Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “All right!” Rondal bellowed, as the gate of Relan Cor came into sight. “Let’s form up, marching formation! Banner-bearer to the front!”

  “We did it!” Rax chortled in delight. “I can’t believe that worked!”

  “We’re not there yet,” Rondal said, grimly. “Somehow I don’t think that will be the last obstacle in our path. Not a good time to get complacent.”

  As if he was prophesying, five more knights in yellow and black tabards sprang out from the brush beside the causeway and challenged the squad on its way back to camp. Much to Rondal’s surprise, he recognized one of the men.

  “Tyndal!” he spat, angrily, for no real reason. He hadn’t seen his fellow apprentice in almost a full moon, and apart from some general resentment over what happened at Inarion, he hadn’t spared him much thought. But the sight of his grinning face under the visor of the helmet enraged him for some reason. He had originally planned on trying to skirt the causeway, but as soon as he saw Tyndal he changed his plan.

  “Ishi’s tits! All right,” he called out, “Shields to the front, spears behind, wedge formation with Rax and Verd on rearguard, Scorpion’s Tail team, Yeatin keep the banner in the center, right behind Jofard. We hit them hard and keep going. Watch for magic, that one on the end is a warmage, and I’ll take care of him. The rest of you barrel on through and don’t stop until you’re on the practice field. We’ve got to be at least fourth or fifth place, at this point.”

  “Maybe fifth,” Gurandor said, dejectedly.

  “It doesn’t matter if we’re last, we go in there like we’re the first. Take your positions, make ready to charge . . . he shouted, as the boys quickly re-formed according to his direction. He took a deep breath, surveying the backs of the helmets of his squad. He didn’t care if they got the snot beat out of them. They were going through that causeway. “. . . And . . . STRIKE!”

  They marched along at quick order, without calling a cadence. It only took moments for the defenders to recognize an attack and arm themselves - but Rondal didn’t care. They set up a defensive shield wall, but it was ragged and undisciplined. When they arrived within twenty feet of the most forward-positioned defender, Rondal ordered the charge.

  The front two squadmates, Jofard and Orphil, kept their shields locked together as they appeared in force and used their big shields to bully their way through the first two defenders, both armed with wooden greatswords. The spearmen behind them growled and entangled the defenders’ blades just long enough to allow the boys on either side to beat their helmets soundly as they passed.

  “DEAD!” Jofard bellowed with each resounding slap of wood against metal.

  Walven lept out and assailed two defenders on their flanks, armed with wooden cavalry swords and shields. Gurandor slipped in behind him to support his ferocious assault, and between the two the left flank was secure. Rondal kept to the right flank, and when the front shields pushed passed the others, he found himself shield-to-shield with his fellow apprentice. He felt Walven float quietly behind him, spear ready to support his attack. Tyndal couldn’t see that, but . . .

  Tyndal grinned broadly through the bars, his shaggy blond hair hanging out of the borrowed practice helmet like too much hay in a barn.

  “Hey, Ron!” he began to say. “I saw—”

  Rondal didn’t hesitate. As Dolwyn, in front of him and on his left, pushed Tyndal’s cavalry shield slightly out of line, Rondal threw his elbow up as if he was feinting for a head strike. Tyndal reflexively raised his shield . . . but did not cant it enough to avoid the hard snap Rondal’s increasingly strong wrist brought to bear when he pulled it back over the shield. There was a mighty thud of wood on steel, and Tyndal was reeling from the blow.

  Rondal didn’t spare him another glance. “KEEP MOVING!” he ordered, as the Scorpion’s Tail moved in behind. That was a formation that put most of the spears in the rear, allowing them to rove to the left, right, or over the heads of the front shieldmen. As they passed by the shattered line of defenders, the spears were able to strike swiftly at the disorganized defenders, keeping them from regrouping . . . or even rising. Rondal heard another hard clunk behind him, and knew that Handol’s fake spear had smashed against Tyndal’s helmet, hard.

  “To the practice field!” Rondal ordered. “Double time!”

