Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  But that did not end his day. Then he had to make further detailed reports, mind-to-mind, to Commander Terleman and Master Minalan about the raid and its results, especially in regard to the siege worms and their capabilities. By the time finished and he stumbled into his bed it was the darkest part of the night.

  He did not wake until midmorning, when Tyndal brought him a plate and a bottle of ale.

  “You’ve got the whole manor abuzz,” he confided in his fellow knight as Rondal gratefully ate breakfast. “I don’t know what you said to those commandos when you came in, but everyone is talking about you like you’re a genius.”

  “Me? How so?”

  “According to that big bald ancient, you had a detailed set of tactics for evading pursuit and combating the new enemy cavalry,” Tyndal chuckled. “He was so impressed that he had me describe the whole procedure to the men at dinner last night while you and Brendan were in conference. Now everyone thinks you’re a military prodigy.”

  “Everyone must have been drinking heavily,” dismissed Rondal. “Any sign of patrols still searching for us?”

  “Falyar returned this morning from a sweep along the main road, but not one scrug. I’ve scryed the area, too. I think we lost them. Brendan wants to send a squad of rangers to permanently occupy Farune, though, and find another such decoy refuge to the east. And a place further south for a line-of-retreat, in case Maramor is endangered.”

  “I know,” sighed Rondal tiredly as he sipped his ale. “I’m the one who suggested it to him. The idea is to set up a network of clandestine outposts of Royal Commandos all across northern Gilmora. Decentralized, small, and easy-to-abandon little bases. Using them for intelligence gathering, civilian rescue, and counter-insurgency – more or less what we’ve been doing the last few days.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a very decisive measure,” Tyndal said, making a face. He preferred an old-fashioned charge to all of this thoughtful consideration.

  “It isn’t meant to be,” agreed Rondal. “The gurvani are preparing for a push south into the rest of Gilmora next year, and the only castle big enough to stop them flat is Darkfaller, away to the south. With those siege worms at their disposal, they’ll be able to open up anything smaller than a baronial castle like a chamber pot lid.”

  “And a bunch of lightly-armed commandos hiding in the bushes is supposed to stop them?” asked Tyndal with a snort.

  “No,” Rondal agreed. “The commandos are to clear the way. Discover their routes. Disrupt their slaving operations and mostly to observe and report. Prepare the battlefield against next spring’s offensive. If you are destined to fight a foe,” he said, quoting some ancient general he’d read about at Relan Cor, “then preparing the battlefield ahead of time is just good sense. The Commandos will disrupt and observe, but they’ll also be learning how to fight the gurvani. You have to admit, those fell hound riders weren’t like the gurvani we saw in Boval.”

  Tyndal shook his head in agreement. “They’re changing. Three years, and they’re changing. First the hairless ones, then the hobgoblins, now these little brutes . . .”

  “And they have men working for them, now,” Rondal reminded him. “That presents some ugly problems . . . but it also presents some lovely opportunities.”

  “Now you’re making my head hurt,” Tyndal said. “How are human collaborators a good thing?”

  “Because up to now we haven’t had a hope of infiltrating them. We can’t exactly disguise ourselves as goblins. But if they have men working for them, freely, then we can turn some of those men. You’ve studied Blue Magic a bit – you know it doesn’t work as well on goblins and other non-humans. But a truthtelling on a collaborator would be a lot easier. And getting a spy into their councils will be much, much simpler.”

  “I doubt the Dead God is going to be sharing pillow talk with any of us big folk,” Tyndal said, sourly.

  “That doesn’t mean that they won’t overhear things. Intelligence is about taking seemingly unrelated facts and weaving them together. Those facts may not seem important on their own, but . . .”

  Tyndal looked at him, impressed. “You really did learn a lot at Relan Cor.”

  It was Rondal’s turn to make a face. “I got my ass kicked a lot at Relan Cor. But intelligence is easy, compared to other areas of warfare. Command, for instance,” he sighed.

  “Oh, come on!” Tyndal protested. “I’ve been on my best behavior! Mostly!” he added.

  “Actually,” Rondal agreed, “you haven’t been nearly the pain in my ass I thought you would be. But everything else . . . being responsible for the unit . . . making sure everyone gets fed . . . keeping the roads clear . . . dear Ishi’s rosy nips, it’s added a year to me in a month.”

  “And then there is the matter of . . . Belsi,” Tyndal reminded him. “I made her show me the hidey-hole she hid in when the goblins came. She’s right, there was room for just one person. I couldn’t even get both of us in there, and I tried. But there was also that hoard she mentioned. A fair bit of silver and some gold.

  “Just what are we going to do about her? We could have her hung, for what she did to Alwer, not to mention impersonating a noble. But now that Alwer is dead, the only ones who know the truth are the three of us.”

  “You mean, the three of us who happened to share a bed, the night before last?” Rondal shot back.

  “It wasn’t much of a bed,” Tyndal chuckled mirthlessly. “Are you regretting what we did?”

  “I’m still wondering why we did it.”

