High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (46 page)

“I . . . I am unable!” the knight sputtered.  “Damn you!  What have you done to my arms?”

“A minor spell – I am an agent of the Spellmonger, you see.  Warmage Lorcus.  That puts you in a very poor position, when it comes to just who outnumbers whom.  None of your men are able to use their arms now.”  As if to illustrate the point, two of his men fell off of their horses as they tried to struggle against the spell.  They flopped around on the road like fish out of water.  “What is your name, sir?” Lorcus continued.

“I . . . I am Sir Gors of Posen.  My brother is Lord of Posen.”

“Then you, sir, are my prisoner.  As are all of your men.”

“But . . . but I did not surrender!”

“Neither did you defend yourself,” pointed out Lorcus, drawing a wicked-looking knife from his belt.  “Indeed, there is nothing to stop me from cutting your fingers off of your hand, one at a time, while you watch,” he added, picking up Sir Gors’ lifeless left hand from where it sprawled on his thigh.  The Posendori knight’s brow broke out in sweat as the sharp blade slid close to the knuckle of his pinkie.

“Don’t worry,” Lorcus said, in soothing tones, “you won’t feel any pain.  Not until the spell wears off.  Until then, you’ll be able to watch without its distraction.”  The blade bit, gently, and a drop of blood stained the knife.

“I yield!”
Sir Gors said, hurriedly.  “This is sorcery, but you have me at a disadvantage, sir.  Leave off your mutilation, I yield.  Me and my men,” he spat, defeated.

“You are the same ones who were responsible for the raid on Northwood a few nights ago, were you not?”

The knight chewed his lip stubbornly, but then gave a curt nod.  “Then you are legitimate prisoners of the Baron of Sevendor.  It is up to him to set your ransom.”

“Oh, I think two hundred ounces of gold per man will suffice,” I offered, stepping out of the shadows.  For effect I cast a bright magelight overhead, and allowed my sphere to float freely behind me.  “That should comfort the bereaved, rebuild some homes, and repair the manor.”

“Why, that’s outrageous!” sputtered Sir Gors.  “You could purchase the entire domain for that much coin!  That would bankrupt me!”

“If you and your men are unable or unwilling to pay,” I considered, “I think we can find a decent solution.  If you were to volunteer for service in the Iron Band for a year, I could be persuaded to forgive your ransoms.  Otherwise, I expect to see them each paid in full by the time of Sevendor’s Magic Fair.  Either ransoms or show up ready for duty,” I offered.

The Iron Band’s term of service included, as an incentive to recruitment, the forgiveness of financial debt in return for service to the crown.  It filled the corps with poor gamblers and bad businessmen, but it turns out poor luck with dice or tournament ransoms had little to do with a man’s willingness to fight.

“That’s outrageous!” Gors repeated.  “For one little raid?”

“That left ten or more dead,” I countered.  “Those people were under my protection.  I am within my right to slit every one of your men’s throats, if it suits me, I remind you sir.  It is a token of my grace and my dedication to civility that I have not.  Instead I have not just given you an honorable way out of your crimes, but offered you a choice of payment.  Either way,” I added, darkly, “that will be the last time you ever bear arms against my barony again, or you will discover just how limited my grace can be.”

The man was silent in the magelight for several moments while he considered the matter.  Around him his men were getting increasingly antsy as they contended with being unable to move their arms.  Nor were their beasts any happier.  The horses had no idea why they could not go forward, and they were starting to panic.

“I suggest you are expedient with your deliberations, Sir Gors,” Lorcus urged, then added in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “it won’t be terribly long before forty pairs of balls start to itch . . . and have no recourse.”  That brought a chorus of miserable groans, both from men who were experiencing the torment and the men who hadn’t considered it, yet.

“Very well!” Sir Gors finally said, with a growl.  “You have captured us.  You have a right to set our ransoms, or the terms of our parole.  And we will not take up arms against Sevendor again,” he pledged, “you have my word as a knight.”

