Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  And Yeatin, whom none suspected would persevere this far, or even live through the Mysteries, was given the name of Shatter . . . mostly because he looked like he could shatter any time someone hit him. The scrawny mage grinned proudly when it was bestowed to him, though. “Shatter” had a lot more style than “Yeatin”, Rondal had to agree.

  The Warbrother solemnly officiated the giving of names, and allowed each cadet the opportunity to speak a few words about his experience. When the last name had been given, he gave Duin’s Blessing to them all, led them in a few hymns to the War God, and drank a cup of strong red wine with each of them before dismissing them for the night.

  They walked back to camp slowly, thinking about the warrior-monk’s sermon and its meaning. As most of the cadets had yet to return from their mission, the camp was quiet for once. Rondal called a final formation, in which he thanked them all for their service and valor, and called them each by their War Name. Then he oversaw the election of the next day’s leader, and crawled gratefully into his blanket.

  For two days the Third Squad had light duty as one by one the other squads wandered in. By the time the rest day dawned, almost all of the cadets had returned. Warbrothers rode through the countryside looking for a few stragglers, but the rest of the cadets were back at work. Thankfully, most of that work was mere instruction.

  They learned the laws and rites devoted to siege warfare. They learned how a mercenary who was hired for garrison duty could not be used to fight in a conquest, without his leave. They learned the structure of rank in the new Royal Army and in various mercenary armies. They learned a soldier’s duty to a civilian, a noncombatant, and an insurgent. They learned the penalties for insubordination and disobedience, for being drunk on duty and for falling asleep on guard. They learned the rites and hymns sung at a brother’s funeral, the proper greetings and salutations for a fellow initiate, and the law regarding prisoners, razing, pillaging, looting and rape.

  It was a lot to remember. The laws handed down by Duin the Destroyer so long ago covered many elements of warfare, and the Imperial war gods, Gobarba and the others, were just as particular about how they were served.

  When training commenced the following day, they put their new knowledge of siege warfare to work as they were instructed on how to build a field redoubt. Then, after every squad’s efforts were judged, for the next two days they learned how to attack a field redoubt. Then they learned how to dig a ditch, and spent two days doing nothing but digging a trench around a redoubt.

  Then they learned the art of the ambush. Then how to move quietly through the swamps, responding to their squadleader’s hand gestures as they had been instructed. They learned how to scout, how to report, and how to interrogate a prisoner.

  All week they practiced. A few different types of artillery were assembled at one end of the field, and the redoubts the cadets had so painstakingly built were smashed to bits as the boys learned how to run a siege engine. The rubble that resulted was made into a huge bonfire.

  For the last two days of the Mysteries, they focused on unarmed combat: wrestling, punching, and maneuvers to use against an armed opponent. Rondal, who had always considered himself somewhat weak and puny, surprised himself by toppling Jofard the Giant within moments, using some clever leverage.

  That’s when Rondal realized that his long labor at the Mysteries had taken his puny body away and replaced it with a wiry, well-muscled one. When he drew back and pummeled the boy from First Squad, he was amazed at just how much power his shoulder and arms gave him. The boy from First Squad had to be led away to the warbrothers for tending his shattered nose.

  Then one day dawned without them being awoken before the sun rose. Instead they were called from their blankets by a simple horn call for assembly. The units struggled into formation and were finally addressed by the swaggering commandant.

  “Well, Neophytes, you have truly impressed all of us,” he smiled. “Only four deaths this time, which makes this one of the more peaceful Mysteries. But those brothers will be granted Duin’s grace and be considered initiates.

  “As for the rest of you . . .” he said, grinning. “When you came here, you were children. Now you are men. When you complete this rite, I will be glad to hail you as my brother in arms. Regardless of what side we fight on, we have all labored through the Mystery, and taken from it the blessings of strength.”

  The final ritual involved marching in formation through the gates of Relan Cor, parading past a throng of well-wishers from the citadel, and trading their wooden swords for the plain steel leaf-shaped infantry swords and steel bracelets that symbolized their completion of the Mystery.

