Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “Yes, yes,” she agreed, truthfully, “I promise, I will serve you faithfully, my lords. I am so sorry,” she wept.

  “You’re a distraction,” Rondal reminded both her and himself through clenched teeth. “One I don’t need. And one I cannot afford to indulge. Right now I am too close to this matter to give it a fair hearing, and in the light of more pressing matters I will defer it.”

  “Ron, I’m not arguing with you,” Tyndal said, with a smirk, “but isn’t bringing along a weeping, treacherous woman on a spying mission a poor idea? Alwer can handle himself – he’s a fair fighter, no mistake. But . . . her?” he asked, thumbing in her direction. “Is that wise?”

  “Possibly not,” admitted Rondal. “But I can’t very well send her back to Maramor and let her honeyed tongue and dewy eye convince one of our men to let her go free. If she is with us we can watch her. If she becomes a liability,” he shrugged, “well, we can handle that.”

  “Let’s find out,” Tyndal said, and turned to Belsi. “So, madame, if you accompany us tomorrow, do we have to worry about a crossbow quarrel in our backs?”

  “N-no,” she said. “I might try to run away.”

  “I wouldn’t attempt it,” Tyndal continued, conversationally. “The new breed of fell hound the gurvani are employing might not be as fast or have the endurance of a horse, but they can sniff out a scent like a hunting dog.”

  “And they have razor sharp fangs,” added Rondal.

  “I promise if I go with you,” she said, after searching their eyes, “I will serve you faithfully and not try to run away.”

  “Hold on,” Tyndal said, fingering his chin. “Something occurs to me. Belsi, was there anything else you didn’t want us to discover?”

  “Y-yes,” she admitted, against her will.

  “And what was that?”

  She swallowed. “The treasure of Maramor Manor. Sir Hagun and the family had always kept some monies and such stashed away for emergencies. He took most of his wealth with him, but he left behind . . . some.”

  “How much?” Rondal demanded.

  “Seventy . . . or eighty ounces of gold. And nearly four hundred of silver. Plus some jewelry.”

  “Oh ho!” Tyndal grinned. “So you wanted to get away with a new name, a new title, a new estate . . . and literally steal the family jewels!”

  “If you are aware of a better claimant, Sir Knight, I would be happy to hear of them,” she said, contemptuously. “That money belonged to my . . . my father. My real father. If I am the only one of the blood left . . .”

  “We shall deal with that when we get back. If we get back,” he added, rising. “But Tyndal is correct: you must face accountability for what you have done. That cannot be avoided. And we shall use our journey into danger as a means of discovering your true character, now that you have given your parole. Good night . . . my lady,” he added, harshly, and left.

  The next morning they awoke before dawn, and once they had broken their fast and armed themselves, Rondal scryed the area. Once he was sure there were no goblins still in the neighborhood, he sent most of the men back to Maramor. He kept behind only Tyndal, Alwer, and Belsi – whom he continued to refer to as Lady Arsella. No need to explain more than he had to to his men.

  Tyndal had selected their mounts and saw to their saddles. He had chosen good coursers, as opposed to chargers, horses with good endurance and good speed. They were not going into battle, but they might end up fleeing for their lives. A horse that was winded after half a mile was an invitation to death.

  Each of the knights magi armed themselves with bow, quiver and sword. Rondal added a wooden roundshield to complement his mageblade and traded his chainmail hauberk for a lighter leather coat of plates. He had a dagger and a few warwands in his belt. He kept his infantryman’s helmet.

  Tyndal carried his mageblade Slasher, of course, kept his heavier armor, and took a horseman’s javelin as a secondary weapon. Alwer was apparently adept as a bowman and carried an eighteen-inch long, wide blade at his belt. He had eagerly traded his ragged tunic for a heavy gambeson from the manor’s armory and covered it with an archer’s waxed leather curiass. To that he’d added a steel helmet. He looked far more confident in the armor, and grateful for the chance to help.

  Belsi carried her crossbow, and now had a full complement of darts for the weapon. In addition she had found a long, heavy dagger she wore behind her belt. She, too, had taken a padded gambeson and an archer’s jerkin. She looked less confident. In fact, she looked at the brink of anguish.