  They re-formed into a better-dressed line and began to trot, a difficult thing to do with a full pack and arrayed for battle. But the boys were no longer unused to such burdens, and the prospect of food and rest and sleep was too alluring for them to let weariness interfere. Rax began to sing a particularly dirty marching song concerning the proclivities of the whores of Barrowbell that finished up just as the squad marched boldly into the practice field.

  There were already some cadets there, and Rondal’s heart fell – he almost thought that they would be the first. It was a foolish hope, but it had kept him going for a few miles.

  But then he realized that the boys milling around were there in singles and doubles – four was the most he saw standing together around their shredded banner, and it looked like it took all four of them to keep it aright. But nothing close to a full squad.

  The Third Squad, Second Company was, as the Warbrother at the gate informed them, the first complete squadron to make it back. The others had not been permitted to sound the great horn at the reviewing stand, not until the largest squad had been determined.

  “You mean . . . we won?” asked Jofard, in a girlish whisper.

  “Indeed, by Duin’s grace,” chuckled the pleased warrior monk. “You may sound the horn at will.”

  “Let’s do this right,” Rondal said, like a man suddenly possessed. “Form up, parade block, Yeatin on the banner, ready . . . MARCH. Walven, call the cadence!” he grinned.

  The bystanders broke into applause and shouts of praise. Instead of tearing after the prize like they were attacking it, Rondal brought them in as a disciplined unit. As the Racquiel Squad marched into the field and took up their parade position, it felt like every instructor, monk, and Ancient in Relan Cor had come out to watch.

  “Squadron . . . HALT!” ordered Rondal. His fellows obligingly came to a stop and rested their spears in one disciplined movement, as Ancient Feslyn approached, grinning.

  “Third Squadron, Second Company, reporting as ordered, SIR!” Rondal said, saluting with his spear and shield after calling his squad to attention.

  Their Ancient stood at attention and returned the salute, then formally bowed. “Well done, Neophytes!” he boomed. “Racquiel Squad! You just won me a beefsteak dinner! Not that I’m complaining, but . . . how did you get back here so quickly?” he asked, amused but mystified.

  “We took to the river and by-passed the road entirely, Sir!” Rondal called.

  “And the defenders at the gate?”

  “The squadron conducted a surprise attack using distraction, concocted an ambush, and kicked their asses . . . SIR!” Rondal said, proudly.

  “Then you have won,” he pronounced. “Squadleader, please blow the horn of victory, and then dismiss your men. You have three hours before your feast will be ready at the Warbrother’s Chapel,” he said, his wrinkled and scarred face breaking into a grin. “I would recommend you spend at least some of that time productively in the bathhouse.”

  “Squadron . . . DISMISSED!” Rondal called, and then the boys followed him over to the stand after stacking their arms neatly in place. He took up the great ox horn, looked around at his excited fellows, and held it to his lips, blowing a mighty blast. It was a low, deep, rumbling sound that seemed to make his very bones vibrate. He didn’t know why, but when he handed it to Walven he felt . . . changed.

  He was watching with excitement as each of the squad, including frail Yeatin, who had borne every burden asked and had done so without complaint, blew a blast on the horn. It was while the weakest member of his squad was celebrating that Tyndal approached, still wearing his yellow and black tabard.

  “Ron!” he called as he crosse
d the field. “Ron, that was amazing!”

  “What?” Rondal asked, confused.

  “How you just plowed through us like that!” the senior apprentice laughed. “We were ready to take you apart, and you just didn’t give us a chance! Why didn’t you stick around to duel?” he asked, sounding a little . . . hurt? “I wanted to see how good you’ve gotten.”

  “That wasn’t part of our mission,” the junior apprentice said, coolly. “Our mission was to get past you, not defeat you.”

  Tyndal snorted. “Like you could ever defeat me—”

  Before Rondal could mount a defense, his squadmates beat him to it. Walven was in Tyndal’s face instantly.

  “You fight him, you fight the whole fucking squad,” the young man said in a serious voice. “I don’t know what your problem with him is, but Striker is an outstanding soldier,” he continued, aggressively, “and he got us through this trial without a hiccup! It was his idea to take the river!”