  Then they marched back to the practice ground for the last time, solemnly turned in their banners, and then each of them solemnly drank with wine to the health of them all from ewers borne by congratulatory warbrothers.

  Then there was more drinking, of a far less religious nature.

  “Ishi’s tits, I never thought we’d make it through!” Rax said, his voice full of relief as he dipped his cup back into the ewer. “If I never see the sun rise again, I’ll count myself fortunate!”

  “What are you going to do now?” asked Handol, looking relaxed for the first time in six weeks.

  “Back home, to finish up my squirehood,” Rax admitted. “But I might secure a place among the Baron’s guard, with a Relan Cor certificate in my kit!”

  “I’m for home, too,” Jofard agreed with a smile. “If I take just a little too long getting upriver, I might just miss out on the end of plowing season.”

  “You plow?” asked Walven, surprised.

  “He’s big enough to pull one!” Dolwyn remarked.

  “I don’t plow,” Jofard said, indignantly. “But my father makes me follow the reeves around to make them nervous. It’s supposed to teach me how to run the estate. How about you, Ace?”

  “I’m staying on to take advance classes,” the Remeran informed them. “Siege warfare, in particular. I’ve already paid my tuition,” he said, proudly.

  “Siege warfare?” asked Dolwyn, surprised. “Isn’t that hideously boring?”

  “No more boring than garrison duty,” Walven said. “Siege engineers are always in demand. But that’s just my next lesson. I plan on getting plenty more after that. I’m for the Free Companies,” he said, the closest thing to a boast that Rondal had heard from the boy.

  “I am, too . . . just a little more directly,” Orphil said, chuckling. “If I passed the Mysteries, I have a billet with the Bloody River Company. In Gilmora,” he added, with a certain amount of relish.

  “You’re going to fight goblins!” Dolwyn said, enthusiastically. Last year’s goblin invasion of the rich agricultural country had attracted mercenaries from all over, fighting at the king’s expense. “I’m for the Free Companies, too, but I have no billet yet.”

  “I’m to go home and train the peasants,” Rax said, discouraged. “All this beautiful lore about warfare, and I’m going to be making a bunch of clodfoots try to fight!”

  “What about you sparks?” asked Walven, curious. “Where are you heading, Sir Striker?”

  “I’m staying on,” Rondal said. “For a while, at least. All three of us are. Warmage training. It’s supposed to take another four weeks. Or more.”

  “Aw!” Orphil complained. “I was hoping you would come with me to the Bloody River.”

  “I’ve been to Gilmora,” Rondal reminded him. “And I’ve seen enough goblins to last a bloody lifetime. But I expect I’ll be back there before long. Uh, watch yourself. Those gurvani are nasty fighters.”

  “They won’t be so bad,” Orphil dismissed. “The Bloody River is three-thousand strong infantry and cavalry.”

  “You’ve never faced the goblins before,” Rondal said to his squadmate, simply.

  “I’ll be fine. Hells, after the Mysteries, I feel like I could take on the Goblin King himself!”

  Rondal let the brag pass – they had worked hard, they had achieved
much, and they deserved a little over-enthusiasm, he reasoned. He had to admit, he was happy that the Mysteries were behind him, now. He felt strong, he felt dangerous, he felt as if he had become something more than when he’d started.

  In fact . . . he didn’t even feel like a mage. He wasn’t Sir Rondal, Knight Magi, or even Magelord Rondal of Sevendor, he was Striker now. He looked around at his comrades and smiled. He had liked few of them when the trials began, but now he couldn’t think of any of them – even annoying Yeatin – with anything but fondness.

  “My lord?” came a timid voice from the front of their camp. “My lord? Sir Rondal of Sevendor?” It was a young page, no more than eleven, wearing a yellow tabard with the arms of Relan Cor on them in black.

  “Yes?” Rondal asked, almost not recognizing his name.

  “My lord, you are bidden to come to the Master of Warmagic’s office,” he explained, nervously. “Then I’m to take you to your assigned quarters. At your convenience,” the lad added, when the celebrating cadets looked at him harshly for interrupting their reverie.

