Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “I know, I know,” she sobbed. “But . . . it’s not fair! It’s not fair that they’re d-d-dead and I’m, I’m . . .”

  “Calm yourself, Lady Arsella,” Rondal said, dismounting and pulling her to him by the shoulders. “Lady Arsella,” he repeated, two or three times, as he looked into her eyes. It was as if she couldn’t remember her own name. Finally, she caught his eye, and was brought back into the present.

  “Oh, dear Ishi and Trygg!” she said, tears in her eyes. “What a sight I must look . . . but . . .”

  “You said you might know where some food was overlooked,” Rondal reminded her.

  “Food,” she repeated, dumbly, then took possession of herself again. “Yes,” she assured him. “I believe I do.

  “Aunt Gi always kept some back from the reeve,” she explained, as she kicked the dirt aside from the edge of a burned-out hovel. “She died a few days before the first reports came in, and they were going to settle her will, but then everyone got called to their banners. I don’t think anyone remembered . . .” she said, reaching down and pulling up the edge of a doorway hidden in the dirt. “She had this root cellar,” Arsella explained triumphantly. “And she always kept some extra.” She reached down into the hole she had revealed and began pulling up food.

  “Cheese,” she said, pulling out two small wheels, “a sack of wheat flour, a half-sack of barley, half-sack of oats . . . look!” she said, grinning, as she struggled to pull a jar from the ground. “Pickled eggs!”

  There was actually a fair amount of food stashed within the old root cellar. Enough to feed his men for a week or more, if they were careful. The last jar Arsella pulled from the pit was the most promising, though. It was a large crock with a wooden lid, and when he pulled it off, Arsella wrinkled her nose.

  “Ale,” Rondal grinned. “And quite far gone, if poor Aunt Gi made it before she died. A few month’s worth. This should be a proper drink!” The other men were pleased by the find, too. “I wonder if there are any more caches around . . .” he said, summoning power from his stone.

  He shaped a spell that would tell him of any hidden chambers and cast it. To his pleasure he found two more, neither as large as Aunt Gi’s, but yielding several more days’ worth of food.

  “Let’s scout the hamlet, too,” he suggested, once the provisions were stored on the horses. “While we’re here. I at least want to ensure there aren’t any gurvani lurking about.”

  His fears were unfounded; Argun was even more burnt-out than Maramor Village. The lonely row of huts and cots near the road looked desolate without thatch on them, and the burnt stumps of the walls sometimes concealed human remains. Only one cache was discovered there, a mere sack of potatoes and a measure of rye flour. The expedition proved fruitful in other ways, however.

  “Look, Sir Rondal,” one of his rangers, Fursar, said as he examined the rough track that bisected the hamlet. “Tracks. Fresh. Some human and some . . . not.”

  Rondal came over to examine the impressions. “I’m no tracker, Fursar. What do they tell you?”

  “Four gurvani came this way, probably four, five nights ago,” he pronounced. “They had two humans with ‘em. A woman and a man, looks like.”

  “Are you sure they were here at the same time?” Rondal asked in a low voice.

  “Positive, milord,” the soldier grunted. “See how that gurvani print overshadows the human . . . and then this human print overshadows the gurvani? They were here at the same time, no doubt,” he assured.

  “Slavers, then,” Rondal said, his eyes narrowing. “Picking up the remnants. You are lucky they strayed no further from the road, Lady Arsella,” he called.

  “Can . . . can we go back to Maramor, now?” she asked, shivering under her mantle.

  “I think we’ve found enough,” Rondal agreed. “We know there have been goblins here. We know there have been people here. Let’s hope we can avoid both . . . at least until our relief arrives.”

  Dinner was a merry feast, as not only had the stores been replenished by the foraging expedition, but also one of the men had had luck with his arbalest, and a fat goose was waiting for Arsella to dress when they returned.

  Rondal expected the noblewoman to blanch at the idea of plucking and cleaning the fowl, but Arsella pitched in excitedly. She found the prospect of goose tempting. Rondal had a large fire in the main hall and oversaw the roasting himself. Some roasted potatoes, cheese, some biscuits baked in the fire, and a few more sausages from their original stores filled their bellies. Aunt Gi’s final brew filled their hearts.