  “Why?” Tyndal asked, his eyes wide. “Ron, we escaped with our lives. Barely. We freed a bunch of people from certain death and likely gave them an uncertain one. We are only human. Ishi grants her blessing to us to help us bear such burdens. Belsi needed us, Ron. I needed it. And I’d bet the tip of my wand that you found it somewhat relieving and not entirely unpleasant.”

  “So the question now is, are you willing to put a noose around the neck of a maid you’ve bedded?” he asked, accusingly.

  “I . . . Ron, it’s not my call. You are the commander, here, not me.”

  “It’s my goat,” he reflected, bitterly. “It sounds like you’re enjoying that, for once.”

  “It’s not enjoyment,” Tyndal corrected, “it’s relief that I’m not the one who has to decide what to do with her. I wouldn’t want to be in your boots for anything.”

  “So what would you do?” Rondal challenged, rising and dressing. “If this was your goat?”

  “Me? I’d . . . I’d likely allow the maid to slip away while I was otherwise occupied,” Tyndal suggested, slyly. “Maybe with a purse to help her on her way. But I’d spare her the gallows.”

  “You’d let her go without being held accountable?” Rondal asked. He was pretty certain that was what Tyn would do.

  “It’s a war zone,” Tyndal reminded him. “She was desperate. So yeah, that’s what I would do.” He stared at Rondal a moment while he pulled his mantle over his shoulders. “Is that what you would do?” he asked, expectantly.

  “I’m not you,” Rondal sighed. “Sometimes, honestly, I wish I was. Life would be easier. Bring her by this afternoon, at the third bell. I’ll make my decision then. And Tyn,” he added, casually, “make sure she’s here. This is my goat. Not yours.”

  Tyndal swallowed. “Yes, Commander,” he said. And for once, Rondal didn’t detect a hint of sarcasm.

  * * *

  By the time the third bell after noon had tolled, Rondal had already accomplished much. He had communicated repeatedly mind-to-mind with various high magi, and he had consulted with Marshal Brendan about the new commander at Maramor. One of the things he’d learned that morning was that he was being replaced almost immediately, and he and Tyndal were being reassigned. Another officer would take command here and continue to prosecute the war.

  That made disposing of Belsi’s case all the more pressing. In a matter of hours, it would no longer be his duty or his prerogative. His replacement, a captain from the
Third, had arrived and would take command on the morrow.

  He had prepared the room, after his consultations, and he did so mindful that this was once her uncle’s room. And that this would likely be the last time she would see it – or Maramor – in her life.

  We’re on our way, Tyndal sent him, mind-to-mind, just after the third bell rung. Rondal thanked him and took a seat behind the small table, where he had prepared two silver goblets and a bottle of wine. The best wine he could scrounge.

  In front of him were two chairs, each with a bag at its feet. One was a campaign bag, tough, durable leather, suitable for traveling on the open road. The other was a lady’s traveling bag, of finer leather and elaborately embroidered.

  Tyndal knocked, and then opened the door, escorting the frightened-looking girl into the chamber. Rondal swallowed but forced his face into a mask of impassivity. Tyndal closed the door behind them, and stood in front of it. Belsi walked hesitantly between the chairs, her shoulders trembling.

  “You have put me in a difficult position,” he began, not inviting her to sit in either chair. “You have misrepresented yourself, for whatever reason, impersonated a noble and attempted through subterfuge to even attempt murder – and yes, I use the term – to procure an estate not rightfully yours.

  “You have also committed acts of bravery and cleverness that have aided our stay here, and aided the war effort. I cannot consider the former acts without also considering the latter.

  “The key to what I must decide is just whom I am addressing: Maid Belsi, or Lady Arsella of Maramor.”

  “Does my name matter so?” she asked, bitterly.

  “It does,” Rondal nodded. “For what name you are called will decide your fate. If you are Belsi . . . then even if I were to forget your crimes in consideration of your service and bravery, you would be sent forth from Maramor with the next caravan south. Whence you go from there would be your own choosing, as a free woman. But so would your protection become your own responsibility. You would be free to live what life you could make for yourself.

  “But if you are Arsella, last scion of Maramor, then the matter shifts dramatically. If you are a noblewoman, then you would be escorted safely out of the warzone in the company and under the guard of the next caravan south, thence to Barrowbell. You would be entitled to protection and even succor, at the expense of your father’s liege or his liege, if necessary. And you would be entitled to the hoard secreted by your . . . sire for that purpose, as well as any title or interest in Maramor. Further, you would be entitled to certain compensation from the Crown for our use of Maramor as an outpost – a modest amount, but one which, perhaps, would support you for a time.”

  “So, which am I?” she asked, eyeing him intently. “Belsi or Arsella?” There was a lot in that question: doubt, anxiety, fear, greed, and emotions so subtle Rondal could not begin to imagine them.

  “That’s the question,” agreed Rondal. “Who better to answer it than . . . you?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “What?” Tyndal asked, startled.

  “Who are you? Belsi or Arsella? Justice says you must face accountability for what you have done, mercy dictates that you be spared your life, after your assistance. If I am to be the one responsible for solving this problem, then I leave the responsibility for how I solve it to you. That is only fair.”

