Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “Theoretically,” the old warmage continued, when the final stage of the ritual was complete, “a Cisguyine should have a potent effect on the target within fifty feet. Further than that and the effect diffuses quickly. While that may not seem helpful in a battle, it does make Cisguyine an excellent alternative to a deadlier device. And many higher-level warmagi stupidly forget to cast counterspells. I have seen contests where the Cisguyine Wand settled the matter.

  “The stunning effect lasts no more than ten minutes, which is why this wand is favored by footwizards well-read enough to have mastered it. That is, apparently, enough time to get away from a bandit . . . or an angry customer,” he chuckled, as did several of the magi in the class. “It will also stun a horse of decent size for at least five minutes, based on the strength of the charge, which often puts a cavalryman at a disadvantage.”

  They continued through the rest of the exercise until they had finished with a binding rune. When they were done, the lightly-etched wand felt pleasantly warm in his hands. That was a bit of an illusion – most of the heat had been absorbed by his own hands. But he was satisfied with the result. Not the most complicated wand in the world, but he was glad he had learned the craft to make it.

  “Now we are going to test our devices,” Master Sirisan said with a twinkle in his eye. “To do that, let us pair up. I trust none of these are so powerful that we must fear injury, but I have had a room prepared with additional rushes to cushion any falls.” He led them all to another room across the corridor, smaller than the lecture hall. Then he invited the class to square off against each other two at a time.

  The first few bouts were exciting, due to the novelty. A tall man in green went up against a shorter, stockier man in yellow. The man in yellow prevailed, sending the man in green crumbling to the floor.

  “Drag him into the corner until he wakes,” Master Sirisan instructed. “I’d like to make the observation that if one wishes to use a warwand, then one should consider carefully when pointing. As good as wands are at pointing, they are only as good as the eye of the master who wields them. The secret,” he confided, “is to forget aiming, as you would do with a bow or arbalest, and simply . . . point,” he said. “Imagine the wand as a finger. When you point with your finger, you never miss. Point with your wand and have faith that your hand and eye know better together than you do.”

  The next bout was between a slender young woman with an unfortunate face and a well-muscled mage from the south. The man from the south was slower, and joined the man in green snoring in the corner.

  “Alacrity is frequently a component in successfully using a wand,” Master Sirisan lectured. “The young man made the mistake of a six-syllable mnemonic, whereas the young lady’s was but three. You can see the difference three syllables can make,” he said, as the southern mage was dragged away.

  Two by two the class tried their wands. Gurandor was taken down by a Gilmoran mage who in turn was taken down by Rondal’s comrade Yeatin. Both were dragged to the corner just as the man in green was waking. Then it was Rondal’s turn. He walked to the other end of the chamber and waited for an opponent.

  Of course Tyndal had to be the one to face him.

  You sure you want to do this? Rondal asked, mind-to-mind.

  Are you kidding? This is fun! Usually when I blast someone, they stay blasted. This way we get to see who the better wand maker is!

  Rondal didn’t reply. He was busy fuming over Tyndal’s arrogance and competitive nature. The big stupid puppy thought this was a game . . . another chance for him to score an easy victory. Rondal planned on disabusing him of that notion. He waited until Master Sirisan dropped his arm and told them to begin . . . and while Tyndal was still raising his arm, Rondal merely bent his wrist and elbow.

  “Pen-ol!” he said, as quickly as he could as he willed the wand to discharge. He’d chosen the word – the old Narasi term for ‘ass’ – because of its brevity. He felt the surge of power through the stick as it fired. Tyndal crumpled to the floor before his wand was half-way raised.

  “Impressive,” Master Sirisan nodded, approvingly. “Very efficiently played, Sir Rondal.”

  Instead of ten minutes, however, Sir Tyndal was still snoring more than thirty minutes later, when Master Sirisan finally used a waking charm on him to rouse him from consciousness.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked, confused. Rondal watched from just outside of the corridor, where his fellow apprentice could not spot him.

