Knights Magi (Book 4) (53 page)

Do that,
agreed Master Minalan
.  In truth, I almost wish you weren’t going.  I could use your help.
 
I’m going to have my hands full with the new baby, the Alon embassy, giant eagles, stumbling apprentices, a moody wife, sneaky queens, weird happenings in the forest, riotous River Folk, and stubborn Karshak.  Just wait until you see who won the Spellmonger’s Trial this year, too.  But once you get back from Gilmora – assuming for the moment that you will come back from Gilmora – then we’ll sit down and discuss your progress.  Both of your progress.  And your future in Sevendor.

That . . . that sounds ominous, Master,
Tyndal observed.

It was meant to,
growled Master Minalan. 
Don’t think that just because you’ve managed to get through your basic training that you’ve progressed beyond my criticism. 

Tyndal swallowed. 
Never, Master!

Good to hear it.  Now finish up what you were doing and make haste for Sevendor.  You depart from here in five days.  You should be back in
Barrowbell within two weeks.  From there on you’re Terleman’s problem.

Master Minalan ended the discussion and Tyndal opened his eyes.  Rondal hadn’t even realized he’d been communicating.

“It looks like your virtue is spared a challenge from Andrus,” he said, “Master Minalan just recalled us to Sevendor.”

“Why?”

“We’re being deployed.  To Gilmora.  So I hope you enjoyed Lady Thena’s charms, because somehow I think it will be awhile before you get the opportunity again.”

What was worse, Tyndal realized, was that now that they were deployed, they were unlikely to be around Ramoth’s Wood come the equinox.   It was unlikely that he’d be able to collect on Lady Kresdine’s debt. Well . . . perhaps he’d visit her on his return. 

If not, he realized, there were hundreds of castles and thousands of manors across the Kingdom stuffed with ladies as fair or fairer than those of Ramoth’s Wood.  It would be a shame not to investigate such places, he reasoned.  Errantry truly was its own reward, as Sire Cei had told him.  And Tyndal planned on getting as much reward as he could.

PART IV:

MISSION

Gilmora, early Autumn

Year II of Rard II’s Reign

Rondal

“The gurvani have stopped advancing from last year’s positions,” Commander Terleman said as he displayed the magemap of the region in front of them.  “After the Dragonfall, they went into cantonments scattered across northern and western Gilmora.  Captured castles and manors, mostly, but some caves and woods, as well.  We thought they were resting up for a fresh push this spring, but . . . well, instead they’ve looted bare what they’ve captured.”

“And sent raiders against the surrounding settlements,” added Marshal Brendal, the new military commander of the campaign.  He was a local man, a baron whose lands lay in the eastern part of the war zone.  Count Salgo had appointed him and  he seemed an able commander.  Of course, anyone could seem an able commander in a tent, Rondal thought.  “We didn’t think anything of it at the time.  Just stirring up trouble, picking off some easy rations.  But they weren’t just stealing chickens.  Those scrugs were taking inventory.”

“As soon as the ground thawed this spring,” Terleman continued, “the expected offensive south didn’t come.  Instead they began to systematically loot the country bare.  Horses, cows, sheep, even some grain, but . . . mostly they came for people.   Wherever there was a large settlement, they attacked in force.  And then forced a surrender.  One of their dark priests, or one of their human lackeys—”

“They’re using humans as messengers now?” asked Tyndal, surprised. 

“They’re using humans in the field, now,” Brendal said, darkly.  “Light cavalry, mostly.  But they’re also using them to process the slaves, as they come in.  A whole . . . evil syndicate.”

“The Soulless,” sneered Tyndal.

“Not all,” countered Brendal.  “The Goblin King’s banner attracts those with evil in their hearts.  Not all of his servants have survived the sacrifice pits.  Some seek power or wealth or release of their debts.  Who knows what such folk find alluring?  But they coffle their fellow men together like cattle and lead them up the Timber Road.  The Murder Road, they call it, now,” the Marshal said, grimly.

