a surfeit of wizards 23+

 

Chapter 23

 

If you ever get the opportunity to travel with an army on the march, find an excuse to avoid it. We had no choice, but I was taken aback at how slow it all was. It was forty miles to the camp at the border; and I was told this would take three days to accomplish.

“Three days?” I yelped. “I could walk it in one.”

“Yes, but the horses need to be rested and fed, and watered, and cooled, and the waggons carrying food and other supplies can’t go very fast,” explained Beretrulle.

I learned more about horses and armies than I ever wanted to.  I already knew that for something stuffed with hay, horses were incredibly hard and uncomfortable; now I found out just how much it took to care for the poor delicate creatures. We might as well have been riding court ladies for the amount of trouble they were. I also discovered that to keep one cavalryman or foot soldier in the field took six other civilians along. We had cutlers, sutlers, and probably butlers, farriers, horse doctors, wheelwrights, blacksmiths, armourers, foragers, men with notebooks and harried expressions, physicians, potstirrers, alchemists, war wizards, general wizards, cooks, carpenters, leatherworkers, and the boy who sharpened the quills and pencils. It was almost like a moving court, only we had no underlickspittles. Some of the junior officers came close, though.

We also had the world’s biggest jerk.

He was a young heavy cavalry officer who declared that armoured divisions were the epitome of a modern army, backed up by suitable magic. His name was Romerion, which I am sure you all realise is a wizarding name, so presumably he had flunked out of the academy and resumed his family noble profession of cavalryman with a helmet heavy enough to depress any native wit which might have attempted to crawl forth.  I suspected that he had failed the academy from the assumption that he knew it all and a failure to study rather than any innate lack in magical ability; at least, his general attitude was of one who should be kindly telling Beretrulle what to do, and he frequently interrupted with ‘If I may suggest,’ or ‘you might wish to…’ which drove Beretrulle sufficiently to distraction to tell him to keep his mouth shut until he had something worth saying which those better trained had not already considered or find himself in the infantry.

Chessina found him annoying enough to cast a cool cantrip on his armour, at which he started shivering.

“Oh, come now, surely even a drop-out from the academy can manage warming cantrips?” said Chessina. “You’ll be telling me next that you don’t have warming glyphs embroidered on your underwear.”

“Little girl, magic is a lofty profession and not to be profaned by being used in such mundane fashion,” he said, loftily. “I don’t know why you are along, but if you cannot accept the hardships of army life, you should go home.” He smiled, fatuously, which was visible, as he was giving his brain cell a rest by carrying his helmet slung at his side.

I winced at the ‘little girl.’

Chessina smiled brightly.

“My title is ‘Journeyman Wizardess, you incompetent fatuous, self-opinionated fart,” she said.

It took a moment to sink in that she had insulted him. He stared at her, foolishly, open-mouthed.

“I… I demand a wizard’s duel!” he spluttered.

“Don’t you need to be a wizard to ask for that?” said Chessina. “I’d fight you with swords, if you were a man, but I fear you fail on that front too.”

She rode forward leaving him spluttering.

“A word to the wise, laddy,” I said. “You’re well down the pecking order. If I was in your sabatons, I’d keep my mouth shut and my ears open.”

“And who the hell do you think you are, you civilian?” he demanded. He cast a weak electrical discharge spell at me. I blocked it with a wave of my hand. My staff appeared in my hand, and the orb flared.

He paled.

I cast a spell at him.

He almost fainted.

“Wh… what?” he said.

“A warming spell; you look like you need it,” I said. “You should embroider runes of warming in your underwear like the rest of us do. And use a vinegar wash to keep your skin oils under control.”

He scratched absently at his forehead where Chessina had left a most unflattering word in zits.

I heard him ask, ‘Who the hell was that?’ to his superior officer.

Who sniggered.

“Hell is almost right, from your point of view,” he said. “That’s the Towermaster; he kills demons for a hobby.”

“No, sir, that’s not how I heard it,” said another cavalryman. “He kills demons for the king, he kills dragons for a hobby.”

“Ah, yes, more accurate,” agreed the senior officer. “I meant to say, he has the killing of demons down to a fine art it might as well be a hobby.”

“Dragons require a team of ten or a dozen wizards to bring them down,” said Romerion.

His officer laughed.

