Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  While the soup was cooking, Lady Arsella excused herself upstairs. She returned soon after wearing a gown of dark gold and black, a bronze noble’s circlet tying back her hair which she had freshly brushed and banded. It may have been golden, Rondal conceded, if it was clean and the light bright enough. She devoured the soup wolfishly, her eyes darting around the door they had turned into a table in the main hall. She asked for news, and they gave her what they could.

  “Most of northern Gilmora is deserted, now,” Rondal explained. “Most of the peasants have either fled south or been taken north in chains. The warriors have either died defending their homes or are in a strange castle hundreds of miles south. Barrowbell is the last defended city.”

  “Barrowbell? They’ve gotten all the way to Barrowbell?” Arsella asked, her mouth agape in a most unladylike way.

  “Nearly,” Rondal agreed, sadly. “We’ve managed to hold them. Only . . . they aren’t actually pushing any further. They aren’t holding castles like they did in the Penumbra. They raid, they enslave, they slaughter, they pillage . . . but then they move on. They are looting it bare, but they are not trying to hold Gilmora.”

  “That’s strange,” she agreed. “But the gods alone know what drives the minds of the goblins,” she said, distastefully.

  “They have minds like any man, and they make war better than most,” admitted one of the men-at-arms at the far end of the table. “You don’t raid a country bare. Not like that.”

  “So why?” she asked, pouring another bowl of soup.

  “That’s one of the things we’re here to find out,” Rondal nodded. “You don’t happen to have a map of the area, do you?”

  “I believe there were some maps in my father’s chamber,” Arsella nodded, “but I don’t know if they survived the pillage.” Rondal knew that most lords and castellans kept such maps to keep property rights straight. Often a manor’s maps were quite extensive.

  “If you don’t mind looking for them, they would be a great help. We have a well inside, and the walls are stout, once we repair that gate. But we’ll soon run out of this . . . bounty,” he said, distastefully eyeing the soup. “Where might we find more? Surely not every inch of Gilmora is scoured.”

  “I . . . I have a few ideas,” she admitted. “Places to go where I was afraid to go myself. With you and your stalwart men,” she said, smiling warmly, “perhaps we can risk it. By day.”

  “I’ll not fight goblins in the dark, if I can help it,” agreed Rondal. “We have another caravan arriving soon, and another beyond that. But we will have to exist on forage as much or more than our baggage trains. The gurvani have proved adept at raiding our caravans,” he said, annoyed. “We also intend on stopping the flow of prisoners into the Penumbra. Both from here and from the other end of the Timber Road.”

  “Why are they taking so many prisoners?” she asked, anxiously. “What are they doing with them all?”

  “Slaves,” one of the men told her. “Sacrifice. And . . . rations.”

  “Rations—oh!” Arsella said, horrified. “They . . . eat people?”

  “After the sacrifice part,” agreed Rondal. “They dry the flesh and distribute it to their armies. Never eat a goblin’s lunch,” he said, disparagingly. “It might just be someone you know.”

  “That’s . . . that’s revolting!” she gasped, looking ill. “I thought they would just hold them for ransom.”

  “Goblins aren’t Gilmoran gentlemen playing at dynastic feuds,” Rondal said, darkly. “They intend to exterminate every human being on Callidore. They may keep a few alive to help the process along, but I have no doubt as to their goal.”

  “Dear gods,” Arsella said, her eyes dazed. “All those people.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Rondal assured her. “We’re looking at how we can stop them from continuing. The northern third of Gilmora is the most sparsely people region. What happens when they turn to the more populated south? We think they were just getting started with their invasion last summer. This year, they’re setting up their structures. Next year . . . well, imagine a hundred trolls, all in a row, knocking over every castle in sight. Or dragons digging through the ruins of our strongest fortresses to get at the yummy parts inside.”

  “All those people,” she repeated, her face ashen. “My lords, I think . . . I think I will retire for the evening.” With that she got up and left, a taper in her hand.