  “All right,” sighed Rondal. “There you go, fellas. Duty calls. I’ve got to go play magelord, now.”

  There was a chorus of groans from them, and for the next ten minutes the initiates – the soldiers – said their farewells. There were more than a few tears, and declarations of admiration abounded. Rondal finally tore himself away, hefted his pack, tucked his new – plain and serviceable – infantry sword into his belt, and followed the page.

  * * *

  It was odd to be inside Relan Cor after camping in its shadow for six weeks, but while he had sweated and bled and struggled the business of the War College went on. He passed pages and soldiers and advanced students and masters as he found Master Valwyn in his office. For all he knew, the man hadn’t moved from the spot since he left him, more than a moon ago.

  “Ah! Well done, Initiate!” he said warmly, rising when he recognized Rondal. “Well done! I’ve had several good reports of you during your training. And your squad went on to win the bivouac competition -- that’s outstanding!” He made a note on a piece of parchment in front of him.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Rondal said, coming to attention automatically.

  “At ease,” Master Valwyn dismissed. “I’m looking forward to your warmage classes,” he added, as he got up and retrieved Rondal’s witchstone from the box on the book shelf. “I’ve been talking to your fellow apprentice, and he speaks very highly of you.”

  “Really?” snorted Rondal. “Tyndal? Sir?” he added, belatedly.

  Master Valwyn smiled. “Quite so,” he agreed, setting the box down on the desk. “He’s had nothing but praise for you, although he considers you somewhat . . . bookish.”

  Rondal snorted again. “I’ll keep my opinions about him to myself, if you don’t mind, Sir,” he said ruefully.

  “I thought I detected a little acrimony there,” Valwyn said, as he dispelled his spellbinding.

  Rondal did the same, which was difficult after six weeks of using very little magic. He had to apply himself far more than he anticipated to finish the work. But soon the glittering field around the small box fell. Holding his breath, he worried for no good reason that his stone would not be in the box, he opened it. Much to his relief it was, indeed, still there, and his mind rushed to contact it the moment the lid was open.

  “Ahhhh!” Rondal said, as the first waves of power washed through him. “I’d forgotten how much I missed that!”

  “I’m envious,” chuckled Valwyn. “Oh, I’ll get one eventually – they already want me to ship to Gilmora and lead a troop – but I can’t help but covet that kind of power.”

  “It’s a heady thing,” Rondal agreed. He eagerly examined his stone, inside and out, until he was satisfied that it was still the powerful shard he’d left there. “But it’s dangerous, too. I probably shouldn’t have been given one, but . . . well, necessity is a bitch that drives us all, Sir.”

  “Look not on it as misplaced in your hands, Son,” suggested Master Valwyn. “Just . . .early. I was serious, Rondal. The warbrothers were keeping a very close eye on you and your squad. You are an excellent soldier. From what I understand, after your camp was attacked instead of pursuing bloody vengeance your squad focused on the mission. That’s admirable . . . and rare. And I also heard how you led the charge through the defenders in the village. Whatever your master was thinking when he gave you that stone, his confidence has not been misplaced.”

  Rondal wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Well, thank you, Sir. When do classes begin?”

  “Three days from now,” the master of warmagic informed him. “We’re still awaiting six students. We have twenty from the Mysteries, but there are several more already arrived and waiting. But . . . you have three days, if you want to get some leave and celebrate a bit.”

  Rondal thanked the mage and then followed the page deep into the recesses of the fortress, where he was given a room.

  A double room.

  There were two cots inside, one on each side of the room. As it was designed for four soldiers, there was almost enough room for two, following standard military logic. But Rondal didn’t have to guess who his roommate was. He recognized Tyndal’s baggage and the trademark disheveled state of his side of the room.

  “Ishi’s tits!” he swore, angrily. “Was there no more room elsewhere?”

  “I was informed that you were to bunk together,” the page said, diplomatically. “By your master’s orders.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Rondal said. He tipped the boy a penny after he’d carried his baggage inside the room and set it on the press at the end of his bed. Then he sat on the straw tick, closed his eyes, and reached out with his mind. It had been awhile, but the spell came back to him easily enough.

