Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “Let’s go!” bellowed Jofard, pushing Yeatin, the designated banner bearer that day, forward. The rest of the squad formed up with shields at the ready behind him and charged across the field, the other two squads flanking them.

  It only took seconds for their plan to fall apart.

  The Fourth Squad became entangled with elements of the First Squad of Fourth Company, and half of them got left behind to hold the others at bay. The Second Squad arrived at the base of the pillar first, thanks to some good sprinters in their ranks, but was immediately set upon by others. The bottom of the pillar churned into a general brawl as the desperate boys smote each other with their wooden swords. They had all been cautioned against excessive force in such trials, but the desperation and competitive spirit in them had been aroused.

  Jofard stared at the mess in dismay, the pile of supplies sitting alluringly out of reach of the fray below.

  “This is stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ll never get to the base of the pillar!”

  “Then let’s come at it from another way,” Rondal suggested.

  Jofard looked at him thoughtfully. “What do you have in mind?”

  Rondal explained to the young squire, who started to grin.

  “That is a completely and utterly dangerous feat that has such a small chance of working that it wouldn’t be fair not to try it,” he decided. “Let’s get organized . . .”

  It didn’t take as long as Rondal feared. Soon his squad, along with the remnants of the Fourth Squad who had been able to break away, formed up in a wedge and charged into the fray, getting as close to the base of the pillar as possible. The sudden force of their attack pushed the mob to the side, but it quickly reformed and started hammering against them.

  They didn’t have to remain their long, however. The boys in the middle of the wedge raised their shields overhead, creating a rough ramp for Verd, the lightest of them, to climb. He was still more than five feet away from the platform, but a risky leap brought him scrambling to the top. Grinning, once he found his footing, he began chucking the food to his mates.

  That only increased the intensity of the fighting below. To distract some of them, he took a bag of beans and flung it as far from the pillar as he could. Nearly a third of the hungry crowd went after it, allowing the rest of the squad to hold their formation long enough for the majority of the food to be retrieved.

  But getting it and keeping it were two different things. Once they were burdened by the supplies it became much harder to fight. Jofard ended up detailing Orphil and Verd to hold the food between their shields, carried like a stretcher, the rest of the squad huddled protectively around it. Skirmishers from the other squads who managed to disengage flanked them, but there were no end to those who would challenge their victory.

  “Now would be a good time!” Jofard cried, as he laid into a brace of would-be raiders with his wooden sword. The beefy boy pushed them back, but there were more lined up behind.

  Rondal nodded and began to access his spell. It was a much, much abbreviated version of a warmagic spell Peremundra’s Horn, and only produced an earsplitting shriek . . . but it rang in the helms of the unprepared painfully, while the boys of the Third Squad had been able to steel themselves for the aural assault. While the irritating spell didn’t quite clear a path in front of them, it did reduce the number of stragglers willing to confront the well-organized effort.

  “That,” Jofard said, as the spell faded and the losers began to fall in behind them, “was a satisfying display of warfare, gentlemen!”

  “Bah!” snorted Walven. “It was a mob, nothing more. Good work getting us organized,” he conceded.

  “Good work to the magi who cleared the field,” called Orphil, who was struggling with the load. “If we had to face one more angry band I would have dropped this!”

  “Who has the ale?” asked Rax, sounding desperate.

  That night it was a true celebration. The boys of the Third Squad had no issue with splitting the bounty fairly, as they had promised. There were general congratulations offered to all that night as the small barrel of ale was drained, and in the morning the squad had a worthy replacement for their broken water jar.

  They finished out their week on small unit tactics with some advanced work, specifically how to prepare for a cavalry charge, and then they had two more days of instruction.

  This time the Warbrothers preached to them about rank and obedience, duty and honor. The divine rules of warfare were read and discussed, giving every man a clearer sense of his duty on and off the field, in and out of camp. The laws of war were many and varied, covering how to deal with civilians, a soldier’s duty to his lord and commander, the right to demand fair payment for services, and what targets were restricted from attack or, conversely, what targets were expected to be attacked.