  Rondal felt badly about telling her the truth, but there was no escaping the horror of the gurvani invasion. If anything, he had spared her the worst of it: the makeshift torture camps, the sacrifice pits turned into butcheries, the sadistic and cruel contests the goblins forced the humans into, pitting them against each other in contests designed to maim and hurt, but only rarely kill. That privilege was reserved for the priests of the Dead God.

  Rondal listened to the girl’s footsteps as she mounted the stairs, crossed to her chamber, and locked the heavy door from within. Then silence. Then, just barely in the range of his hearing, he heard sobs of despair.

  * * *

  His first priority was securing the perimeter of their new home. Repairing the gate was a big job, and though the portly corporal had some skill with wood, Rondal could do little more than prop one of the doors up and wedge it into place, push the cart in front of it that first night and ward the opening as tightly as he could. In fact he warded the entire manor compound heavily, placing sigils, wards, and active spells wherever they might do the most good to take the place of guards he did not have yet.

  Lady Arsella set to making herself useful, for which Rondal was grateful. The last thing he needed was an idle body around. Arsella seemed quite capable for a noblewoman, willing and able to carry water, build a fire, and cook with greater facility than he would have expected. She was also quite friendly, smiling at the men as they came on and off duty, and always willing to pitch in to help with some project where nimble hands were better suited.

  Despite the ruined condition of the hall and the manor in general, the girl was surprisingly able to locate several key items in the rubbish, from shears to rope, when asked. She was also instrumental in setting the place to rights, more or less, indicating exactly what sheds and cots had been used for what purpose. She was also replete with knowledge on the habits of the various servants, the manor officials, and even her own family. Rondal wrote it off as a nervous girl in a bad situation babbling, but he learned a bit abot her past life at Maramor during her rantings, and he soon felt sorry for Arsella.

  Rondal took the former Castellan’s chamber in the northern tower as his own, as it had a good view and most of a bed and there were a few maps and such rolled up and tucked away in the rafters. Many were years out of date, but the rivers and bridges had not moved, even if the domains and their owners had. He spread the largest map out over one wall and attached it with a spell so he could imagine the countryside around him. He transferred most of the physical features to a magemap he was building, allowing him to see where potential allies, enemies, and unlooted provision might be hidden.

  He kept in contact with both Terleman and Tyndal, who was taking a different route, but was bringing twenty men and a wain of supplies with him. They helped fill in details about specific areas and sightings of the foe from rangers skulking through the deserted fiefs of Gilmora.

  Terleman had news about Arsella’s family the third day at Maramor.

  They brought nine lances to Cantinal, and thence to Dormorar. That’s one of the places where the dragons attacked, a week after they probably arrived. Right after the attack when the survivors were regrouping, the place was sacked by two legions. There weren’t many survivors. I will check, but in all likelihood the girl really is the last of her line.

  So what do I do about her?

  It’s her manor, legally, Terleman advised. We can use it under order of the King, and even compensate her. But since her father and his liege – and his liege above him – are all dead, I’d say she’d be better off aba
ndoning the place and moving south with the rest of the refugees.

  I’ll suggest it, Rondal replied, doubtfully. But I don’t think she’ll go.

  Then let her stay – but she’s living in an active war zone. You could be ordered to abandon that manor at any time, and withdraw all protection. Make certain she understands that. If she still wants to stay, that’s between her and the gods.

  Tyndal was less severe, when Rondal solicited his advice after reporting their success, mind-to-mind.

  Is she comely? Was the first thing he asked. When Rondal assured him that under the dirt she was likely a lovely girl, his fellow apprentice was convinced. Then keep her around. It keeps a certain element of class to the place.

  You haven’t even seen the place.

  If it’s at all like the last three manors we’ve seen, it needs all the class it can get. Besides, what else can you do? Until someone is headed south, you’re stuck with her. And we’re going to be there a while. So it’s a good thing she’s not bad to look at.

