High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (64 page)

“So where is the little guy?” I asked, finally catching my breath.

“I have summoned him.  He will be here momentarily.”

“It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” I said, simply.  Beautiful didn’t begin to describe it, but that’s the best word that human language has contrived.   Anthatiel was a cunningly, exquisitely crafted city of stone, of surpassing beauty.  The island in the middle of the huge lake had been completely covered by a maze of domes, spires, vaults and citadels, each of a particular design and crafted of surpassing loveliness.  The skyline had the architectural beauty of a field of wildflowers graven in stone.

But the city’s purposeful beauty was nearly lost in the shadow of the grand vista around it.

The Tower of Vision was aptly named.  The gallery opened on a spectacular view of the lake – now frozen to bitter whiteness – with stark gray cliffs miles in the distance.   We were facing east, toward the one true rent in the steep-sided lake valley.  Two severe edifices of solid rock framed the beautifully wild country beyond like a painting.  At the bottom of the cliffs were two mighty battlements made of the same stone.  They had to be at least ten stories high themselves, but they were dwarfed by the cliffs to which they were attached. 

From each, running half way up the length of the battlements, were two massive gates thick enough that I could see the individual spars of the gate two miles away. They extended into the lake below, and were broad enough to allow a ship of great size to pass, if one should chance by.  But they were both frozen in place, useless. 

As majestic as the landscape view and the gates were, the real attraction were the five great waterfalls that tumbled over the cliffs periodically around the great gray bowl.  The lake they splashed into, in happier times, was at least twenty square miles, the parts that I could see.  The waterfalls had not been affected by the spell and continued to spill . . . but the moment the water touched the surface, it froze.  Huge columns of ice were creeping upward from the frozen lake surface.  It would have been impressive enough as liquid, but as ice it was a magnificent, brilliant view.

“My home, once,” she said, wistfully.  “I grew up on an estate on the northeastern shore.  I saw the city lights every night as I went to sleep.  I loved the years I spent here during my education.  I left, after an argument with my father.  It has endured a thousand years.  It should endure a thousand more.  If we can stop this army.”

“That is not your concern, Daughter,” Lord Aeratas said, sternly from behind us.  “Anthatiel is mine to protect.  You gave up that responsibility when you left.  I’ve already told you that I will not cede my city before the first blow has fallen.  Why have you returned?”

“I thought Master Minalan might convince you,” she said, taking my arm.  “He, more than anyone, knows what we face if we remain here.”

The old Alkan lord looked at me harshly.  “And you would have me flee?”

“Me?” I asked.  “No.  But I would evacuate your noncombatants.”

Fallawen looked at me as if I’d betrayed her.  I shook her off.  “Look, your daughter asked me to speak to you, and I will.  But I keep my own counsel.  She is correct: the force arrayed against you is vast, strong, and potent.  They’re also driven in ways I can only imagine, with the displeasure of Shereul to keep their feet moving.  Your best natural defense has been rendered useless.  They have to get through the wilderness, I know, but they’re equipped for that. 

“So your choices are to run or fight, because I foresee that negotiations will not be productive.  Sending your noncombatants to safety makes sense.  Running away yourself?  With whatever force you possess? That I do not counsel.  Shereul must be beaten, and I’ve risked my own life again and again to do so.  I am not happy he’s turned his attention to you,” I promised, “but you have more might to meet him with than I ever will.  If anyone can turn the tide in this war, it’s Anthatiel.  Send for your allies—”

“I have,” he said, flatly.  “Anas Yartharel sent a few warriors.  None of the other kindreds have done as much.”

“Then Anthatiel must fight alone.  But fight it must.”

“Master Minalan! That is
not
what I brought you here to say!” Fallawen said, crossly.

“That is my counsel,” I shrugged.  “As bold a move as this is on Shereul’s part, I think he’s drastically mis-calculated.  Whatever element of surprise he had is now lost.  But while you don’t have much time and your defenses are compromised, you still have enough time to mount a credible defense.”