  The boys enjoyed the lighter duty, after weeks of warfare drills. The food improved somewhat, too – twice they were given honey biscuits and weak ale, in addition to boiled eggs and beans.

  Rondal expected another week of combat tactics after the rest days, as the Week of the Heart was next, but instead the next morning they were issued fresh packs, complete with new blankets, socks, bandages and other gear, in addition to their armor, shields, helms, and weapons.

  And then they marched.

  Not merely back and forth across the practice yard, as they had been doing. After a brief luncheon they re-formed into one giant line and marched completely out of the Relan Cor complex. All afternoon they tromped down the dusty dirt road north of the fortress. Along the way they learned a number of marching songs to keep their cadence, some of ancient source and some more recent, but all obscene and entertaining.

  The plod of boot after boot, one foot in front of the other for mile after mile soon turned every boy’s feet into numb stumps inside their boots. The Ancients and Warbrothers escorting them on horseback seemed to delight in finding fault with their marching. Only once before dark did they allow the boys to rest before they returned them to the road.

  When twilight fell, Rondal was sure that they would stop . . . but they didn’t. On and on they marched, until the complaints from all began to swarm. Ancient Feslyn heard them and just smiled. Eventually, when it was clear that no amount of complaining would stop the march, things quieted down. Only then did they allow the boys to fall out of formation. Most fell asleep beside the road still in armor, wrapped in their mantles with their heads on their packs.

  Rondal was tempted, but he had been chosen as squad commander that day, the first time he’d gotten the honor. So it was to him that his squad complained bitterly, those who still had breath to do so. He took their concerns to Ancient Feslyn, who did not even try to look sympathetic.

  But he did issue rations: a stack of ten flats of journeybread and a sack of tough dried sausages. Rondal happily distributed the food and oversaw the election of Dolwyn as the next day’s leader. Then Rondal passed out.

  The next day the march continued – in the wrong direction.

  “Aren’t we headed back to camp?” Dolwyn asked Ancient Feslyn. “Sir?”

  “Today you’re to discover the wonder that is the Forced March,” the old veteran explained. “We stop at dusk. No sooner.”

  As appalling as it sounded, the marching was worse. It became a monotonous trial of pain and endurance. Every boy pushed themselves, and each other, when they failed to find their own stock of initiative. Talking was discouraged, and that left them all alone with their thoughts and their tired feet.

  “How long do you think we’ve covered?” asked Rax, anxiously, around noon.

  “Thirty miles,” suggested Handol.

  “More like twenty, since yesterday,” Orphil disagreed.

  “Quiet!” called a passing Warbrother. “Quiet in the ranks!”

  Rondal used the time at first to go over spells in his head, but even that grew boring after a while. He recited the Sacred Periodic Table and the Laws of Magic and even Sire Rose’s silly
Sixteen Laws Of Love, but his brain inevitably brought his mind back to the darkness he was circling. While he tried to avoid it as long as he could, the plodding pace, mental exercise and enforced activity soon compelled him to think about that awful night once again, the betrayal of Kaffin of Gyre and the death of Estasia. Over and over it played in his mind and he found himself growing angry, then resentful, then wracked with despair.

  And still his feet marched on.

  At one point, he found himself crying, tears rolling down his face as his exhausted body trudged on. At first he thought they were merely tears of misery, but soon his frustrated mind began throwing every awful memory and horrible mistake he’d ever made against itself.

  Inside his head he savagely recriminated himself over his many, many errors and losses, and tallied the lives lost because of him, from his mother to Estasia. He even thought about poor Urik, the younger apprentice to Garkesgu, back in Boval before the invasion, whose abuse by the oldest apprentice had driven him mad. Rondal had silently allowed him to be abused rather than disrupt the way things were established, and both his fellow apprentices had died as an indirect result.