  Rondal sat at the opposite end of the trestle-door table from Lady Arsella, as if they were lord and lady in a hall, surrounded by their knights. Their “knights” being rough peasant infantrymen, their hall draughty and bare, and their fare of the commonest sort, at least the ale was fit for a king. Rondal found himself feeling almost lordly, and caught himself smiling at Arsella in the magelight several times.

  Is this what it’s like? He wondered. Is this what Sire Cei and Master Min are so enraptured of? He studied Arsella when she wasn’t looking at him, caught her in mid-laugh. She was comely, he decided. And very warm. Intelligent and friendly. She teased with the men without being disrespectful or inviting rude jests, he noted, and carried herself proudly . . . mostly. Every now and then he caught her off-guard, just being a girl, and not the lady of the manor. It was at those times he found her most appealing.

  His attention was noted by Fursar, the Gilmoran ranger from the south.

  “Watch that one, lad,” he warned in a fatherly tone. “She’s a quick wit and a pretty face, but there’s something amiss about her. More than meets the eye,” he said, tapping his cheek meaningfully.

  “Oh, I don’t have an eye for her,” Rondal said, unconvincingly. “She’s just a poor girl in a rough spot. Scared and desperate.”

  “And that’s not cause enough for caution?” Fursar asked, amused. “I’ll not call fair foul without cause, milord, but . . . just watch yourself. She’s the sort who always wants to stay on top and will do what she must to stay there. A survivor,” he admitted, approvingly. “But that’s not the best sort for a man such as yourself, milord. A lot can happen in a war zone.”

  Rondal tried to dismiss the man’s warning as misplaced, that Arsella was just being friendly and grateful . . . until she tapped at the door to his chamber that evening.

  “Is there something amiss, milady?” he asked, tiredly, as he checked the wards.

  “No, not really,” Arsella said, biting her lip. “I was just . . . I wanted to know if milord would be interested in a game of dice and a cup of cheer before bed?” she asked, hesitantly. “I found this stashed away in . . . Father’s things,” she admitted, offering a small, ornate cut-glass bottle filled with some honey-colored spirit. “And I quite enjoy a game of Chasers, if you’ve a mood to pass the time.”

  “A lady alone with a man in his chambers?” he clucked. “How improper!”

  “Consider it a military consultation with the civilian leadership, then,” she said, pushing past him. Her hair smelled delicious to him, and kept him from mounting a credible defense. “Besides,” she rationalized, “who is going to know? Or care?”

  “I . . . I don’t have a good argument for that, save that we will,” Rondal stumbled.

  “Good . . . because I trust me, and I trust you implicitly,” she said, gamely as she pulled a stool over to the small table. “Find some glasses, Sir Rondal,” she said as she opened the board. “I feel like a game.”

  Reluctantly, but eagerly, Rondal found two small earthenware cups and poured the spirits while Arsella set up the board. It was a simple game, a peasant’s game, a child’s game. She won handily the first time, teasing Rondal into mounting a spirited second game. He laughed with her easily, finding speaking to her something that came naturally. She put him at ease. And she smiled at him. A lot.

  “So what do you think is going to happen to Maramor?” she asked, after he barely managed to win th
e second game. The spirits were almost gone.

  “It’s in the middle of a war zone,” Rondal said, after some thought. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t see us re-taking this region in force any time soon. As fast as troops are arriving in the garrisons south of here, they’re going into a defensive posture. Preparing to receive another advance. Not make one of their own.”

  “So . . . Maramor will be lost,” she said, sadly.

  “Mayhap,” Rondal shrugged. “It’s a pretty place, or was once. But without the village, it’s just a big house. Without the peasants to plant the cotton and the crops, it’s . . . useless. It’s useful to us now because it’s remote, relatively defensible and . . . disposable,” he said, apologetically. “If the goblins advance, we leave it behind.”

  “And . . . me?”