“And how would the Spellmonger defend our realm, in my place?” Aeratas asked, amused.  I think he was pleased with how I had shaken off his daughter. 

“Me? I would contest every foot of land from the escarpment to your gate,” I suggested.  “Send out your . . . whatever it is you people call your rangers.  Set traps.  Sabotage them.  Raid them.  They are expecting you to sit back and serenely rebuke them arcanely – show them that you can defend your territory as tenaciously as any gurvani tribe. 

“And then once they finally made it to you gate, make it the damnedest fight they’ve ever imagined.  You have thousands of years of history to call upon and songspells I can’t even imagine to inflict upon them.  Pour forth what powers of destruction you have at your disposal and make them fear your might.”

“This . . . this is counsel I can heed,” he said, with a hint of a smile.

“Father!  Master Minalan! Will you not see reason? The gurvani will overwhelm you here! The gates are frozen open! The lake is frozen solid!  The spectra no longer protect us!  They’ll be able to walk right up to your chamber door!”

“They will not get here unchallenged,” he resolved.  “This . . . this humani shape,” he said, uncomfortably.  “Does it make you stronger?”

“It is . . . it does,” she admitted.  “Stronger, taller, faster in some ways.  The limitations on intellect are annoying,” she pointed out, “and the . . . emotion is distracting.  But there is no denying that the humani bodies are very strong.”

“Strong enough to fight the gurvani tooth and claw?” he asked, appraisingly.

“That has been my duty for three years now, Lord Aeratas,” I nodded. 

“If we evacuate the noncombatants, we will have fewer than six thousand Alkan to defend the citadel,” he said, quietly.  “Only half of those can be considered trained warriors.  If I heed your counsel, Spellmonger, I will need every advantage.  The council relaxed the prescription on transgenic enchantments.  If my people transform themselves into . .
. this
,” he said, wrinkling what little nose his diminutive form possessed, “then we would possess considerable advantage on the ice.”

“More than they anticipate,” I agreed, a little reluctantly.  “A humani form gives you significant advantage in hand-to-hand combat.  With the songspells to help . . . well, Onranion seemed pretty fond of skewering gurvani with his greatsword, and he came through the battle of Gavard without a scratch.”

“Then I shall procure one.  And whatever other accoutrements that I need to fit that form.  For I will wear whatever form is necessary to defend my city, and bear appropriate arms to do so.  I will not let that . . . that
filth
sully the island my sires built out of the naked rock!” he said, as defiantly as any hill chieftain. 

“But what of the noncombatants?  Women and children?” I asked.  “Surely they can be transported to safety.  Master Haruthel could take some.  There are other refuges.”

“If we are to make a defense, then I would do so without that worry,” he agreed.  He turned to his much-taller daughter.  “Will this pacify you then, Fallawen?”

“For the moment,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.  “Father, I do not wish to see you throw your life away in a pointless battle!”

“Fighting for one’s home is not pointless,” he said, solemnly.  “Curse me for a barbarian humani, but I shall not be driven from my lands by an Abomination.  I would rather perish in defense than concede before a blow has been struck.”

“I . . . I see the wisdom in that,” she agreed, sullenly.  “But I wish it were not so.”

“I wish this whole situation wasn’t so, but the gods don’t seem to listen to me,” I grunted.  “If this is settled, I’d like to get back to my own part in the war.  My king is being stubborn, and I have to convince him that sitting on his hands instead of seizing the initiative is the wiser course of action.”

“May the gods speed your journey, then, Spellmonger,” Lord Aeratas said, nodding.  He held up the jewel I gave him, still on its silver chain.  “I have used this several times.  It has proven very useful.  I never expected it might.  So too has counsel come from the unlikeliest of quarters, and perhaps it proves useful, too.  Farewell, Spellmonger,” he said, and sang a little tune.

Before I could say or do anything, I was being hurtled into the magical aperture – or whatever it was – of the Alkan waypoint.  I panicked.  For three heartbeats.  Then I was face down in the sweet grass of Sevendor, high atop Matten’s Helm, Lesgathael  towering above me as I lay face-down in the middle of an Alkan garden.