“Very good,” I smiled.  “And to ensure your compliance in good faith, we’ll just go ahead and give you mage marks.  They will be removed once the conditions of ransom have been met.”  That brought another chorus of groans.  My mage marks were getting a reputation.  They didn’t hurt anyone – but the designs etched into the capillaries of the faces of the offenders trumpeted their debt to me for all to see.  It was a visible, unforgettable reminder that the bearer owed a debt to a mage. 

There were still folks who thought they could escape the consequences of their actions.  Sir Ganulan, a disgraced knight I had defeated in single combat, had been fleeing the magemark on his face for two years now.  Word was he was overseeing an illegal snowstone mine for a while.  Now he was an outlaw in the Bontal backcountry, my stars and snowflakes reminding everyone of his debt.

The men watched helplessly as Lorcus calmly went from one to another, accepted terms individually, and cast the spell that marked them.  Each man left the road that night with a big red snowflake on their brow, a token to be removed only once their ransom was paid – or they enlisted with the Iron Band.  It was a bit of humiliation, perhaps, but only a bit.  Traditionally I should have had them all executed for the raid.  They were getting off light, and they knew it.

“There, now,” he said, addressing them all after he finished the last man.  “I expect to see all of you back in Sevendor in time for the Magic Fair.  Pay your ransom or go to war. If you gentlemen make war half as lustfully on gurvani as you do on civilian peasants, I have no doubt you will have the war won in no time,” he added, harshly. 

“Now,” he said, dropping the paralysis spell, “go home. And don’t ever consider bearing arms against Sevendor again, or next time the Spellmonger won’t be as merciful!” He added a flashing cantrip to punctuate his point.  The horses, suddenly able to move again, all panicked and ran bearing their defeated riders home.

“Nice touch,” I smiled, as I lit my pipe.  “That cantrip.”

“Pure showmanship, but it helps drive home my point,” he said, proudly. 

“That was a classy engagement,” agreed Sir Festaran, admiringly.  “What a gentlemanly way to handle inter-domain conflict.”

“Not quite the majesty of a champion’s duel, but it achieved the purpose.  And it kept us from slaughtering those idiots, when they could be fighting the Dead God,” Lorcus said.  “It also won’t provoke the Baron of Fleria the way a general slaughter would.  If we’d killed them, then the Baron would be obligated to respond to the affront.  Likely with a war.  This way he has no men to avenge.  Due to their own actions they were captured and ransomed.  A year in the Penumbra will help give them perspective when it comes to other people’s lives and property.”

We made our way back through Northwood, stopping to inform the peasantry that they had nothing more to fear from Posendor.  Sir Roncil was equally pleased.  He had not relished the thought of fighting to keep his new domain so soon, with such disheartened and ambivalent men under his command.  This incident was a test of his abilities as a feudal lord, and he had rightly kicked the decision to act upstairs to me.  But his people would fault him, not me, if more of their cots were burned.

The solution Lorcus had come up with was popular – I made certain of it.  While Northwood Castle lacked in many ways, it did have a full-time minstrel.  I paid the man twenty ounces of silver to compose a ditty about the event that cast Roncil and I in a good light.  Nothing inspires like good coin, and by the next dusk it was being sung in town.  In a week it was being sung all over Northwood – a cute little song about how Posendor sent fire to Northwood, and how the Spellmonger turned the raiders into snowflakes, instead.

“But if you had them at your mercy, why not just slit their throats as an example?” Sir Roncil asked me the next day, with all of the delicacy of a Wilderlands knight. 

“Because that’s not the kind of baron I am,” I replied.  “And that isn’t the kind of barony Sevendor is.  Those men didn’t do anything your own men wouldn’t, if ordered.  I wanted to correct the behavior, not get drawn into a stupid war.  They couldn’t become better men with slit throats.”

“Diplomacy at this level is a delicate matter,” Lorcus agreed.  “We wish to build a stronger greater Sevendor.  We do that by protecting what we have, not risking it in futile battles.  We effectively deprived Fleria of the use of those men, which is bad enough.  But we did so in such a way as to avoid their enmity or desire for vengeance.  We want to cultivate good relations with Posendor’s people, even as we contend with her leadership.”