  “Hardly the stuff of legends,” Rondal frowned.

  “We write our own legends,” Tyndal shot back. “Come on, let’s go before the goat wakes up.”

  The two parties split up, the smaller heading cross-country over fields to save time and avoid the roads. They stopped repeatedly to scry ahead and check their bearings, and did not talk much in the saddle. Rondal could tell Alwer kept casting suspicious glances in Belsi’s direction, and for her part the lass was doing her best at avoiding discussion of any sort.

  They made good time. At noon they stopped in an abandoned village and ate some hard tack and smoked beef before they got back in the saddle. By early afternoon they started to see signs of goblin activity. They stopped at a crossroads where the unmistakable litter of goblin troops was thrown casually within the ruins of a burned-out hovel next to the road. A couple of rotted skeletons lay in heaps nearby.

  “This is where we first saw them,” Tyndal explained in a near whisper as they examined a fork in the road. “The left hand path heads to that manor or castle they’ve taken over. This is where I found that poop.”

  “The poop is gone,” Rondal observed.

  “Count yourself fortunate,” Tyndal said. “As impressive a poop as it was . . .”

  Rondal studied the road. “Is this the only way to the manor?”

  “No, there’s another road that comes from the south-west,” he said, shaking his head as he deployed his magemap. “But I’d bet they have both ways guarded.” He studied the map for a moment. “But . . . you know, those scrugs don’t think about rivers the same way we do.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Alwer. He was an intelligent peasant, Rondal had found, but unimaginative.

  “I mean that they think of roads as means of transit . . . but they don’t think that way about rivers. They are not fond of boats. There’s this stream that runs right into the village and past the manor. I’m thinking that they won’t be watching that as closely. And that will make it harder for those damn dogs of theirs to track us.”

  “I can see that,” agreed Rondal. “But . . . I don’t think all four of us are going to be able to make it without detection,” he said, skeptically. “And the water will slow us down.”

  “So we leave our assistants back here with the horses, ready to come get us if things get hairy,” reasoned Tyndal.

  “You mean leave Alwer the insurgent fighter together alone with the woman who conspired to murder him?” asked Rondal, skeptically.

  Tyndal grinned. “Exactly. What could possibly go wrong? I know why you did this,” he added, unexpectedly.

  “What?”

  “Brought Lady Baggage along on a combat mission.”

  “What? Oh. Why did I do that?” Rondal asked, genuinely curious.

  “Because she might die. Or Alwer might die. Or they might both die. Or best yet, you might die, and then you would be spared the task of deciding her fate.”

  “You seem awfully cheerful about such a dangerous mission on which you might die as well.”

  “Me?” Tyndal dismissed. “Not likely. I’m a survivor. Besides, someone is going to have to tell this sordid tale.”

  “I’d appreciate this sordid tale dying a quiet death,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “But let’s put the lady aside for a moment. You ready to wade up that creek?”

  “As hot as it is, and as long as its been since I’ve had a bath,” Tyndal said as the early autumn sun pounded down on
them, “I’m rather looking forward to it.”

  They explained their plan to the other two, but neither was happy about it.

  “Milord, I’ll follow orders,” Alwer said to Tyndal, “but she’s done tried to slay me once . . .”

  “By proxy,” soothed Tyndal, “and her plot was exposed. She has given her parole.”

  “And if a goblin patrol happens by?” asked the big peasant, as he nocked an arrow.

  “Hide,” suggested Tyndal. “Failing that, run. Failing that, fight.”

  “I’m honored milord has favored us with his brilliant martial guidance,” grumbled Alwer, looking around nervously. “I’m not going to hang with my arse out at this crossroad, though. Too open and exposed. I’ll make for that grove over there,” he decided. “Should give us good cover, but enough to still see the road and screen us from scouts. In case we have to employ any of that stunning military strategy milord has gifted us with.”