  “Gone, already,” the old man chuckled. “An excellent display of wand work.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Tyndal said as he struggled to his feet.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you,” the master warmage laughed. “No, Sir Tyndal, you never even uttered the command. Your fellow Sir Rondal took the bout. And . . . from the length of your slumber, I’d say he put a fair sum of emotional energy into the device. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he’d be capable. But his effect lasted the longest of any of them.”

  “Really?” Tyndal asked, sitting up. “Here I thought I was better at warwands.”

  “It seems Sir Rondal has improved,” the master said diplomatically as he helped the mage knight to his feet.

  “Yes,” Tyndal said, shaking his head. “He’s full of surprises.”

  Smiling smugly to himself, Rondal left without seeing Tyndal, heading down to the library to begin research on new wand types. He was suddenly feeling quite competitive.

  * * *

  The next day found them in the spacious indoor practice yard Relan Cor boasted. A few permanent magelights hung from the vaulted ceilings and wooden swords and blunted steel ones lined the walls. The thick pile of rushes had been well-trod, and here and there one might encounter bloodstains. That day their topic was mageblades, and the man who taught the subject was a master of the art of magical swordplay: Master Renando of Cormeer.

  Master Renando was a slender man with dark hair and a sharply-cut Imperial beard, and he looked, at first glance, more like a coinbrother or a shoemaker than a warmage. But Rondal knew Renando was an acknowledged master warmage, and one of the best swordsmen in or out of the trade. He considered it a privilege to learn from him, and found a spot near to him on the man’s left. Tyndal filed in late and went to the right.

  Master Renando shot Tyndal an irritated glance but did not comment. The master of the mageblade sat utterly still on a stool in front of a wall upon which were hung several swords. He addressed the students in a loud, clear voice with a manner and Cormeeran accent that seemed perpetually amused.

  “A sword,” he began, “is a blade, a sharpened edge used to puncture or slash. Within that definition, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, rising smoothly, “there are hundreds, if not thousands, of variations. Length. Width. Shape. Material. A sword can be made out of copper, bronze, iron, steel, or metals more exotic. It can be whittled out of bone or chipped out of stone. It can be straight, curved, pointed, blunted, one-sided, two-sided, one-handed, two-handed, heavy, light, pretty, ugly, mundane, or magical.

  “But at the core, a blade is a sharpened edge. Swung with force. Sufficient to cut the intended target . . . or block a cut meant for you.

  “For a sword is not merely and offensive weapon, as a bow, an arbalest, or even most wands; a sword is an offensive and a defensive weapon. It can prevent harm, as well as inflict it.

  “More, it is a tool; a tool whose primary purpose is violent, but which can be employed in non-violent ways, by those skilled in its use.”

  He walked over to the wall, and began gesturing to weapons, naming them as he did. He began with one Rondal had become intimately familiar with in the Mysteries.

  “First, we have the short infantry sword. This example is from the barbarians on the steppes, a horse-loving people. Yet the first weapon a boy is given in manhood is an infantry sword. The idea is that a warrior’s first duty is to protect his village or encampment from enemies. A defensive role. For this he was given a blade no longer than his arm, d
ouble edged with a point. With it, he could stand and fight toe-to-toe with any who invaded. Across the centuries, the short infantry sword has proven the most efficient of weapons.” He crossed to the next example, familiar by sight but not use. Rondal was an unenthusiastic horseman at best.

  “When a man climbs on horseback, he seeks to extend his reach, and therefore extends his blade. The double-sided cavalry longsword, as favored by the Narasi cavalry in this day and age, is a highly effective way of projecting force against the heads of your foes. Combined with the lance and shield, it makes heavy cavalry virtually invulnerable. Combined with bow and axe, it makes light cavalry extremely effective. The cavalry of the Farisi, such as they were, used a curved version of the sword, which actually provides greater cutting leverage.”

  He turned to face them, as he stood in front of another example Rondal was familiar with.

