Magician (Riftware Sage Book 1)

The King’s face was pale, and perspiration gleamed on his forehead. “This is a poor hour to start, but I have sent word to the harbor to ready a ship. You must leave at once. Go now.”

 

 

The Duke bowed and turned Caldric said, “I will see His Majesty to his room. I will accompany you to the docks when you are ready.”

 

The old Chancellor helped the King from the throne, and the Duke’s party left the hall. They rushed back to their rooms to find stewards already packing their belongings. Pug stood around excitedly, for at last he was returning to his home.

 

 

 

 

 

They stood at dockside, bidding farewell to Caldric. Pug and Meecham waited, and the tall franklin said, “Well, lad. It will be some time before we see home again, now that war is joined.”

 

Pug looked up into the scarred face of the man who had found him in the storm, so long ago. “Why? Aren’t we going home?”

 

Meecham shook his head. “The Prince will ship from Krondor through the Straits of Darkness to join his brother, but the Duke will ship for Ylith, then to Brucal’s camp somewhere near LaMut. Where Lord Borric goes, Kulgan goes. And where my master goes, I go. And you?”

 

Pug felt a sinking in his stomach. What the franklin said was true. He belonged with Kulgan, not with the folk at Crydee, though he knew if he asked, he would be allowed to go home with the Prince. He resigned himself to another sign that his boyhood was ending. “Where Kulgan goes, I go.”

 

Meecham clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Well, at least I can teach you to use that bloody sword you swing like a fishwife’s broom.”

 

Feeling little cheer at the prospect, Pug smiled weakly. They soon boarded the ship and were under way toward Salador, and the first leg of the long journey west.

 

 

 

 

 

FOURTEEN - Invasion

 

 

The spring rains were heavy that year.

 

The business of war was hampered by the ever-present mud. It would stay wet and cold for nearly another month before the brief, hot summer came.

 

Duke Brucal of Yabon and Lord Borric stood looking over a table laden with maps. The rain hammered on the roof of the tent, the central part of the commander’s pavilion. On either side of the tent two others were attached, providing sleeping quarters for the two nobles. The tent was filled with smoke, from lanterns and from Kulgan’s pipe. The magician had proven an able adviser to the dukes, and his magical aid helpful. He could detect trends in the weather, and his wizard’s sight could detect some of the Tsurani’s troop movements, though not often. And over the years his reading of every book he encountered, including narratives of warfare, had made him a fair student of tactics and strategy.

 

Brucal pointed to the newest map on the table. “They have taken this point here, and another here. They hold this point”—he indicated another spot on the map—” in spite of our every effort to dislodge them. They also seem to be moving along a line from here, to here.” His finger swept down a line along the eastern face of the Grey Towers. “There is a coordinated pattern here, but I’m damned if I can anticipate where it’s going next.” The old Duke looked weary. The fighting had been going on sporadically for over two months now, and no distinct advantage could be seen on either side.

 

Borric studied the map. Red spots marked known Tsurani strongholds: hand-dug, earthen breastworks, with a minimum of two hundred men defending. There were also suspected reinforcement companies, their approximate location indicated with yellow spots. It was known that any position attacked was quick to get reinforcements, sometimes in a matter of minutes. Blue spots indicated the location of Kingdom pickets, though most of Brucal’s forces were billeted around the hill upon which the commander’s tent sat.

 

Until the heavy foot soldiers and engineers from Ylith and Tyr-Sog arrived to man and create permanent fortifications, the Kingdom was fighting a principally mobile war, for most of the troops assembled were cavalry. The Duke of Crydee agreed with the other man’s assessment. “It seems their tactics remain the same: bring in a small force, dig in, and hold. They prevent our troops from entering, but refuse to follow when we withdraw. There is a pattern. But for the life of me, I can’t see it either.”

 

A guard entered. “My lords, an elf stands without, seeking entrance.”

 

Brucal said, “Show him in.”

 

The guard held aside the tent flap, and an elf entered. His red-brown hair was plastered to his head, and his cloak dripped water on the floor of the tent. He made a slight bow to the dukes.