Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  They were in a debate argument over whether a focus on offensive or defensive spells was more prudent when Tyndal and two other magi from the class came in. Gurandor was immediately on his feet.

  “Sit down,” Rondal casually commanded. “He’s not here for trouble. He’s just thirsty.” His squadmate took his seat, but never took his eyes off of Tyndal. Tyndal, for his part, spared the two a long glance, but then promptly ignored them, focusing instead on his two companions and a barmaid.

  Rondal appreciated his friend’s loyalty, but he knew that what was between he and Tyndal would have to be dealt with alone. “If he just wasn’t so damned arrogant!” he fumed aloud.

  “Has he always been that way?”

  “Well . . . I guess it’s been since . . . well, since we came to Sevendor, but it’s always been there. Headstrong, proud, and impulsive, certainly. And then we went to Inarion, and he had to be the biggest dog in the kennel. Even as he was failing.”

  Gurandor shook his head. “My father always said that the gods built up such men to make them fall all the harder as an example to the rest of us,” he said sagely, and took another sip of the rich ale.

  “He wasn’t the one who fell,” Rondal said quietly, but bitterly. “Estasia did. That would have solved a lot, actually . . . “

  “And you say this . . . Kaffin of Gyre is to blame?”

  “Or Relin Pratt. Orril Pratt’s beloved nephew himself, to hear him tell it,” Rondal scoffed. “Shadowmage. Family trained. And he wants vengeance.”

  “On who?”

  “On everyone. But Tyndal and I are probably at the top of the list, now. We . . . well, we stopped him from stealing a witchstone.”

  Gurandor looked shocked. “Someone tried to steal your witchstone?”

  “Someone – Kaffin – did steal Tyndal’s for a day or so. If we hadn’t . . . anyway, we retrieved it. But only after Estasia was thrown from the roof by one of Pratt’s mates. I liked her. A lot,” he said.

  “Did she like you?” Gurandor asked.

  “Well . . . not as much as she liked Tyndal,” Rondal admitted. As he did so, he recognized part of the burden he’d been carrying. “She really liked him, even though we had more in common, and I liked her. So . . . well, Tyndal liked her some, I suppose, but not like I did.”

  “So when she died, and he blamed you . . . oh,” Gurandor said, finally understanding. “So he thought it was your fault that the girl you liked died.”

  “So did I,” agreed Rondal. “But to hear it coming from him, after all we had been through . . . Ishi’s stinking rose,” he swore, bitterly, “he didn’t even really like her! I swear he only showed an interest because I did.”

  “You think you’re angry at him . . . because he blamed you, or because she liked him more than you?” Gurandor asked, quietly.

  Rondal wanted to dispute it – violently. If it had been anyone but one of his squadmates, he might have. But Gurandor wasn’t goading him, he was just being a good squadmate, trying to help him out. “Probably,” he whispered after a long silence. “Damn it, every where he goes, he has girls follow him around like they’re a bunch of cats and he’s covered in cream! And it’s only gotten worse since we were knighted, and his head grew nine sizes too big for his hat. They . . . they won’t leave him alone. Me,” he sighed, “I could glow like a magelight and they’d walk right past me.”

  “And Estasia walked right past you,” Gurandor supplied.

  “In a matter of speaking,” agreed Rondal, dully. “I was the smart one, the educated one, but she only had eyes for that big Haystack. Why wasn’t she interested in me?” he asked, feeling the effect of the ale a bit.

  Gurandor sympathetically laid a hand on his arm. “There’s no accounting for girls’ tastes,” he said, shaking his head. “They say they like one thing when they mean the exact opposite. They expect you to know what they’re thinking when they don’t even know what they’re thinking.”

  “Well, I knew what Estasia was thinking, and it wasn’t about me,” Rondal said, sullenly, draining his tankard. “And yes, I was angry about that. I still am. And twice so because I can’t even tell her because . . . because . . . I killed her!”

  “You did not kill her!” Gurandor insisted. “She was pushed off a roof by an enemy. You just made a mistake.”

  “A mistake that cost her life,” Rondal pointed out. “A mistake I should have avoided.”

