Castle War

Six The Plains of Merydion

He put down the chalk, picked up a dry cloth, and wiped the piece of slate, erasing the last part of the message. The sending technique was primitive, but it had worked.

He set the slate down and picked up his flagon of wine. He drank deeply. When the flagon was empty, he sat awhile in thought.

Presently he got up and left the tent.

Gart, the warlord, was seated by the fire gnawing a haunch of mutton. It was late, and most of Gart’s army was asleep. Campfires burned low on the plain. A hide-and-seek moon played in the clouds above. Out in the darkness, sentries walked the perimeter of the camp.

Gart looked up from his meal. He smiled, gap-toothed and devilish, his beard glistening with grease. “What goes, magician? Communicating with your spirits again?”

“No, I phoned home.”

“Eh?”

“Sent a message.” The magician sat down on a flat stone by the fire. “To my family.”

“Ah. Things go well, I trust.”

“No, unfortunately not. There is trouble, and I must leave to attend to it.”

Gart was dismayed. “But we fight in the morning!”

“My apprentices can handle it. Besides, you have the advantage in numbers.”

“I was counting on a supernatural advantage, magician.”

“You will have it. Fire spells, forfending spells, zone-of-death curses, everything.”

“But you are more skilled than any apprentice, and skill is all in these things.”

“The spells are simple, because magic — here, at least — is a simple matter. And not very potent, either. I have told you many times that if you win the day, it will be by dint of superior military talent and cunning. These you have in adequate supply.”

“That I’m capable is true enough. But any extra leverage, however slight, is desirable.” Gart threw down the haunch and picked up a wineskin. “I’m afraid you will have to stay, magician.”

The magician said quietly, “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”

Gart tilted the skin and a stream of wine poured into his mouth. He grimaced and spat it out, threw down the skin. “Soured! Damn that provisioner. I’ll have him hoisted by his stones and left to savor like a game hen.”

The magician was silent.

Avoiding the other man’s gaze, Gart searched the night sky. The fire crackled, and insects buzzed.

Suddenly the warlord’s head swung around, mouth twisted into a sneer. “Very well, go! You know I can’t force you to stay. Bear in mind, though — I won’t forget. When next the nobles sit in council, I will vote against you on every issue! I will be a thorn in your foot, a canker on your lip. I will block you!”

“You would do that, anyway.”

“I’ll … damn it all to hell!” Gart got to his feet, picked up the mutton and heaved it out into the darkness. Grunting in disgust, he stalked away.

The magician stared into the fire for a moment, watching it glow and pulsate and send puffs of smoke into the night — cryptic signals.

He went back to his tent and packed his things. He didn’t have much. He stuffed the satchel, gathered up his maps and battle plans, and left.

He went to Jarlen’s tent and woke him.

Jarlen blinked. “Master?”

“I’m leaving. Think you can carry on without me tomorrow?”

“You won’t be here?” Jarlen sat up. “I don’t know. I … I think so. Perhaps.”

“Uh, could you be more definite?”

Jarlen rubbed his eyes. Then he nodded. “I can do it.”

“That’s more like it.” He handed the boy a sheaf of papers. “Here are the battle plans. You’ve seen them before. Study them, then burn them before the battle. Draw your pentacles straight and true. And don’t muff any incantations. If you do, you’ll have to start over from the beginning.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. Get up. You’ve got work to do.”

Jarlen struggled out of his bedclothes.

“Come see me off, then go wake the other lads. You’ll need all their help.”

“Master, may I ask where you’re going?”

“Home.”

“Your estate?”

“My castle.”

“The one in a far country, where you are known by a different name?”

“That one.”

They walked to where the horses were tethered. The magician tied his satchel to the saddle, then mounted.

“Master?”

“Yes, Jarlen?”

“May I ask some questions which I have never dared ask you before?”

“Shoot.”

“Is it true what they say about your castle?”

“What do they say?”

“That it is enchanted, and that it is at the center of all things.”

“It’s very enchanted. And it is conveniently located.”

“Is your castle in this world or another?”

“Another.”

“How will you get there?”

“With great difficulty. In order to cast an effective teleportation spell, I must go to a place of power in this world.”

“Where?”

“The best candidate is the Temple of the Universes in Timur.”

“In the land of the ancient Mizzerites? But that is a journey of months, and you will have to go through enemy territory!”

“Tell me about it. The time element I think I can handle, though. I can go by way of Arvad and the Timeless Forest. If I can catch a hellwind, I can get to Timur in a matter of days.”

“But the Timeless Forest is dangerous.”

“Quite. Frankly I’m scared shitless. I don’t know what’s going to be worse, getting home or dealing with all the crap when I do get there.”

“You will succeed, Master. You are a great magician.”

“Well, thanks. By the way, forget the ‘Master’ stuff. Call me by my proper name. Incarnadine.”

Jarlen was awed. “You are the Incarnadine of legend?”

“Don’t take too much stock in legends, kid.”

“You speak strangely now, with a strange accent. You must be from another world.”

“I spent a lot of time on a different world from the one I was born in. It’s called Earth, and sometimes I fall into its speech patterns. Never mind, I must be going.”

Incarnadine looked out into the darkness, then turned again to his apprentice. “Good luck tomorrow, but let me tell you something. If Gart gets his ass beat, it’s no big deal. The barbarians just want a little fun. They have no intention of invading Merydion. This I know because I know their leader, Nagok. Met him when I was exploring the outlands. We used to go wenching together. Nice guy, if a little rough around the edges.”

“I will remember, Incarnadine.”

“Keep a tight anus.”

Incarnadine reined the horse’s head around and rode away.

Jarlen watched the man disappear into darkness. Then he calmly walked back to his tent. He needed more sleep.

To hell with Gart!