“As far as your own people go,” I continued, “while I am not in the habit of telling my vassals how to run their domains, I would strongly recommend you get rid of that pipsqueak lord and replace him . . . with the head of the peasant’s committee.”

“What?” asked Sir Roncil, scandalized and alarmed.

“Look, your people aren’t going to trust anyone you place over them,” I reasoned.  “Any man you hire for the job will get cheated and conspired against, because that’s what those folk are used to doing.  One lord’s oppression is just like another’s. 

“But by appointing one of their own to the position, you not only keep that from happening, you make their success their responsibility.  If the man succeeds, you win.  If he fails, then the people cannot fault you for not trying.  More than likely he’ll succeed, if the incentives are great enough.  And if he’s as dedicated to his fellows as he says he is, then they will be obligated to assist his efforts, not work counter to them.”

“That is . . . a radical proposal,” Sir Roncil said, uneasily.  “If there is no lord, locally, then—”

“You are from the Wilderlands, my friend,” I pointed out.  “Feudal matters there are simple: a man works or a man fights.  Here, things are more nuanced.  Yes, no lord will be over them, locally.  And yes, it may evolve into a commune – such things happen in the Riverlands, and prove to be quite profitable, if you do it right.”

“It is worth the trial, if I may say so, my lord,” Sir Festaran agreed.  “I spoke with the peasant committee, and while they may be ignorant of most matters, they seem quite opinionated on the proper running of the manor.  When I inquired as to how they could run it better, if they had a multitude of ideas.  Some were even sound, perhaps.  Allowing them the freedom to run the place according to their natural wisdom may prove enlightening, if not profitable.”

“I don’t know,” Sir Roncil said, frowning.  “It seems a dangerous precedent . . .”

“The alternative is a surly population and a corrupt official,” I pointed out.  “This way, if you appoint the biggest troublemaker to be your man, not only have you gained an employee, you have lost an adversary.  The people will cheer you for indulging their grievances, opposition to your rule will be lessened, and if they fail . . . punish them as you would any other servant who failed you.”

“I . . . I think I see what you are saying,” agreed Roncil, reluctantly.  He was a knight.  I didn’t expect leaps of imagination from someone whose vocation involved voluntarily being hit in the head.  But he was also an able-enough lord.  “I will consider your proposition,” he agreed, at last.  “In truth, productivity at that manor has been flagging for years, if the records are to be believed.  If a man following his own interests is the one making the decisions, then perhaps he can turn it around.”

“It bears trying,” agreed Sir Festaran.  “And with the support and blessing of the baron, the peasants must take the attempt seriously.”

“I’ll speak with them before I leave, if that will help,” I offered.  “But I do need to get back to Sevendor.  This has been an unexpectedly amusing diversion, but that damned Magic Fair is mere weeks away, and there’s still months’ worth of work ahead before we get there.”

Chapter Twenty

The Madness Of Dunselen

The days leading up to the Magic Fair were hectic, considering the combined nature of the event.  It had doubled in size in three short years, and was rapidly becoming one of the most important events on the arcane social calendar.  For weeks leading up to the event the road was filled with wains and pack traders, and the inns were filled to capacity.  Even the new Hall of the Secret Tower was occupied, as Pentandra and her entourage made their way to Sevendor.

The festivities began with a fete in my honor – our honor – as my friends, neighbors, and vassals trooped to the castle for an official feast and tournament.  The listfield had come together nicely, once the Karshak had pitched in with a day’s labor to finish the reviewing stand three days before the feast.  It would have been done sooner, but the harvest was pressing.  The tournament itself was small, with only twenty-two combatants taking the field.  The prize was a meager magic blade.  I’d enchanted it myself.  It glowed on command, and would produce a loud, magically-augmented bang if struck soundly, which could be distracting, but was otherwise unremarkable.

Instead of a traditional sword competition, the combatants fought with mageblades.  That was actually more interesting to watch, as there were no restrictions as to the other enchantments the combatants used, provided they were non-lethal.  I saw several spectacular duels that day, as the warmagi of the kingdom did their best to impress me and my guests.