  Rondal didn’t have much to say in response to that. In truth, he had begun to notice Lady Arsella as a woman, and he felt guilty about it. After all, this was her home. If Sire Cei has taught them anything, he had taught them the demands of hospitality, and feeling lustfully toward your hostess was never appropriate, particularly if a knight had her at a disadvantage. It was the duty of a knight to defend the defenseless, he reasoned. Not annoy them with unwanted suits.

  He explained Commander Terleman’s position and proposal to her that afternoon, during their first real meal in the great hall. She tearfully took the news of her family’s probable demise, then agreed to let the patrol set up their outpost at Maramor.

  She had very, very pretty eyes, he noted. Eyes like . . . well, eyes he found alluring. Warm and friendly, despite her condition. Rondal suppressed a desire to be forward with the defenseless girl anyway, and chided himself from such thoughts. He could be stalwart about it, his brain insisted. He was, he kept reminding himself, a professional.

  He didn’t exactly avoid Arsella after that, but he didn’t seek her out, either. Instead he busied himself with restoring the manor’s limited defenses.

  He spent the next day directing earth elementals to clear out a trench and build a short, five-foot tall earthen dike around the manor to improve its profile; good, easy magical work. A lot like directing trained dogs, he often thought. Good work a man could get lost in.

  Only it was difficult to keep his mind away from his hostess when she sought him out on purpose. A few hours after noon she appeared with a basket, dressed in a red gown and a black mantle.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” she said, smiling as he allowed the spell to fade, the piles of dirt falling into place where they’d fallen out of existence. “I brought a few things . . . there wasn’t much. I’m just grateful for you sharing.” She spread a cloth over a boulder his excavations had revealed and sat the basket upon it.

  “You’re right, it wasn’t much,” he agreed. “But it looks like you’ve lived on less.”

  “A lady learns to be resourceful,” she said, biting her lip. “I found a ham in the rafters of the smoke shed. It felt like a feast. It only lasted a week. Then I boiled the bone. Most of the food in the kitchens is long gone, but I’m wondering if the village—”

  “There’s not much left to the village,” Rondal said, gently, as she removed a parcel of griddle cakes from the basket. “I don’t know the last time you were there—”

  “Not since the . . . the men marched away,” she said, guiltily, pulling some cold grilled sausages out of the hamper. “I went to see them off. The castellan and th- my father. And all the men in the village went, and all the men at the manor. Only a few were spared. The others left to go to Castle Dormorar where the baron and his men were holding out.”

  “So why didn’t you go?” he asked, curiously.

  “They wanted me to, of course,” she said, looking away. “I should have. But I couldn’t bear to leave Maramor all alone. Alone and undefended.”

  “So . . . how is your valiant defense going?” Rondal asked with a chuckle as he took a griddle cake. “The last time I checked you had but three quarrels and had slain but one goblin.”

  “It was a big goblin!” she assured him, a little irritated. “Hiding from goblins is a perfectly acceptable tactic for a lady!”

  “And so is shooting it in the back!” Rondal laughed. She had regaled the squadron of her one brush with combat, a few weeks prior. She had taken a lone goblin scout who was looking for loot in her manor hall by surprise, shooting it in the back of the neck from a hiding place. She even proudly showed them the body, which she had dragged out to the midden pile.

  “But what would have happened if I’d followed the rest of the folk of Maramor?” she asked. “I’d be as dead as they are,” she said, sadly.

  “It’s a war,” he said, trying to comfort her. “People die. Not just soldiers. Not in this war.”

  “What do you know about it?” she demanded crossly, a tear in her eye. “Was your home destroyed by goblins?”

  “Yes,” he said, sharply. “Mine was one of the first. Away in the Mindens, in a tiny valley called Boval Vale. Hundreds of my friends perished. I barely escaped with my life.” He hadn’t meant to sound bitter about it – he rarely thought about the home of his boyhood, now. But her bitterness made him angry – she wasn’t the only one suffering in the war.