  “But you didn’t, and now she’s dead, and you can’t ask her to the Spring Dance,” Gurandor said, rolling his eyes. “Look, Striker, I’m sympathetic . . . I am,” he assured him. “But unless you want to find a necromancer and have him call up her spirit, I think your chances with this girl are gone.”

  “I know!” Rondal said, angrily.

  “So . . . forget about her,” the other mage encouraged. “If she liked the Haystack more than you, well, that was her error, not yours. Or even his. And that had nothing to do with how she died. So think about that while I get the next round,” he said, scooping up both mugs.

  Rondal stared at the fire and brooded, thinking of Estasia’s beautiful face, her shapely figure, her sparkling eyes and her wide smile . . . and then thinking of it all being reserved for Tyndal’s appreciation. It made him burn – burn at Tyndal for blaming him and burn at Estasia for being more interested in Tyndal.

  “Screw ‘em both,” he muttered to himself. Unfortunately, he said it just as Tyndal was headed to the bar himself to refill the drinks of he and his new friends.

  “Both?” he asked, merrily. “Somehow I don’t think you have it in you to even do one,” he said, and danced past.

  Rondal seethed – and without thinking about it, his toe lashed out and caught the tip of Tyndal’s heel. The force of the tap was enough to push Tyndal off-balance . . . and then sent him sailing across the public house’s wooden floor.

  The rest of the patrons erupted into unintentional laughter as the boy skidded painfully to a stop. The expression on Tyndal’s face, however, was anything but humorous.

  “Ishi’s tits!” he snarled. “You meant to do that!”

  Rondal stared at the other boy intently. “Are you sure? I doubt that I have it in me,” he said, coolly.

  Tyndal bounded to his feet in an instant, and Rondal stood just as fast. Both boys squared off as the crowd suddenly scattered from between them.

  “No knives!” the barman ordered. “You spill blood, you clean it up!”

  “I don’t need a knife for this!” Tyndal spat.

  “You wouldn’t know which end to hold, anyway,” Rondal shot back.

  “You wanna take this out to the luck tree?” Tyndal drawled in his thickest Alshari accent.

  Rondal’s eyes narrowed. That was a special kind of challenge, back home in Boval. It was how two village men at a public house settled their differences, man to drunken man, under the eyes of the gods, their ancestors, and fellow tavern patrons.

  “What’s a luck tree?” asked Gurandor, confused. As it was an Alshari custom, he was unaware of the significance. But there would be no knives, no magic, no rocks. It was just the two combatants hammering at each other until someone surrendered or they were pulled apart by the crowd. It wasn’t a formal challenge to a duel . . . it was a rustic come-uppance between village men.

  “I would be delighted,” Rondal said, his nostrils flaring and his fists clenched.

  “Oh, I’m comfortable here… why wait?” Tyndal said, and leapt at his fellow apprentice with a savage growl.

  Rondal was prepared for the spring. Tyndal was predictable, even if he was impulsive. Rondal lowered his shoulder and kicked back his right leg, lowering the point until it was in-line with Tyndal’s midsection. As he made contact, he quickly pivoted and re-directed the larger boy’s weight. Tyndal went flying, landing on the edge of a trestle table that upended spectacularly, sending crockery and drinks flying.

  Tyndal struggled to his feet, his face showing signs of the impact. “Looks like someone thinks he learned to fi
ght,” he chuckled, nastily.

  “He’d be right, Haystack,” Gurandor said, darkly, as he took Rondal’s flank. The other mage gestured for him to stay back, however.

  “This is my quarrel, Snake,” Rondal murmured.

  “You sure you don’t need the help?” Tyndal called, squaring off again.

  “Certain,” agreed Rondal, as the two lunged for each other again, fists flying.

  Rondal felt the other apprentice’s closed hand hammer down on his face and head and the explosion of pain that resulted with each impact . . . but his willingness to endure the pain, so minor in comparison to what he’d suffered in the Mysteries, kept him on the offensive. His own fists pounded into Tyndal’s midsection as fast as he could manage, and his feet kept him moving forward.

  Before he knew it, Tyndal had swept one of his legs and sent him sprawling – but Rondal pulled his rival down with him. They fell still punching and hitting like a couple of drunks at a harvest festival.