  That did his peace of mind no favors. He saw himself as a miserable excuse for a human being, and he didn’t see why anyone – Master Min, Lady Alya, Sire Cei, anyone – would want to associate with him. His head hung low as he marched, his spear on one shoulder, his shield on the other, his pack trying to drag him to the ground. But his feet marched on. Tears rolled down his face in his anguish, and yet still his feet kept marching. The pain in his arms and shoulders and tortured legs screamed as agonizing as any he’d ever felt but he kept on marching. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he wore his feet off and died of exhaustion, then the unremitting emotional pain would come to an end.

  A Warbrother, swathed in a bullskin mantle and an elaborate headdress, rode apace with his section of the column awhile, and apparently noted Rondal’s misery.

  “Leave it on the road, son,” he called after him kindly. “Whatever it is, it’s behind you now. March away from it and leave it on the road.” He urged his horse forward to dress the line before Rondal could respond.

  So he just marched. And he tried to leave it on the road.

  His anger at the Dead God and the loss of his beloved mountain home . . . on the road.

  His grief over the Bovali dead in the aftermath of the invasion . . . on the road.

  The fear he’d disappoint his kind new master, who had given him so much and had asked so little in return . . . on the road. His terror of death in battle . . . on the road.

  The self-loathing he felt for his role in Estasia’s death . . . on the road.

  The resentment he felt for Tyndal, and for his role in her death . . . on the road.

  One by one he recalled his follies and foolishness and he vowed to leave them behind, taking only the lessons learned. That, his mind told his exhausted body, was the only productive thing to do. Cull the wisdom from the chaff of pain and move on another step. Vengeance and retribution, he realized, were tiring and tireless pursuits. They rarely served a higher purpose, or lent themselves to anything constructive, he reasoned. Fear was a childish conceit he could no longer afford, he finally understood.

  Fear of failure, even, he had to leave behind. It did not matter if he failed, he realized. It only mattered that he tried his hardest. It was acceptable for a knight to die valiantly in pursuit of his quest. It was not acceptable for him to die before he even tried to complete it.

  The worst of his struggles was with his own self-doubt and self-confidence, the one sniping eternally at the other. As the column began ascending a steep-graded hill, Rondal reviewed his short life and dwelt on the times when his lack of confidence had undercut him. While it hurt to consider, he recalled that magical evening when he and Estasia (and Tyndal, his mind reminded him) had woven that complicated, sophisticated spell together, and he wondered what would have happened had he been bold enough to chance to steal a kiss.

  But fear had stayed him. Fear of rejection, fear of competition, fear of being found unworthy. It all came back to fear. Fear, he realized, had been the core of his failure in almost every case. He remembered the reams of advice he’d been given about the subject of his confidence, everything from swordplay to spellcraft, and he tried to take it all to heart. They all seemed to come back to giving up his fear. Once you gave up fear, he realized, the rest really wasn’t that hard.

  Rondal realized that he had just discovered a powerful insight into Tyndal’s character – the boy just wasn’t really afraid of much. That might be a factor of his stupidity but it also accounted for his boldness. And his success.

  Of all of his demons, Rondal had the hardest time leaving his feelings for Tyndal on the road. The maddening fellow apprentice had inadvertently humiliated Rondal too many times. It would have been a different thing entirely had he done it on purpose, but mostly Tyndal blundered into his insults and humiliations accidentally. It was hard to be angry at that.

  But it also made it harder to forgive and forget.

  As his chest heaved like a bellows and his knees threatened to give out with every step, he followed the boy in front of him, whose helm and hair he had memorized down to the finest fiber and scratch, up that laborious hill. Every step felt as if he was stepping angrily on Tyndal’s face. Every bit of pain was worth the feeling of satisfaction he got from it.

  By the time his part of the column crested the summit, Rondal’s steps had lightened. He no longer cared if he was grinding his senior apprentice’s face with his boot; indeed, it seemed like a silly pursuit. He took a deep breath and felt the weight of his pack ease and even his shield felt lighter. His achingly numb legs continued to carry him onward, but the burden he’d been bearing until then seemed gone, or at least forgotten.