  “I apologize,” she said, wiping away a tear. “I’m . . . I’m new to this. Being the Lady of the Manor and all.”

  “I’ve just recently been made a knight,” he admitted. “Just over a year. I’m not very good at it, either.”

  “You seem to do well,” she said, handing him an apple. They hadn’t brought any apples. It must have been from her private store. “Your men look to you like . . . like my father’s men did to him.”

  “That’s not the same as knowing what you’re doing,” he said, shaking his head. “Most of these men are older than me. But they are all regular soldiers, not militia, and they know how to follow orders. Good orders,” he added.

  “Well, I think you do it well,” she said, sincerely. “And I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, here, Sir Rondal.”

  “It’s just . . . a bit of errantry,” he dismissed, blushing a little. She seemed a little too grateful.

  “It’s gracious of you to think so,” she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She was right, Rondal realized. In the sunlight, her hair was kind of golden. “I know that you are just on a mission. But . . . I’m happy that your mission brought you to Maramor,” she said, softly. Her hand reached out and touched his.

  Rondal was very self-conscious, but he found his hand caressing hers. It was soft, softer than his by far. Her fingers seemed long and thin and almost childlike next to his. Once the hands of a scholar, they now had sword calluses, and his wrists were far thicker than they’d been a year ago. They seemed to dwarf hers.

  “Lady Arsella,” he began softly, but uneasily. “It would not be proper . . .”

  “Let’s leave proprietary to the bridesisters,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I have been here in this manor alone for weeks. Now a handsome young knight arrives – with food – and protects me. Propriety is for formal balls, not war zones.”

  “Still,” Rondal said, reluctantly pulling his hand away, “while I admire you, my lady, and feel . . . well, it would not be proper for me to discuss how I feel under any circumstances I can think of, it would complicate matters with my command. For now,” he said, deliberately pushing her hand back into her lap, “I think it best if we keep to a professional relationship. Perhaps later . . .”

  “I am at your disposal, Sir Knight,” she said, a little awkwardly. “I suppose if we were to become intimate, your men would, indeed, grow—”

  “Restless,” Rondal finished for her. “In a war zone, at a deserted outpost, propriety is sometimes all that keeps a soldier’s baser nature at ba
y. If I do not live by it and keep discipline here and now . . .”

  “I understand,” she smiled. “I like you, Sir Rondal. You are a gentle man, for a soldier.”

  “Knight mage,” he said, his throat dry. “Actually, I’m a knight mage.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” she said, leaning uncomfortably close to him.

  “We’re new,” he said, absently. She was so close. So close he could smell her breath. It was sweet. Like an apple.

  “We . . . we should get back,” he said, reluctantly. “It’s late afternoon. I have to inspect the pickets and change the guard. And tomorrow we go into the village and see what’s left of it. “

  Arsella nodded, looking a little ashamed as she packed up the picnic. But when she walked back with him, he carried the basket . . . and she held his hand the whole way.

  * * *

  Maramor village was actually two villages – Maramor Village proper, and then a hamlet a half-mile down the road called Argun. The former was devoted to the cotton fields and corn fields that were the heart of Maramor’s demesne, while Argun was devoted to growing tobacco. Both were deserted, and Maramor Village was largely burned to the ground.

  Lady Arsella accompanied Rondal and two of the men on the short expedition, and from the moment she saw the circles of stumps where once peasant cots had stood she burst into tears. She ran from hovel to hovel in the former village, naming the people who once lived there. Rondal only half-heard what she was saying, as it came out half a mumble, but he could tell she was terribly distressed.

  “Most left with . . . with Mother,” she said, sadly. “Some stayed, at least for a while. But then . . . then the goblins came. They fought, but I hid.”

  “It’s what you were supposed to do,” soothed Rondal, looking around anxiously. There hadn’t been any sign of goblins nearby since they arrived, but with the girl making so much noise . . .