  Master, it is Rondal, he announced, when Master Minalan deigned to answer his call.

  Rondal! How fared you in camp?

  My squad excelled, Master. Thank you for the opportunity.

  That’s amazing! Well done, lad! How are you holding up after . . . after Inarion? he asked, concerned.

  I’m fine, Master, Rondal assured him. The Mysteries were a great distraction. But I am speaking with you because I’ve been told that Tyndal and I have to bunk together, per your orders.

  That is correct, Minalan said, simply.

  But . . . why? Rondal demanded.

  Because I know you two have some business to finish, the Spellmonger told him. And avoiding it and avoiding each other isn’t going to make it go away. Quite the contrary.

  Master, he blames me—

  I don’t want to hear it, Minalan snapped. Figure it out, Rondal. There are . . . there’s a lot going on right now, and I need both of you trained, fit, and ready to do my bidding. Soon.

  Master, are we not always doing your bidding?

  Do my bidding better, the magelord corrected. You still have a few weeks of warmagic school. Try to work out whatever it is between you before you return to Sevendor.

  But Master—

  Do it! insisted the Spellmonger. I know Tyndal is kind of an ass. But I still need him. And you. And I need you to be able to work together. Anything else? he asked, impatiently.

  No, Master, admitted Rondal, sourly.

  Then take a day or so to relax and then prepare for your studies. If I recall correctly, warmage school was only slightly better than infantry training.

  Yes, Master, Rondal said, and ended the connection.

  “Damn,” he said, out loud.

  * * *

  For two days, Rondal avoided Tyndal mostly by being elsewhere. At first he spent his time in the village tavern, saying a more thorough good-bye to his squadmates as one by one they took barges or horses toward their destinations. Gurandor and Yeatin, who were scheduled to continue to Warmagic classes, were housed in the barracks in the fortress, but spent plenty of time in the tavern – the Iron Gate, named for the device of Relan Cor.

  The village inn was a bus
y place, thrice the size of a normal inn, with two additional bays and a side house. With soldiers, warriors, knights and mercenaries constantly coming and going, the inn had a lot of business . . . and a lot of fights.

  The public room at the Iron Gate’s heart was the haunt of old soldiers, mercenaries, and students in the art of warfare. The décor reflected its use, with souvenirs of campaigns, banners of defeated enemies, ancient swords notched with battle, and battered pieces of armor.

  Tyndal seemed to be avoiding Rondal as much as Rondal was avoiding him. He seemed to spend an awful lot of time working with various masters-of-arms in the practice yard, honing his swordplay. Sometimes he worked with a mock mageblade, sometimes with a cavalry sword, sometimes with an infantry sword. But he was getting better and better, Rondal could see from afar, even though he still made a lot of mistakes.

  Rondal tried his best to put him out of his mind. He had a somewhat different perspective, after the Mysteries. He knew it was unfair of Tyndal to blame him for Estasia’s death, but that did not deter his guilt over the matter. While the sting of it had faded, the burden of it had only grown. He imagined what she might say to him several times, but each time he found himself thinking such maudlin thoughts he found something physical and punishing to do. When he got back to his room, if he was first, he tried to get to sleep before Tyndal got in. Tyndal, he noticed, always seemed to be asleep when he came in. They spoke barely five words to each other in three days.

  Finally, they were called to the Assembly Hall on the first floor for their first classes of Warmagic school, and he was able to let the volume of work occupy his mind instead.

  There were thirty-seven pupils for the class, most of them young magi with the ink still wet on their charters. A few were older and had sought out the training because they wanted to go to the Penumbra and try their luck to find a stone. Compared to Infantry Training, it was almost as studious and civilized as Inarion Academy.

  Master Valwyn was the one who addressed them first, giving a long rambling speech on the history of Warmagic, its current utility, and the importance of the Magical Corps in the defense of the kingdom. He referenced the goblin invasion several times, but did not dwell on it.