“Only the amateurs,” he said. “I believe the Towermaster invited his journeywizardess and Lady Beretrulle along for a bit of sport. Not my idea of sport, camping in midwinter to hunt dragons, but people of the Towermaster’s calibre are outside the ken of ordinary folk like you and me, sunshine. I wonder what horrors the wildlands have for us now, that Beretrulle felt a need to call him in. I’m sure whether to be comforted or horrified that he is along.”

My ears were burning; and I wondered how many other mythic heroes were as ordinary as me, who found themselves floundering to stay in touch with the crises of their own ages and whose deeds were talked up by others.

 

We started setting up camp in time for a late lunch.

“Enlighten me?” I asked Beretrulle.

“To give the wagon train time to catch up,” she said. “Many of them are just now leaving Pennwath.”

I stared.

“But we left hours ago.”

“Yes. And the head of the column has to be aware how long it takes to get the last wagon moving,” she said.

I went to make myself useful with some digging cantrips to make the latrine pits. I made a separate one for Beretrulle, Chessina, and the scattering of female wizards along, and conjured soft paper, a jar pouring fresh water from a rune inscribed on it, and scented soap.

Chessina squealed with delight.

“Oh, Castamir, you darling!” said Beretrulle. “Now I know how to direct my wizards when they stand around looking helpless.”

The war wizards were shown my works, and lectured on what wizards could do, and I saw enlightenment dawn on the faces of the three girls, even if some of the boys seemed a little outraged at the idea of a warmage creating home comforts.

They’d learn.

 

Now we were camped, the pretty adjutant was really able to start making up to Beretrulle, and Ogier, who was along, was getting more and more thunderous of face. I nodded to Chessina who slipped an arm into his and led him quietly away to explain why this was my fight, not his.

“You could take down an ordinary demon lord,” said Chessina, “But this one is both a seer, and has unusual talents. You don’t have the tools because he could read each move you made out of your head before you even decided to make it.” She giggled. “Castamir makes it up as he goes along; it confuses people no end.”

This was my cue.

I moved in.

“The lady doesn’t like your attentions,” I said.

“Shove off, loser,” said Nosy. Parekschey, I reminded myself in a guarded part of my mind and promptly let my mind freewheel so he could not read anything coherent from it.

“Shan’t,” I said.

He blinked in confusion; that wasn’t the standard reply.

“Get lost,” he tried again.

“Your mother was a kipper and your father smelled of pigswill,” I said. “You look like the under-lickspittle to the second flunkey to the assistant of the royal dog’s arsewiper.”

“Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” I said. “You’re a sad excuse for the back end of a horse crossed with the front end of a giant spider. And the lady still doesn’t like your attentions.”

“You so are going to regret this,” he said. “Of course, if the lady wants to beg for your life and pay a small forfeit for it…” he glanced at Beretrulle.

“I want to see you in action,” said Beretrulle.

He actually preened; he thought she was turned on by men fighting over her.

He was so arrogant he did not even bother to check out her thoughts.

I drew an ordinary sword, and he sneered. It could not touch him, of course. I had to keep him off balance, though.

I quacked like a duck and hopped on one foot.

His face was suffused with fury.

“Are you trying to mock me?” he demanded. He was losing control of his beautiful façade and the horns sprouted and his eyes turned red.

“Yes,” I said. “What’s not to mock, Parekschey? Lord Bel-lez, as I believe he likes to be known, is only using you, you loser. You can divine his plans, but do you think he’s going to keep you around if he succeeds?”

His entire illusion fell apart at that point, and I was facing the true face of Parekschey, eight foot and then the horns of dark crimson skinned demon, tail and all, still handsome in his own way but definitely demonic. There were screams around the camp. I dropped the useless sword, and Demonslicer sprang to my hand at its full sixteen inch length. My staff was in my other hand.

“Behold, the Towermaster, whose survival of his trials heralds his growth to full power! Let Bel-lez tremble for the destroyer has come, the avenger of the material plane and he shall fail only if he falls to all the Fae and the Prince can offer, and the Abyss shall be rocked by his anger,” said Parekschey.

He shook his head.

“I’m not named in those who can disrupt you by buying you off,” he said, a crafty look on his face. “What will you take to leave me alone?”

“Nothing you could comprehend,” I said.

He opened his mouth and spat out flame at me. My protection spells flared just in time. And then I was fighting his sword, now also fiery. I was glad of the lessons I had received from Beretrulle. He was too fast for me to be able to consider banishing him.

I summoned a blancmange over his head. A big blancmange. It engulfed him entirely.