  When he stumbled to a halt late that evening, after nearly fourteen hours of marching, he wasn’t as tired as he’d thought he’d be. In fact, he lingered before sleep, volunteering for the first watch. As he sat around the fire between patrols the bull-hided Warbrother who’d encouraged him on the march wandered by, apparently in search of him.

  “I was hoping I’d run into you, Soldier,” he said, gently. “At ease. I wanted to see how you fared, after today.”

  “It was . . . I’m all right, Warbrother,” he decided. “I just had a lot of thoughts to work out.”

  “Marching away your cares is a fine old army tradition,” the monk said, approvingly. “We’ve been watching you. You’ve shown a lot of poise in the field. And a lot of fortitude. A lot more than we’d expected.”

  “A lot more than I expected, too, if you want the truth,” Rondal admitted. “I don’t feel like I’m the same person who started this march.”

  “Ah! Then it’s working,” the Warbrother said, smiling indulgently. “That’s the point of The Mystery, son. It must be experienced, it cannot be taught. And it changes you . . . irrevocably.”

  “My legs, if nothing else,” he quipped.

  “Far more than your legs,” the monk said, pulling a flask from his mantle and offering it to Rondal. “When you lose your identity in the uniformity of the unit, you gain the opportunity to remake yourself. Your legs, of course, and the rest of your body are being remade; your instincts and reflexes are remade, and your understanding of honor and obedience are being remade. But most of all,” he said, solemnly, as Rondal sipped the fiery liquor, “you remake your soul. When you learn the rites of the soldier, and feel them in your bones with every step you take, you open yourself to new reserves of power, fortitude, endurance . . . you find you can achieve things you never thought possible, as a civilian. Even as a warrior-monk,” he smiled.

  “Or a Knight Mage,” Rondal chuckled. “I’ve learned how to study, Warbrother. I’ve learned how learn. I’ve even learned how to fight. But soldiering . . . that’s an art to itself.”

  “Any idiot can pick up a sword and learn to swing it hard enough to kill,” the monk agreed. “Any tribe can trai
n its men to be warriors – fierce warriors. But the difference between a warrior and a soldier is the difference between honor and duty. And with duty comes obedience. Learning to subject yourself to the orders of those above and contribute to the battle to the best of your ability, that is the art of the soldier.”

  “I never wanted to be a soldier,” Rondal warned the monk. “I only vaguely wanted to be a mage.”

  “What did you want to be?” the old monk asked.

  Rondal considered the question. No one had ever really asked him before. “Wise,” he finally said. “I guess I wanted to be the one who knew everything all the time.”

  “Well, now you’ve learned the Mysteries of Duin, the art of the soldier,” reasoned the monk, taking a sip from the flask. “And in learning that art, you’ve already harvested one of the main benefits The Mystery has to offer the initiate.”

  “What’s that?” Rondal asked, curious.

  “Pride,” the monk grunted. “You have learned pride in yourself. You came here a boy, and while that boy was unmade in the struggle to survive, you found the pride in yourself you needed to succeed – to thrive, even. As I said, we’ve been watching you. You’ve done better than expected. And that shall please your master immensely.”

  That pleased Rondal immensely. After the monk left he basked in the afterglow of the praise, reflecting on his time at Relan Cor. He really had cultivated some pride in himself, he realized. He had learned the craft of sword and shield, of command and order, of attack and defense. Just as thousands upon thousands before him had. When he had completed the Mysteries, he would be as fit as any soldier in the Duchies.

  Regardless of what else he was –mage, knight, lord, scholar – he would always have this. The skills and knowledge of a soldier. The training and understanding of soldiery. The pride of that accomplishment. No one gave that to him, he had earned it with his sweat and blood and pain. It hadn’t been his magical talent, his sophisticated brain, or his title that had gotten him through the Mysteries – it had been he, and he alone.