  “I knew you’d understand, Alwer,” Tyndal said, cheerfully. He glanced up at Belsi. “And there is one advantage of having her with you,” he added. “If the goblins find you, you just need to be faster than she is.”

  “You are the epitome of chivalry, Sir Tyndal,” Belsi said, sarcastically.

  “There is nothing unchivalrous about giving good counsel,” he chuckled. “And the same could be said for you: be faster than he is. Now you two play nicely,” he chided, playfully, as the two commoners exchanged disgusted looks with each other. He handed the reigns of his horse over to them, first removing several weapons and adjusting the armor he wore.

  Rondal did the same. This was a scouting mission, not a combat mission. Metal armor made noise, and while it could save your life it could also endanger it. Wading through a stream made it doubly foolish.

  He debated taking his shield. It was bulky, but he was reluctant to leave it behind. He’d looted the roundshield from Farune’s great hall. It was an aberration among the finery, a genuine tool of war instead of a ceremonial trophy weapon. He had found it hung high and out of sight in the rafters.

  It was not a tournament shield, with some lord’s device barely scuffed from use. It had seen battle. It was well-made, the planks fitting cunningly together in a well-crafted concave design, thirty inches across and banded with iron. The thick leather strap and solid wooden handle were worn from use, but only somewhat brittle with age. It was light, weighing only fifteen pounds – he barely felt it on his arm. There were notches and gouges in the face, but no weapon had ever pierced it.

  A good, solid infantry shield, as much a weapon as armor in the right hands. Rondal had no idea how it had gotten there, but he took it knowing he could discard it at need. It was heavy to port such a ways, but he felt safer with it, and more able with sword and shield than just a mageblade.

  Their bows were short, utilitarian weapons taken from the armory of Farune, and each bore a score of arrows. Tyndal had abandoned his steel cap and had tied a band around his forehead instead to keep his hair out of his eyes. Rondal kept his.

  After seeing their uncomfortable comrades to the grove Alwer had chosen, the two magi cautiously walked their horses up the road before turning aside and cutting across the open fields. Once they got to the creek, they tied the horses and scryed the area heavily.

  “They’ve got it warded up tight,” Rondal said, warily.

  “You don’t think you can handle it?” Tyndal asked, part challenge and part question.

  “Of course I can handle it,” Rondal snapped. “The Magredal will slice right through them.” The Magredal was the traditional countermeasure against wardings on the battlefield. It wasn’t sophisticated, but it was effective. Once employed, the wardings it targeted would be nullified. Walking through them would not alert the shaman or priest who had strung them . . . theoretically.

  “The Magredal?” asaked Tyndal, skeptically. “Don’t you think they’ve found a counter by now?”

  “So what do you suggest?” Rondal challenged. You didn’t disagree with a command decision unless you had an alternative.

  “I’d say . . . Rarwin’s Helm.”

  “Rarwin’s . . . I don’t even know that one!”

  “I do,” Tyndal said, smugly. “Picked it up in Relan Cor, while you were off camping.” That burned.

  “And what, precisely, is Rarwin’s Helm?”

  “You know how the Magredal and the other counterspells are designed to drop the wards or cancel them? Rarwin’s Helm doesn’t disturb the wards, it just shields the mage from their effects. You don’t register as a human being,” he emphasized. “To the shamans, you’re just a squirrel or a bird or something.”

  “How does it do that?” Rondal asked, skeptically.

  “It temporarily changes your Shroud,” he explained. “That’s what most wardings are tuned to detect. But most are also designed not to make you come running every time a robin builds a nest. So . . . we look like birds,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  Rondal considered. He’d heard of the spell. And the thaumaturgy was sound. But . . .

  “Have you ever cast it before?”

  “Me? No!” snorted Tyndal. “Haven’t had the need to. Until now.”

  “And you think a reconnaissance mission into a heavily armed and fortified enemy installation is the perfect time to do so?” asked Rondal patiently.

  “If one has the courage,” challenged Tyndal. Rondal stared at him. That burned, too.

  “All right,” conceded Rondal. “Do it.”

  “What?”

  “Cast the spell. On both of us,” he reminded. “If you say it’s a better spell, I’ll yield to your judgment.”