  “What, then, of the mageblade?” he asked. “Longer than an infantry blade, shorter than a cavalry blade, not much guard to speak of in most cases, a hilt long enough for two hands but a blade that needs but one to lift it. It was crafted originally by the great magi of Lost Perwyn, who sought to give it what neither the cavalry blade nor the infantry sword possessed.

  “Versatility.”

  He took the blade off the wall and turned to show it to them, holding it up in profile. “The mageblade is not designed to decapitate from horseback. But it can. Nor is it made exclusively to defend on foot, but it is well suited for that purpose. The ideal mageblade was forged from the finest steel, and enchanted throughout the process, to build for the warmage the perfect extension of his arm and his Talent. The perfect tool for killing. The perfect vessel for wielding magic.”

  He pulled the sword suddenly to guard, and then saluted. “The mageblade is not merely a blade, it is also, in its way, a wand. It can direct magical force, convey magical power, and respond to arcane command, once properly enchanted. The steel is strong enough to keep it from snapping, and when it is finished the spells improving its strength also allow it to be used in a variety of ways. As a ladder, to get over a wall,” he said, leaning the sword up against the bench and then using its guard as a step.

  “As a balance,” he said, using his feet to shift his weight on the sword until it was balanced perfectly over the bench, his slender slippers on hilt and point. “As a lever,” he said, shifting his feet again, which shot the sword upward. He caught it deftly in one hand just as his feet hit the floor. “The mageblade is not merely a tool of war, it is a tool of magic.”

  “But the ones we’re issuing you lot,” he added, “are crappy, rusty old practice pieces with nary a spell upon them. Because long before you learn to use the powers and versatility of the mageblade’s full arcane potential . . . you’re going to learn how to use it as a sword. Just a sword. But the right kind of sword . . . for just about anything.”

  Rondal looked at his ‘new’ mageblade, a cold steel blunted sword that had seen hundreds of sparring matches. He had his real mageblade of course, a serviceable but simple sword, a gift from Master Minalan, back in his quarters, but he was forbidden to use it. Not that it would have given him much advantage – it had only a few basic enchantments on it. But it was a real mageblade, not a practice blade.

  “Feel the grip in your hands,” the Master urged, “feel the length and balance of the sword. A master warmage knows his mageblade better than his pecker. Just to ensure that you do understand the depth of that knowledge, one of the first spells I’m going to teach you is known in the trade as the Bladelore spell, or more properly Gurther’s Exploration. In this meditation you will extend your consciousness into the steel of your blade and get to know it, layer by layer, inch by inch, until you know it the way your tongue knows the back of your teeth. Let’s begin . . .”

  Rondal threw himself into the meditation without much native enthusiasm . . . but he knew how to study a spell. Under Master Renando’s patient instruction he – along with the rest of his troop – crawled through their blades, mentally speaking, from hilt to point. Rondal could tell his particular sword had been broken and mended twice, and was particularly strong along the forte of the blade. It was balanced too blade-heavily in his hand, and the leather that wrapped the hilt was soaked with the sweat of dozens of other students.

  “Once you know the blade,” Master Renando continued, when they had completed the two-hour long meditation, “then you can begin to understand how to use it. And using it in combat is different than other sorts of swordplay. So you will learn the basic postures and positions our tradition brings us: the Sword Dance of the Magi.”

  They spent the rest of the afternoon learning the rudiments of the positions and the transitions. Thanks to Master Minalan’s insistence, Rondal was already fairly familiar with the Sword Dance, up to the first eight movements. Master Renando complimented him on his stance when he came by, even.

  When the time came to pair off with sparring partners, Rondal made certain that he found Gurandor before Tyndal found him. No need for another awkward confrontation. They hacked at each other in slow motion as Master Renando instructed the class in swordplay at half-speed. He almost forgot his fellow apprentice was there until the last few minutes of the class, when the master instructed everyone to switch partners. Tyndal tried to get to Rondal, he saw, but Rondal was able to snag a short hairy Remeran instead.