  “Striker?” asked Tyndal, confused.

  “That’s his war name,” Verd insisted, the little bantam just as aggressive in Rondal’s defense. “We just decided on the way up the causeway. Striker . . . for how hard he struck you,” he added.

  “Struck me?” he asked, confused.

  “Why don’t you just scamper back to the fortress with the rest of the knights?” Jofard asked, his hands on his hips. “This field is for the Mysteries. Neophytes only. We need no interlopers here.”

  Tyndal looked at Rondal thoughtfully, almost respectfully. Rondal didn’t mind the change. “Well, it looks like you have your own little band now, Ron,” he said, reluctantly. “I guess you don’t need me keeping an eye on you.”

  “I never did,” Rondal said, his jaw clenched. “Now please excuse me . . . my squad and I have some celebrating to do.” He watched as Tyndal left without another word. And when he was gone, he felt as if yet-another burden had been suddenly lifted from him.

  He had felt as if he was in Tyndal’s shadow for the last few years, ever since he became Master Minalan’s apprentice by default. It hadn’t mattered that he was a better mage than Tyndal; the younger boy was more like their master than he was by nature and temperament.

  But now he found he didn’t care as much. After Tyndal left, Rondal looked around at his celebrating squadmates and was glad that the other boy wasn’t involved in this victory. It was something he had done on his own – earned on his own – without even his witchstone to rely on.

  He slowly started to grin as he realized that. He and his team had triumphed over everyone else not because he was a High Mage, or a Mage Knight, or a Magelord . . . apart from a few fires and a little scrying, he’d done precious little magic at all.

  What he saw around him was the result of his own personal efforts. He hadn’t borrowed anything, hadn’t gotten any help from his master to win through the challenges of the Mysteries. He had done this, he and his squad, on their own. For no particular reason, Rondal suddenly felt at ease, peaceful in a way that had eluded him most of his life.

  “Let’s get back to camp,” he ordered, when the squad’s enthusiasm had banked. “A couple of hours of napping, a hot bath, and we can attack the banquet table.”

  * * *

  The feast was laid out in the Warbrother’s Chapel, a long tent that served as the commanders’ lounge during the day when it wasn’t being employed for instruction or services. The feast itself was a simple affair, but included all the food they could eat. Bread, fish, vegetables cooked in broth, and an entire goat was roasted for their meal, and another small barrel of ale was made available. The ten boys were thoroughly elated, stuffing their faces after their grueling march like they were starving.

  During the feast each one was called upon to tell his part in the trial to the three Warbrothers and two Ancients who attended. As they were now twice victorious in their contests they were given a far more private rite than the mass of their fellow Neophytes, who were still trickling in. The final rite could only be performed for the full squad, so many ended up waiting on stragglers, their whole squads paying for the individual soldier’s failure.

  The rite was solemn, with Warbrother Arthus lighting the torches that called Duin’s attention and giving to them the instruction in the Mystery:

  “For twenty generations men have performed the Mysteries,” he said, quietly, “to be initiated into a career of arms. The skills taught in the Mysteries are valuable,” he said, looking around at each of them in the light of the few tapers inside the tent, “but it is not the skills that elevate a man from being a mere soldier to being an Initiate. The skills can be taught to anyone – even women, aye, in the defense of their homes, at pressing need.

  “But the men who complete the Mysteries are bound together by bonds of sweat and blood. Less than a moon ago you were competitors and strangers. You bore the names of your fathers or your homelands and looked forward to a life with a sword in your hand. Now,” he said, enthusiastically, “now you are brothers, your bonds forged from the toil and effort you have put into the Mysteries.

  “Are they difficult? Aye. Unfair? Aye. Brutal? Of necessity. A boy doesn’t become a man over a cozy cup of tea. It takes fire, sweat, blood, effort, two hands, two feet, a head and a heart, and that must be heated and beaten in the Mysteries, overseen by older men and initiates. Else the blade that results will be weak when it most needs to be strong.