A pity it was raining so much.

I’m sure Lord Aeratas would be amused.  I wasn’t.  I didn’t see anyone around, so I brushed as much mud off my armor as I could, picked Blizzard up off the ground, and started the long walk down the hill.

*                            *                            *

It was good to be home, even for a short time.  I played with the babies and puppies and properly greeted my wife, had my armor repaired and polished, and made reports to important people about the important things they needed to be aware of to make important decisions. 

The news was simple:  the Alka Alon would stand and fight.  Pentandra was ecstatic.  Terleman was hopeful.  Rard could care less.  He wanted to talk about the upcoming royal wedding.

Me, I was frustrated.  I felt helpless in the face of events – there wasn’t even a really compelling reason for me to journey back to Gilmora.  All of this supposed power at my disposal, and I couldn’t do anything with it.

How would I help Aeratas and glorious Anthatiel against the gurvani?  Against dragons?  Forewarning him may have helped a little – and undoubtedly saved lives – but how could we turn this to an advantage?  I asked myself (and everyone around me with an opinion) for suggestions.  I got a few.  None of them were particularly helpful.

But I couldn’t give up.  There had to be a way to influence events – to save the Alkan city and destroy as much of Shereul’s army as we could. Sitting south of the Poros and mopping up goblin messes was not the most prudent use of our resources.  I had more irionite than the later Magocracy.  I had a pouch full of uniquely magical stones that could do miraculous things. There had to be a way to use them to change this situation, somehow.  Figuring out how occupied my thoughts constantly.

I stumbled through a hundred different – and equally unlikely – scenarios.  The problem was the army was moving too fast and was too big.  Every hour I delayed, the gurvani went further up the river.  As much power as I had, I was impotent to stop it.  That was what was frustrating me. 

I couldn’t sleep.  After Alya gave me one hell of a welcome-home-from-battle reunion, I could not force myself to sleep.  My mind would not turn loose of the problem.  I stared at the ceiling until I got sick of it.  I got up without waking my wife, summoned a dim magelight, and went for a walk.  Nowhere in particular, I just wanted to be elsewhere.  My bedroom is not where I want to be pensive and contemplative.  It sets a poor precedent.  I slipped on my slippers and started walking.

I found myself in the chapel.  I almost passed by like I usually did, heading for the kitchens.  For some reason I stopped and went in.  I spellbound the door to keep from being disturbed.

It was empty, of course, at this hour.  The priestess would not be in to sing the lauds of dawn for hours.  I lit a candle in front of the altar and tried to figure out to which god I wanted to talk.

It wasn’t an exercise I indulged in frequently.  Apart from the usual celebrations and festivals, my religious life was minimal.  I’d had the chapel built as a boon to the folk of the castle, and to give Sister Bemia and the other clergy a place to hold sacred rites and instruction.  There were idols to a great many gods there, ready to be placed on the all-purpose altar. 

I looked at their sculpted faces, the expressions of humanity, divinity, and serenity that the artist had thought best captured the essence of the divine.  With whom would it be best to consult for this particular problem, I wondered.  Luin, the Lawgiver?  I doubt Shereul would respond to a court summons.  Duin, the Destroyer?  “Kill them all!” was easy to say, but Duin’s strengths were naked force and valiance.  I didn’t see how that could be helpful, here.

Huin the lord of agriculture wasn’t helpful – I couldn’t plant my way out of this problem.  Similarly, I didn’t see how the youngest brother of the four, Kulin, could help.  The patron of horse thieves and lone travelers was unlikely to offer advice that didn’t involve horses or roadways.  Their uncle the sea god wasn’t going to be much help for similar reasons.  Trygg was for marriage and family, Ovartas Skyfather was for celestial matters and sheep, Herus could recommend a good inn but was useless for military endeavors, and Ishi could get me laid. 

None of them had any particular bearing on the subject, save Duin, and I already knew how to hit things really hard and die bravely in battle.