  “That would be unchivalrous,” he said, swallowing. Something about her vulnerability was playing on him like a sweet, sorrowful tune. “I’m sure we can find some room for you. And there’s always the possibility that the goblins will all just go home.” He smiled. She gave him a smile for courtesy, but she was not happy.

  “Oh, Rondal, what am I going to do?” she said, tearfully. “I . . . I’m alone. My family is dead. I have a manor that no one wants, lands that are useless, and no hope of much else.”

  “You seem very resourceful,” Rondal said, knowing how awful that sounded the moment he said it. “Something will come along.”

  “Like what? What use am I? A scullion for rangers at the edge of ruin. With no hope.”

  “Some hope,” Rondal said, insistently. “Surely there is something that could be salvaged from this,” he said, gesturing around. “Every lord keeps secret treasuries.”

  “If my father had such, he neglected to inform me,” she sighed. “I think he took most of it with him.”

  “Something will turn up,” Rondal said, without much enthusiasm. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. I’m supposed to help survivors, after all. But we’re a long way from pulling out, and for now Maramor is my headquarters. Once the rest of my men arrive, we’ll begin our work in earnest. Who knows,” he added, hopefully, “maybe I can secure some funds for you for the use of the place.”

  “That would be . . . helpful,” she agreed. “I don’t have much, but if I did have to flee, some money would be helpful. Oh, thank you, Rondal!! You gave me hope, when I didn’t have any. And a game of Chasers.” Before he knew what was happening, she kissed him. Not long, and not insistently, but gratefully. “Thank you,” she repeated, and kissed him again before leaving.

  “You’re welcome,” Rondal said to the back of the door after she left.

  With the immediate issue of supplies at bay, Rondal ordered the men to stay close to Maramor and see to its repair for the next few days. He kept scrying the surrounding country, but no gurvani came within miles of the place. Without a reason to leave the outpost, Rondal focused on the defenses.

  “It would never stand to a real siege,” he remarked at breakfast the next morning. “One battering ram and that door would come apart. The towers, too. More decorative than functional.” It was an observation, not a judgment – but Arsella took it personally.

  “Hey!” she protested, as she brought the big pot of tea to the table, “Maramor has withstood dozens of attacks!”

  “Bandits,” grunted one of the men, “or petty feuds between lordlings. Not a proper siege. It’ll keep out a pissed-off knight, mayhap, but a troll? Not bloody likely!”

  “It has so!” she insisted. “It’s as good as a proper castle!”

  “It’s our outpost,” Rondal said, firmly, “and regardless of what it was, we are living in it as it is. And as it is . . . it leaves much to be desired. As soon as the cavalry contingent arrives, we’re going to start scouting the nearby manors. Which ones would those be, milady?”

  “Huh? Oh!” Arsella said, startled. “You should probably start with Ketral Manor, and then Farune Manor. They’re both nearby, I believe,” she said. She didn’t sound too sure. “But there’s no telling what’s happening there, is there?”

  “That’s why we’re going,” Rondal reminded her. “To find out.”

  She was quiet, after that, but he could tell she was not happy with the idea of exploration. He supposed he could see her perspective: after weeks on her own, having a bunch of soldiers around with sharp swords made her feel safe. Thinking about them running off and attracting trouble back to her manor probably worried her.

  That afternoon she joined him again as he finished the dike-and-ditch around the manor wall. She brought lunch again, and she also brought her arbalest.

  “I want you to teach me to shoot properly,” she proposed. “I got lucky with that one goblin. Next time I don’t want to depend on luck.”

  “It’s not very ladylike,” he teased.

  “Either is a soup pot,” she retorted. “Are you going to teach me, milord?”

  So he taught her. The mechanism was a bit different than the ones he’d used at Relan Cor, and far more complex than the crossbows made in the Wilderlands. It was also more ornate, to the point where it barely looked like a tool of war. But the bow was strong, the catch was easy to operate, and teaching her to use the slide windlass wasn‘t difficult. In two hours she was hitting the target – her wimple, laid upon a pile of dirt – from thirty paces, reloading and hitting it again within the span of twenty heartbeats.