  “Why?” Tyndal asked, as if he was mystified by Rondal’s behavior.

  “Because a good commander learns to trust the advice of his counselors,” explained Rondal. “If you think it’s such a good spell . . . let’s stake both of our lives on it.”

  “Ron?” Tyndal asked, cautiously, as he studied him. “Are you . . . well?”

  “Because I took one of your suggestions?” he asked, angrily.

  “Well . . . yeah,” admitted the taller boy as he prepared to cast the spell. “You hate taking my suggestions.”

  “Sometimes they aren’t bad. I’m not going to insist I have the only answer to a problem,” he declared. “I’m here to get a job done. If I let my personal feelings get in the way of that, I’ve left the path of wisdom. And will probably get us both killed.”

  “So . . . why is it such a problem to . . . to let your personal feelings get in the way? Do you really hate me that much?”

  Rondal was silent. This was not the conversation he wanted to be having now.

  “What did I ever do to you?” Tyndal asked.

  It was such a simple statement. And it had been delivered in such a heartfelt way that Rondal knew there was no duplicity or cynicism behind the question. It wasn’t an accusation, he realized. It was an actual earnest question.

  Rondal looked at him, his jaw slack. “You . . . you don’t know?”

  “What? Know what?”

  “Well, since you essentially blamed me for Estasia’s death,” Rondal said, much more quietly than he intended, “I figured that we had an issue between us. “

  “Blamed YOU for Estasia’s death?” Tyndal asked, amazed. He stopped and faced Rondal, his mouth still open. “You think I blamed you for her death?”

  “Well, that’s the meaning that matches the words that fell out of your mouth,” Rondal reasoned, angrily, “so yes, I was under that impression!”

  “And all this time . . . you thought I . . . meant that?”

  “You seemed pretty serious about it at the time!”

  “Duin’s hairy sack, Ron! I just watched the girl die! And then killed the man who did it!” he said, angrily. “After losing my stone and getting reamed in my exams! I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly!”

  “You didn’t exactly apologize!”

  “You didn’t exactly stick around long enough for me to!�
��

  “What in nine hells was I supposed to do?” Ron demanded in a harsh whisper. “Beg your forgiveness? Wait for you to remove your head from your arse long enough to discuss it? Or did you mope and stomp around like . . . like . . .”

  “Oh, forget it!” Tyndal said, in a hoarse whisper. “I can’t believe you . . . all this time . . . Listen,” he said, staring into Rondal’s eye with such intensity that it made him uncomfortable. “I know full well that there are only two people to blame for Estasia’s death, and neither one of them are us! I put one in the ground,” he said, viciously, “and I am conspiring to do the same to Pratt! If anything, I owe you a debt for all you did to recover my stone. I don’t blame you for her death at all.”

  “Really?” Rondal asked. It was as if a great weight was lifted from his chest. “You don’t?”

  “Hells, no! It was an accident. Well, it wasn’t, but it certainly wasn’t your fault. Who could have thought that Galdan was in league with Pratt? That took me utterly by surprise. Alas, it did poor Estasia, as well. If I said I blamed you . . . I’m sorry! Damn, I’m sorry! Ishi’s tits, that’s what’s been bothering you this whole time?” he repeated in disbelief.

  “It was a pretty serious accusation,” Rondal said, simply.

  “Why didn’t you . . .”

  “Just . . . drop it, now,” Rondal ordered. “Right before we sneak up on a bunch of sleepy goblins is not the time for a heartfelt discussion.”

  Once Tyndal finished casting the spell, Rondal followed with a spell of silence and another one of un-noticeability. He slung his shield on his back and drew his bow. Tyndal did likewise. They traveled in silence for two hundred yards, following the creek upstream towards the castle.

  As castles went, it was modest, from a distance. Only the tallest of the towers along the wall could be seen over the trees as they approached. As they came closer, they saw that the walls were manned – or goblined, as the case was. Squint-eyed sentries peered uncomfortably into the sun-filled daylight, repeatedly shading their eyes and staving off yawns.