Warbird.  Now he sees opportunity, and has the men who are most familiar with the territory in position to attack it.

Where?

The estate is called Astine’s Tower, about a mile over the frontier and to the north.  And a smaller estate, Covrey Manor, to the south, where their leadership resides. 

And you’re sure about this?

They didn’t hesitate to brag, when I slipped over the border and bought a few rounds at their local tavern,
he assured me. 
They did it, and they expect to do more. 

Any hint of magic behind them?  It wouldn’t be the first time that the Censorate has used proxies to come at me.

No, I think this is just normal mortal naked opportunism.  They see Northwood as weakly held, and they think that Nimrain can carve off a few pieces of it, with their help.

Are they expecting reprisals?

Yes and no.  They don’t think that Sir Roncil has the stones to do anything, and they’re all a-bluster about what they’ll do to if he tries.

Let me think about this a bit.  I’ll be back to you shortly with orders.

I was in a delicate position.  If the residue of the Warbird’s reign was behind this trouble, then I risked open warfare with his brother if I attacked directly.  Yet if I did not attack him in reprisal, it would be seen as a sign of weakness by friend and foe alike.  I had to end this caper decisively, quickly, and to my advantage, or I would be fielding these petty challenges constantly.

I had one of the resident monks scare me up a map of the region from the castle’s records, and stared at it until late in the evening.  I had a plan before I went to bed. 

*                            *                            *

The next day was spent in preparation. 

I had Sir Roncil invite a dozen of his castle gentlemen and their squires to join us, in full armor, as we rode to inspect the damage.  Lorcus was waiting at the ruined manor hall when we arrived, having appropriated a cup and a bottle to pass the time. 

We went over the plan and had riders sent out in various directions to prepare.   I ordered the peasant militia in the area to be mobilized and issued them spears from the manor, and had Sir Festaran drill them in the commons.  For any casual observer, it appeared that we were getting ready for an assault.

As dusk fell, all of our men mobilized in front of the manor and began to ride and march away.

We didn’t go far.  I led them cross-country, crossing fields and meadows until we came out on a minor road in Posendor.  Well, not all of us.  Lorcus and Sir Ryff led a small team out in a different direction, with a different purpose.

An hour shy of midnight the first flames lit the night.  First near the village of Drune, where the flames climbed high enough to be seen more than a mile away, and then at the hamlet known as Himinsal, where the smoke billowed so thick in the night sky it blotted out the stars.  Alarms and bells were rung, and screams lingered in the air.

I had left the men in Sir Roncil’s charge, and he held them at the meadow we’d agreed upon while I went forward with the other warmagi to meet up with Lorcus where he’d set up.  If Lorcus’ plan worked, we wouldn’t need the troops.  If it didn’t, we’d need them desperately.  Sir Festaran, Sir Ryff, Lorcus and I huddled down behind some underbrush near the road and waited for the defenders to bravely come forth into the darkness.

Lorcus had predicated his plan on the eagerness with which the Posendori raiders had demonstrated for a chance to repel a raid in reprisal.  He understood my reluctance for taking life needlessly, and the warmage saw the entire exercise as a challenge to his abilities. 

He had seeded the roadway leading to the two villages with a suite of spells.  Once the flames and smoke and alarms were raised, it was inevitable that the raiders would spill out of their manors, looking for a fight.  Hells, they expected it.

So we gave them what they wanted . . . mostly.

When forty horsemen trot down a road toward danger, they generally don’t suspect anything until they actually get to the danger.  But a mile out from their respective homes, both parties of Posendori raiders ran into Lorcus’ spellfield . . . and suddenly none of their arms worked from the shoulders down.

Worse, from their perspective, was the fact that their horses were also affected.  Their hind legs worked fine, but their front legs just . . . stopped.

It took a few moments for the halted column to realize just what was going on, but by then it was too late.  Lorcus’ enchantment had taken hold.  The horses and the men both became quite agitated as their inability to move was realized.  We had a couple of good moments listening to the surprise, shock, dismay, and curses that were uttered from the men as they struggled with the spell.  Then we came out from the underbrush and presented ourselves.

“Gentlemen,” Lorcus began, “it seems you have a bit of a problem.”

“Gods damn you!  What have you done to us?” demanded their leader, a tall, older man who may have been a knight, once. 

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Lorcus continued in an utterly reasonable sort of voice.

“Waiting?  For what?”

“To accept your surrender,” Lorcus said, circling around to the front of the man.  The man’s horse was terrified at its inability to move.  The knight was merely irritated.

“Surrender?  Are you mad?  There are but four of you, to our forty!”

“So draw your blade and defend yourself, Sir,” requested Lorcus with a big grin on his face.