  “You’re very good at this,” he remarked, as she put a third quarrel inside the circle. “I’m surprised your father never taught you.”

  “Sir Hagun felt that such pursuits were better left to his fosterling sons, not his daughters,” she sniffed. “Needlework, now, that was a craft for a lady!” She sounded rueful about it. She was far from the only noblewoman who disliked needlework – it was a common complaint.

  “Probably a good thing,” Rondal decided, “with your temperament.”

  “My temperament?” she asked, mockingly, as she loaded a fresh quarrel into the slot. “Whatever do you mean?” She let fly a little too quickly, and missed the mark . . . by less than an inch.

  “You seem to like to act rashly,” he pointed out.

  “How so?” she asked, halting her practice and staring at him.

  “Well, the decision to leave the evacuation and return to Maramor, for one thing,” he pointed out.

  “Sir Hagun left good people behind!” she protested. “It wasn’t right that they were here without protection!”

  “And you protected them . . . how?” Rondal asked, patiently. Arsella blushed.

  “They should have at least had some representation from House Maramor,” she said, proudly. “It is the least the family could do after abandoning them like that!”

  “Yet your father felt otherwise, and you disobeyed him.”

  “I’m alive, aren’t I?” she asked, defensively.

  “And yet the people you came to protect . . .”

  “You think I wanted that?” she objected. “So, I acted rashly. When I heard that, that thing breaking down the big gates, I ran and hid. One of my servants, brave girl, insisted on it. Only . . . there was only room for one,” she said, tearfully.

  Rondal felt awful – he had been having a reasonable discussion, he hadn’t meant to invoke such a painful memory. But something in the way Arsella spoke told him she was desperate to talk about it.

  “It was a horrible night,” she said, setting down the bow and sinking to the ground. Rondal stooped closer to listen. “They came just after midnight. They had already burned the village, after taking the few people left there. There were only a score of us here, then, all that was left. We thought we were safe. We thought they’d passed us by. But we were wrong.

  “They howled,” she said, her face streaked with tears. “A terrible noise, like a . . . a. . .”

  “A goblin,” supplied Rondal with a faint smile. “I’m familiar with the noise.”

  “And they chanted. A few could speak our language. They called for us t
o open the gate, even as they started a fire. Then that troll came, and bashed down the gates instead. The men, the men fired at it, but it barely noticed them.”

  “They’re dumb that way,” agreed Rondal. “It takes a lot to kill a troll. Hard to do, even with a crossbow. Mostly it just pisses them off.”

  “This one wasn’t happy,” she agreed. “But behind it they just . . . swarmed in. The gurvani. The men drew swords, and the goblins only had clubs they were using, but they . . . there were just too many,” she whispered. “That’s when the servant girl insisted I go to my hiding place. She closed it just as the goblins pushed the manor hall doors open. I heard them come for her, heard her screaming right outside as they took her. I heard . . . oh, dear gods, Sir Rondal, I heard her beg for mercy and then she just . . . stopped.”

  “Probably fainted, or was knocked unconscious,” Rondal said, weakly. “We didn’t see much sign of blood.”

  “I hope . . . I hope . . .”

  “I know,” Rondal said, comfortingly. “I know that feeling. You can’t dwell on it, though, or it will eat you alive. I know,” he repeated, with emphasis. “Trust me, you can’t . . . wish someone alive again. Not even with magic.”

  “Of course you can’t,” she agreed, absently. “But it was horrible.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, taking her hand. Without realizing it, he was embracing her, and she was sobbing into his neck. He felt awkward and helpless. He had no idea what to do. Rondal decided to just hold her, and let her sob, because he didn’t have any better plan. He knew Tyndal would – he’d know exactly what to do to appear sophisticated, cocky, and charming. Rondal felt like a rustic.

  As if in response to his thoughts, Tyndal chose that moment to contact him mind-to-mind. Rondal wasn’t nearly as appreciative of his advice as he thought he’d be.

  What?! Rondal responded to Tyndal’s overture.

  What’s wrong? Tyndal asked, anxiously. Are you under attack?