  “That was a lot of fun,” Gurandor said as the class broke up. “A lot more fun than infantry drills.”

  “It’s a whole different style,” agreed Rondal, who had not minded learning shield work. Few warmagi used shields. “Fighting with a mageblade makes you a lot more vulnerable.”

  “But a lot more deadly,” Gurandor countered. “Once you add in the spellwork—uh oh. The Haystack is heading this way, Striker.” “The Haystack” was what Gurandor had taken to calling Tyndal, after the shaggy mop on his head that seemed to turn brighter and more golden every day.

  “You want a quick bout, Ron?” he asked, invitingly . . . as if it was a privilege.

  “I’m done for the day,” he answered, coolly. “You should able to find a pick-up match though.”

  “All right,” Tyndal said, though he didn’t look intrigued by the prospect. “Is something wrong?”

  “What do you mean?” Rondal asked as he folded his equipment.

  “You know damn well what I mean!” Tyndal said in a low voice.

  Rondal looked around. He didn’t want to make a scene.

  What are you talking about? He demanded of Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

  You’ve been acting strange since I got here, Tyndal accused.

  In what way?

  “I . . . well, you aren’t being your old friendly self,” Tyndal began.

  You mean I’m standing up for myself and not taking your abuse?

  What abuse? Tyndal asked. I’ve been nothing but nice!

  Rondal didn’t have an answer for that. Tyndal had been nothing but nice. In a condescending and arrogant way. He decided to try another approach.

  “Do you really think that what happened at Inarion I’m just going to . . . to . . .”

  “To what?” Tyndal asked. “And a lot happened at Inarion. For both of us.”

  “You know damn well what I mean!” Rondal replied, hotly.

  “You mean . . . Estasia?”

  “Of course I mean Estasia! Or were you worried I was pissed over your examinations?”

  “What about Estasia? It was a tragic misadventure. Kaffin will get what’s coming to him – I’ll see to that.”

  “You’ll see to that? That’s mighty gracious of you, fixing my mistake!” Rondal blasted back, and then walked away hurriedly.

  “Ron, wait!” Tyndal said aloud. “What mistake? Wait!”

  “That’s enough,” Gurandor said evenly, stepping between Tyndal and his squadmate. “Let him be. He’s obviously not—”

  “You have no idea what he’s thinking!” snarled Tyndal, trying to break free. Gurandor pushed back just eno
ugh to show Tyndal he wasn’t going to chase after Rondal without getting through him.

  Rondal stomped down to the main hall, where people were beginning to gather for the evening meal. “What was that all about?” Gurandor asked, concerned. “I thought you were going to draw on him!”

  “That’s why I left,” Rondal said, disgusted. “He doesn’t even . . . no, don’t trouble yourself. If he’s going to be as thick as an anvil, I’m not going to worry about it. Let’s just eat . . . and then find a bottle someplace. I suddenly feel the need for a drink.”

  Gurandor grinned. “We can go into the village to the inn, tonight. A few pints will make you feel better.”

  “Or make me bawl like a baby,” grumbled Rondal. “Can he really be that stupid? She’s dead, and he blamed me, and now I’m supposed to just pretend like it didn’t happen?”

  “Let it not trouble you,” Gurandor soothed. “You have to work with him. You don’t have to like him.”

  “True,” Rondal sighed. “I guess if we could work with Yeatin in the squad, I can work with anyone.”

  * * *

  The one-eyed barman at the Iron Gate was dealing with five tables of customers, but there were plenty empty at this time of day. Rondal paid a penny for two pints poured out of an earthenware jug and handed one to his squadmate.

  They talked of the day’s lesson and argued over what the best-designed mageblade would be enchanted with. Rondal had a slight advantage over Gurandor, as he already had acquired one. It was as sturdy and as functional as the common blades distributed for practice, but it had been made by Master Cormoran in Tudrytown. Rondal had barely added enchantments himself, but now that he understood the process better, he had several he was considering.