“And some warmagi among them,” agreed Terleman.  “There are those who are impatient for how the Arcane Orders distribute witchstones.  The rangers of the Iron Ring have discovered several such in the Penumbra, seeking to slay a shaman.  Or willing to offer themselves in service directly.  Thankfully we’ve seen only a few of them in Gilmora.  But the Dead God’s priests cast spells on whole villages, then capture them without slaying them.  They fall asleep and awaken in chains. 

“Or they are surrounded and offered a bargain,” Terleman said, shaking his head.  “An emissary will approach under a flag of truce and proposes that half of the people will be allowed to flee if the other half are surrendered to them.”

“Of course the second half rarely sees freedom, nor should they,” Brendal said, nastily.  He thought ill of such victims, seeing them as traitors to their race.  “But thanks to their games most of northern Gilmora is depopulated.  The fields lie fallow, the castles empty or occupied.  A few remote locations still stand, but only at the goblins’ sufferance.”

“Probably securing the most prosperous estates for later, “ Rondal observed.

“That’s what we figure,” agreed Terleman.  “In the Penumbra the survivors are put under some token human lord, usually Soulless, with a garrison of gurvani to keep everyone peaceful.  Some very well-run estates, from what I understand.  But the sheer number of people they’ve . . . harvested is appalling.  Our estimates are in the tens of thousands.”

“And the ones they haven’t gotten are crowding into the rest of Gilmora,” added Brendal.  “Where they’ll be nice and ready for next year’s harvest.”

“That’s assuming they continue their advance,” Tyndal said, looking at the map thoughtfully.  “What if their goal is merely to keep Gilmora depopulated?”

“And do what?” Rondal scoffed.  “Extend the Penumbra?”

“Essentially,” Tyndal agreed.  “Extend their area of influence.  We’ve beaten them at several key engagements, and their dragons aren’t as effective as they thought.  Maybe they’re getting over-extended.”

“That’s one theory, and a popular one,” Terleman said as he closed the map.  “They’ve sent hundreds of thousands of troops into the field, now.  And they have been extending their supply chains through foraging and pillaging.  There have even been reports of different tribes fighting each other, may they gods bless their efforts.

“But another theory is that they are preparing for a more concentrated thrust south next year, now that the resistance in the area has been led away in chains.  They won’t be able to continue without confronting more serious fortifications than the moated manors of northern Gilmora.  And a few rivers where we hold the bridges.”

“So what can we do?” asked Rondal.  That was the big question.  Why did a master warmage like Terleman need a couple of half-trained runts like him and Tyndal?

“We need to establish an outpost deep in their rear,” answered Terleman, tapping on the map with his finger.  “Someplace quiet, where we can scout, perhaps launch attacks from.  Actually we need several, but I want you lads to scout the first one.  We need to find out what the gurvani are up to in their largest cantonments.  Find out who is still holding out behind their lines, how secure they are, what help they need and what we can expect from them.

“So we want you two to lead a force to do just that.  Establish a secure base in Northern Gilmora, begin gathering intelligence, help the survivors plot a strategy for resistance.  But most importantly . . . find out what the scrugs are really up to.  See what we have to look forward to, next spring.”

“And you need both of us to do it?” Tyndal asked, eyeing Rondal.  Rondal felt disgusted with his fellow.  It was clear to him what the utility of the mission was, and why they had been chosen to lead it.

“It’s an important mission,” Terleman reasoned.  “And dangerous.  There’s not going to be much hope of support, once you’re out there.  Odds are, one of you is likely to get killed.”

Tyndal looked puzzled.  “Well, it’s a warzone.  I still don’t see why you’re sending both of us.”

“I like having a spare.”

Rondal almost gloated at Tyndal over that.  Almost.

“Sir Tyndal, I want you to take a cavalry squad up through Dendara to Castle Hathyn.  Gather intelligence along the way and make daily dispatches.  At Hathyn, you’ll pick up another squad of cavalry and a baggage train – the supplies will be waiting.  Then you’ll escort them west through goblin country all the way to here . . . the barony of Losara.  There are several manors in the vicinity that might serve our need as a base – we have a list to choose from.  But it is far enough away from their larger cantonments in Murai and Daronel to avoid notice, yet close enough to spy upon them.”