Strangely, he struggled without any attempt to eat his way out.

I waited until one arm was clear, and hacked through the wrist with Demonslicer. He screamed, and shook the blancmange clear of his body. His arm was dripping ichor, and he looked at it disbelievingly, as it did not heal.

 I stabbed him in the groin.

He wailed.

“Is a tender part for you, too, huh?” I said. I fired six hundred large butterflies into his face.

I could hear Grandfather Castamir chuckling.

“Let me,” he said. He cast out of the orb, and Parekschey convulsed as he was tickled.

The big demon charged, in desperation, and I cast fly added to a jump so that as he reached me I was over his head. Which suited me fine to swoop down and cut his head off. He crashed to the frozen ground, and began to crumble to dust which just… dissipated.

“Towermaster, whilst it was in some ways a masterly display, why did you make a mockery of the fight?” asked one of the war wizards, a pompous looking young man.

“Eh? Well because this particular demon is a seer and a mind reader,” I said. “By performing utterly illogical actions and acting at random, I obviated what would have otherwise been an advantage over me. Sometimes the art of being silly is a lifesaver. You might try it.”

I fear he looked outraged.

Oh, well, I grew out of being pompous. Perhaps he would do so too.

I helped myself to a bit of blancmange which wasn’t too charred.  Mmm, not bad. No substance to it, of course, but… a touch of cinnamon? I must suggest it to Chessina.

I looked around at the faces which showed confusion, amusement, fear, and horror.

“Don’t ever suppose that fighting demons is to be taken lightly, or as a moment of comedy,” I said, using a spell to project my voice. “It isn’t. It’s deadly serious. Deadly, deadly serious. Never underestimate a demon, even a less demon. All demons are different and any one of them might have a surprise, whether that’s a poisonous sting in the tail like a scorpion, the ability to breathe fire, claws which cause cursed wounds, or skin armoured like steel. Demons lie like most people breathe, and they will show no honour at all. Do not ever pick a fair fight with a demon, because there is no such thing. Fortunately, I believe this is the last demon lord of a very nasty triumvirate who have been causing trouble in the land since about seventy years ago when they first got a hold on the misguided fools who thought they could control them.  Demons are not involved in the schemes of demonologists; demonologists are involved in the schemes of demons. I’ve said it before and I cannot reiterate it often enough. If you know anyone who is involved in demonology, report it immediately to Dragovar, the royal wizard. Demons are ruthless, cruel, and enjoy the pain and suffering of others. Yes, they can appear cultured, but one of their favourite musical instruments is called a ‘pain organ,’ and the music is the cries of those who form the body of the instrument, channelled through magic to make a form of music.  I used comedy for two reasons. One, it kept this demon off balance because he could not understand what I was doing, and two, being laughed at is one of the things which angers demons most. I wanted him too angry to be able to access his seer abilities.”

“He prophesied,” said one of the war wizards. “Should we not discuss that, and see what we can understand from it?”

“Son,” I said, “I understood every word. And I suggest you don’t even try. If you don’t know what it means, believe me, you don’t want to know what it means, and by the way, I am going to prophecy that we have some nasty weather coming which is the backlash of what this demon did to try to stop me from preventing a ritual earlier. Get those horses under cover, double up in your tents for warmth, and dig in. And pray your supplies get here before it breaks.”

“Do as he says,” said Beretrulle, glancing at the sky.

“The hell,” I said. “Come on, you wizards, help me out here; we need a better shelter.”

They weren’t very good at ritual, but when they saw what I was doing they did their best.  I used all the canvas they had to build a single structure, hardening the cloth to make it as hard as wood, dividing off a stables, and covering the latrines.

I had, after all, gone to the bother of digging them.

A few spells to vanish the contents every day would keep the air wholesome enough.  Once everyone was inside, we could add divisions. With the waggons around the edge, it would be cosier than a standard camp.

Meanwhile, my work here was done, and I could feel Silavara wanting me; and I took my leave of Beretrulle.

“What about the tents when the storm is over?” she asked.

“Your wizards should be capable of ending the spells,” I said. “Oh. Or maybe not.  Well, you’ll just have to use this as a way point, and get more canvas for tents, won’t you? Or I can take it down for you right now… only I have had a call from someone who needs me.”

“We’ll manage,” said Beretrulle.

She was giving orders for scouts to go and find the carts of those far down the road, and bring the people in, abandoning the carts, to save life.

She’d manage just fine.