  “But Duin grants to all who complete his Mysteries an especial boon. Each squadron who completes the Mysteries stands together in the sight of Duin, after death, for the Mysteries stay with the soul long after the body has grown cold. In the sight of Duin your comrades will answer for you, sing of your deeds, testify to your valor, and share in Duin’s judgment with you.

  “For that is one of the Mysteries: for he who picks up a sword in accordance with sacred law, to defend their homes or to attack another in conquest, he is blessed by the Red God. A man who is willing to lay down his life for his family, his people, his nation, that man is blessed, and his death shall be a time of great mourning and celebration. Be it for gold or for honor or for duty, the man who dies an initiate never dies alone. For each of you is now obligated to attend the funeral of your fellow initiates, speak words over their grave, and help pray their souls to the halls of Duin the Destroyer.”

  Rondal looked up at the warrior-monk, a new appreciation for what he had been doing coming to him. He looked around the low table they were gathered around.

  From Rax, who would complain the gold you gave him was too shiny, to Jofard, who could inspire with his presence yet took orders with soldierly grace, to Walven, whose scheming mind and keen insight had allowed them to out-think their challenges, each of them had given something of themselves on this journey. He could have less stalwart squadmates, he decided. He had been fortunate. As rough as they had been coming into the Mysteries, now they knew how to work as a unit.

  “Duin’s Gift is death in battle,” the Warbrother continued. “While the priestesses of Ishi and Trygg and Briga champion the force of Life, as they should, the gifts of the goddesses are for times of peace, and are there to bring comfort and growth. They are given to women, first and foremost, for women bear the future of Man.

  “Duin’s Gift is granted to menfolk, and his Mysteries reserved for us, for while we can serve the force of Life, as Huin does, the ability to slay and conquer is the responsibility of men alone. When invaders pour over the frontier, and women and children are safely within stone walls, it is the men of the domain who take up arms and give their lives to defend them. On women, the gift of life is bestowed, and they are reminded of this in blood every month. On men is the gift of death bestowed. We are reminded of this by the blood that stains your blade.”

  They were all silent for a few moments as they reflected on this. Rondal knew women fought – during the siege of Boval, plenty had taken up arms or supported the militia manning the walls. And he knew there were some militant orders of priestesses, even warsis
ters.

  But he also knew that it was men who were the first in battle, and men who died first when invaders came. It was a heavy burden, knowing that to be a man meant dicing with death every time he picked up a sword.

  “But you all have been called to the Mysteries. You are learning the brotherhood of arms, the rites of war, the secret, sacred Mysteries of attack, defense, obedience, and duty. For when you all fight together, united in purpose, giving up your autonomy as warriors in exchange for the glory of a unified purpose. The honor of service to your fellow soldiers. Valor, my sons, is its own reward. Beyond domains and lands, titles and riches, to take up a sword and shield with stout comrades at your side . . . that, my sons, that is Duin’s true gift to men!”

  Eventually the time came to choose their War Names, an important part of the Mysteries. Now that they had been in – mock – battle together, the rite required that their comrades grant them the name they would someday face the War God with.

  Warbrother Arthus oversaw the ritual, and called out the War Name when it was presented to him with a loud “Thus shall Duin greet thee as . . .”

  Rondal became Striker, by unanimous acclamation.

  Jofard became Giant, even though he wasn’t exactly a giant.

  Handol became Hardhead, for how poorly he picked up on advice. And for how well he could take a blow to the head.

  Verd was called Fleet, because of his lightness and speed.

  Rax was to be known as Bloody, after the practice skirmish in which his helmet had torn his scalp and he’d had to fight the rest of the day with a gruesome, bloody visage.

  Dolwyn became known as Fixer, for his facility with trading and arranging deals with other units.

  Orphil was called Crusher, for his fondness of the overhead stroke and preference for mass weapons.

  Walven was given the name Ace, for his ability to lay out an opponent with one quick shot.

  Gurandor was called Snake, for how stealthy he could be at need.