“And while Sir Tyndal leads his expedition of horse,” Marshal Brendal said, clearing his throat, “Sir Rondal will be awaiting him with a contingent of foot.  A squad of medium infantry, plus a few rangers.  You’ll go with pack horses overland and establish the base.”

“Me?” Rondal asked, surprised.   “I get to go in first?”

“Isn’t that the more glorious place in battle?” Tyndal smirked 

“We’re trying to
avoid
open battle,”  Terleman said.  “Remember, we’re there to scout, not to raid.  Or at least not yet.  But we need someone competent on the ground who can see to the establishment of a base of operations.  From what your masters at Relan Cor said, Sir Tyndal, you’re just the man for the job.”

“They did?” he asked, surprised.

“They
did?”
Tyndal asked, confused.

“They did,” Terleman assured them both.  “Rondal’s report listed outstanding leadership and tactical abilities, good command instincts, adept at logistics and fortifications.  And an excellent grasp of intelligence and strategy.”

“And what did they say about me?” asked Tyndal, his nostrils flaring.

“That it would be handy to have a spare,” shot Terleman, annoyed.  “You
both
bring value to the operation.  We’re going to need a secure base and we’re going to need a small, deadly mobile force for future intelligence and resistance operations.  You’re to establish that base, secure some secondary outposts, and begin relaying field intelligence.  Including assisting any surviving refugees in escaping south.  Eventually, we can use the outposts for offensive operations against their cantonments, but right now we only have a vague idea where they are.”

“Just how long are you anticipating us being deployed?” Rondal asked.  The scope of what the commander desired from them was more open-ended than he preferred.  He did not see the task as insurmountable, but he did not particularly want to winter in a secret base, even in Gilmora’s mild clime. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t be there forever, but we need you to set it up,” soothed the head of the Kingdom’s magical corps.  “But that’s why we need you, specifically.  You two are among the few who understand how the gurvani fight, and how they use magic.   Once you get the outpost set up, you can be relieved by a non-magical commander, but having your eyes in the field will be more valuable than most.”  The warmage didn’t sound pleased by making the admission.  He was a young man, around the same age as their master, but he had been given responsibility almost as great as Master Minalan.  And far more oversight.

“So when can we expect reinforcements?” asked Rondal, suspiciously. 

“In three or four weeks,” Brendal offered.  “Assuming that we find the place useful, we can get the men, and you aren’t all wiped out to the last man.”

“It’s us!” Tyndal boasted.  “What’s the likelihood of that happening?”

“That’s what happened last time we tried this tactic,” Terleman pointed out.  “Lost contact, and the next ranger patrol found the whole company slaughtered in their beds.”

“Oh,” Rondal said in a daze.

“I’m sure it was just bad luck,” dismissed Tyndal, after a reflective pause in the conversation grew uncomfortable.

*
                            *                            *

Maramor Manor was a stately, prosperous home, once, Rondal decided, but that had been before the goblin invasion had swept over it, the defense had swept back, and then back over it again.  It was a proud lady, harshly-used, and the secluded estate showed its distress appallingly. 

The once-meticulously maintained greenery along the roadway was hacked and chewed or overgrown.  Grass had begun to sprout along the dirt path leading to its brown stone walls.  There was no stock in sight, not a sheep or pig or cow.  The fields were empty, unplowed and unplanted, and the village a burnt-out ruin. 

No one challenged them as they cautiously approached.  Rondal’s scrying had revealed little evidence of goblins within, although he could not be certain.  That they had been here in the past there was no doubt.  The big wooden gate had been rent away.  The house had been sacked, and sacked again, until all that was left was debris and the remains of once-hidden camps of refugees within.  Broken furniture and empty grain sacks littered the grounds, and carcasses - human, animal, and goblin -  rotted into tangled parcels of skin and bones.