  Rondal found himself in a superior position for too brief a moment. He drove his fist into Tyndal’s face as hard as he could, his rage and resentment from all the months being disrespected fueling his fight. For Tyndal’s part, the snarl of anger on his face told Rondal that Tyndal was similarly frustrated, which accounted for the blow to Rondal’s chin which landed with such force.

  At some point the two were dragged away from each other, bruised and bleeding, and hustled off to separate corners of the inn by their compatriots. Rondal watched Tyndal leave, limping in the company of his new friends, as Gurandor tended his own bleeding scalp. Tyndal spared him one intense and thoughtful look before he left, then was gone.

  “That was harsh,” Gurandor commented as he wiped away blood with an ale-soaked cloth. “Good form, though. Solid delivery.”

  “And solid receipt,” Rondal agreed, shaking his spinning head. “He hits hard!”

  “You might want to avoid looking glasses and placid pools for a few days,” Gurandor winced. “That’s going to give you some lovely bruises.”

  “He had it coming,” Rondal insisted.

  “I think he learned that lesson,” Gurandor nodded. “I didn’t see any victorious handsprings on the way out.”

  “Maybe he’ll leave me alone now,” Rondal groaned, his face beginning to hurt in earnest.

  “What did he say to you, anyway?”

  Rondal had a hard time articulating exactly what Tyndal had done – after all, it was a mild enough jibe. He’d traded far worse with his squadmates and not come to blows.

  With Tyndal it was different, though. He had been there since the beginning, almost. He had seen . . . well, more than even Rondal had seen. He was the one in the best place to judge him, and by his actions that judgment had been, up to now, poor enough. For him to question Rondal’s ability – unproven though it might be – in any capacity got him fighting mad. How dare he? How did his adventures give him any right to criticize? It had felt good to hit back at the boy for his arrogance, his insults, his . . . his success, Rondal admitted to himself.

  “He didn’t respect my strength,” Rondal finally answered. “He’s been strutting around since Timberwatch like he shits gold and his cock makes stallions jealous, acting like I’m some sort of dorky sidekick. He used a facility with swordplay and an arrogant attitude to try to push me around, and . . . well, he learned differently today.”

  “I’d say he did,” Gurandor agreed. “I’m just glad you didn’t draw. That might have been awkward.”

  “It was a matter for the luck tree,” Rondal explained, dismissing the concern. “Under the luck tree, in the Mindens, you don’t use anything but your bare hands. It’s not like a formal duel.”

  “What the hell is a luck tree?” Gurandor repeated.

  “Oh. It’s a . . . a kind of miniature shrine to Herus or Huin outside of an inn. Usually a big dead tree. It’s where you go to take a piss, pray, or beat the piss out of someone. But it’s not designed to be . . . well, permanent,” he decided. “Just a settlement of differences.”

  “Good,” Gurandor decided. “Because if either one of you came at me with an expression like that on your face, I’d fall on my sword.”

  “Did it really get that fierce?”

  “Like a dogfight,” Gurandor nodded. “Some of the old veterans were even approving.”

  “Good,” Rondal sighed. “Maybe I beat some sense into him.”

  * * *

  That evening, after the portcullis bell had rung and the gate had shut for the night, Rondal limped back to his room, dreading meeting his fellow apprentice once again. Part of that was guilt from fighting with someone who was supposed to be as a brother to him. Part of that was reluctance to sustain any further damage to his face. As it was his face was beginning to resemble the inside of a sausage.

  He opened the heavy wooden door to their mutual chamber and found Tyndal in bed, reading by magelight.

  “Good evening,” he grunted, without emotion.

  “Evening,” Rondal replied, stiffly. He went immediately to the ceramic basin and poured water from the ewer to bathe his eye. As he was patting it dry gingerly with the rough woolen towel, he glanced at Tyndal, whose face nearly glowed in the arcane light. “Ran into a door, I see,” he noted.

  “A very, very heavy door,” agreed Tyndal, after a pause. “Clumsy of me.”

  “You should be more careful in the future,” Rondal said, after he considered the situation. “Doors can be dangerous.”

  “Especially when you don’t expect them to be. I shall take note for future reference.”

  “That is wise of you. Good night.”

  “Good night.” Tyndal extinguished his magelight, putting the scroll he was reading next to his bed.

  Rondal stripped and crawled into his own bed. He winced involuntarily as his damaged head brushed his bedding. His roommate took notice.

  “Try ice,” suggested Tyndal. “Soak the towel in the water and then freeze it. It numbs the pain and helps the swelling.”

  “Oh . . . thanks. Yes, I forgot about that,” he admitted. It took only a few moments to tap into his stone and remove the energy from the water in the towel, rendering the cloth stiff and cold. His burning face immediately felt better. “Thanks,” he repeated, as he began to feel drowsy.

  “Don’t mention it,” Tyndal dismissed. “It’s easily one of the better things about being a mage.”

  “Almost makes up for the . . . the number of wayward doors,” Rondal said, dreamily.

  “What?” Tyndal asked, confused.

  “Forget about it,” Rondal insisted. “We have to get up early tomorrow. Mageblades, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Tyndal recalled. “That’s going to be brutal. Uh . . . what are you going to tell people about your face?”

  “Since you’ve already claimed the aggressive door excuse? I had a haystack fall on me,” Rondal decided. “If they have any questions after that, I’ll just look at them in stony silence and dare them to ask.”

  “Uh . . . haystack?”

  “That’s what we call you behind your back.”

  “Oh.” Tyndal was quiet for a long time, so long Rondal thought he might have gone to sleep. Suddenly an amused chuckle filled the darkness. “I guess that fits, then.”

  “I thought so,” agreed Rondal, grinning to himself in the dark. “Good night, Haystack.”

  “Good night . . . Striker,” Tyndal added with a snort.

  Rondal let him live.

  * * *

  The next day’s lessons began early, and involved learning coupling the art of the mageblade with the augmentation spells a mage could throw on his own body, altering his perceptions, his reactions, his strength and speed. Crafted for use without witchstones, the spells consumed the significant natural reserves of power most magi managed quickly, allowing them to be employed only for very limited periods of time – usually seconds. Of course, to an augmented warmage seconds could be as helpful as hours.

  Such spells also too
k a toll on the body, to a greater or lesser extent. You could push human muscle fiber to do incredible things . . . for a while. Then the toxins built up and the exhaustion set in, taxing your efforts. Even killing you, if you persisted in using the augmentations past your well-understood limits.

  But combining a mageblade cunningly employed with the power and speed the combat spells granted made a warmage one of the most deadly foes on the battlefield. Even in short bursts a warmage could inflict tremendous damage on an enemy. Rondal had done it himself. Not artfully, but he’d done it. You could stab a lot of goblins when you moved thrice as fast as they did.

  He could also see how quickly the other magi tired when they employed the spells. He had, too, when he had been separated from his stone for the Mysteries. Now he summoned power through it, leaving his natural reserves alone. It was still tiring, but not exhausting. Some of the other magi looked like they’d been through a fifty-mile march.

  Rondal wasn’t the only one to notice. Master Renando approached him in the afternoon, ignoring his tender face, and asked him how he was faring.

  “Well enough, Master,” he admitted.

  “So I see,” the old man nodded. “This is the first I have had experience with High Magi, much less High Warmagi. Knights Magi, I believe the popular term is. I wish to conduct an experiment, if you are able.”

  “What would you like, Master?”

  “I would like to see just how long a . . . knight magi can sustain the augmentations through the agency of the irionite.”

  “I’ve done it for four or five minutes, Master,” Rondal provided. That provoked a gasp from some of the warmagi.

  “And a minute is about all most can manage,” he nodded. “So let us see the limits of your power.”

  “Very well, Master,” Rondal said, used to people poking and prodding him about his abilities. “Shall I . . . run around the fortress until I drop?”

  “I figured a more practical demonstration would be in order. I’d like you to fight – to spar – while augmented. And fight as long as you can.”

  “Master, I’ll do it,” he said, confused. “But I’ll defeat anyone I fight who can’t keep up with me.”