  “To me? You want me to decide?” she asked, puzzled.

  “It isn’t as easy as you might think,” Rondal continued, evenly. “On the one hand, you can be poor, common and free. On the other hand, you could be wealthy – relatively – noble, but constrained by the rules of that nobility. You would lose your freedom, in other words. Perhaps a minor thing for you, or perhaps it means everything. That will depend entirely on just whom you are: Belsi or Arsella.”

  “So you want me to choose,” she repeated, dully, as she considered the possibility.

  “Not at an instant,” conceded Rondal. “I am going to take my friend here downstairs for a drink before the fire, to toast the last night of my command – for we have been reassigned. Sir Varigon, Captain of the Royal Third, arrived this morning from the south. He shall be in charge of this province at dawn tomorrow. Indeed, I shall be escorting he and Marshal Brendan to this office after our farewell toast to give over to him the notes of my command.

  “When I do, I shall pour wine and either introduce Maid Belsi, or Lady Arsella, depending upon which chair you are seated in. Once I make that introduction,” he said, warningly, “forever thus shall you be known.”

  “You have . . . you have . . .”

  “He has given you a choice,” Tyndal said, sharply, “far more of one than you would have given poor Alwer. Noble or common, lady or maid: you decide. But you must live with the consequences of that choice. Forever.”

  The girl’s eyes were stricken as she realized what a profound decision she had ahead of her. Rondal smiled, calmly. “I think that, under the circumstances, I am being more than fair to you.”

  “But . . . but you laid with me!” she whispered.

  “It would be indiscreet of me to consider whether such a fact influenced my decision – and in which way,” Rondal said, idly.

  “A good knight is never indiscreet,” Tyndal agreed.

  “But . . . you loved me!” she said, her eyes wide.

  “Did I?” Rondal asked, his eyes narrowing the smallest bit. “If I did, that love was not returned. I will not extend my hand indefinitely, my lady, and not to a maid who has her eyes on another. I deserve better. Nor one of . . . dubious character.” She blushed at that, but could not answer. “You have much to discuss with your conscience and the gods. We shall leave you to it.” He nodded to Tyndal, who opened the door for him dutifully, then closed it behind them.

  Lock it, commanded Rondal, mind-to-mind.

  Tyndal looked at him, and then looked at the key in the lock. He made no move to lock it. If he was to do it, Rondal realized, Ron would have to voice the order out loud. Leaving the door unlocked gave Belsi – Arsella – a third option, Tyndal’s option: To slip away and forge a life apart from either identity.

  “Oh, Ishi’s tits,” he swore, rolling his eyes in resignation. “Let’s get a drink.”

  It was nearly two hours before Tyndal and Rondal returned with Marshal Brandon and Sir Varigon.

  Varigon was not alone - he had come with Master Denga of the Horkan Order. Denga had been recently granted one of Horka’s Seven, one of the seven Alon-crafted spheres of irionite that not only provided incredible power, but superior mastery of those arcane forces as well. Varigon looked every inch the military commander.

  Denga appeared as the epitome of the master warmage, able to handle that level of power with no trouble. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered with a clean-shaven jaw like an anvil. He had a permanent scowl on his face and appraised everything and everyone he saw in tactical terms.

  They may have been knights magi, but he was a warrior-mage. He may have sprung from noble birth and taken a knighthood for his actions on the field of Cambrian, but he was a man of battle, not a “gentleman of action” like many of these Gilmoran knights. He was more than a little intimidating. They both were, and Marshal Brendan didn’t help. If it hadn’t been for Rondal’s relative rank and the fact that he was retiring his post, he might have been intimidated.

  Instead he graciously briefed the men on the magical and mundane defenses of his outpost, and delivered a succinct overview on the situation in the countryside. When in doubt, Rondal always felt he could fall back on the reliability of facts. When the time came to give over operations of the post, Rondal led Varigon, Brandon, Denga and Tyndal back up to the former lord’s solar . . . where the girl was waiting.

  Where Lady Arsella was waiting.

  The girl born as Belsi was seated in the right-hand chair, dressed in a richly-embroidered green velvet surcoat, her sleeves tied against the chill and her mantle pulled around her. A silver noble’s circlet held down a demure white wimpl
e.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Lady Arsella of Maramor, last surviving scion of this distinguished house,” Rondal said smoothly. “You may find this remarkable: she slipped away from her family’s retreat on the basis that her house should be represented at Maramor, regardless of the unfriendly new neighbors. Unfortunately, they perished during the Dragonfall, leaving her behind unbeknownst to anyone. When we arrived, she was all alone, ready to impale me with an arbalest, thinking I was a goblin!”

  “You have to admit, the resemblance is uncanny,” Tyndal shot.

  “My lady,” Marshal Brendan said, with a respectable bow. “Your courage does you credit . . . though perhaps not your wisdom.”

  “She yet lives,” grunted Varigon, “while her kin are dead. ‘Tis difficult to fault such fortune.”

  “My lords,” she said, curtseying prettily. “I fear the hospitality of my house suffers of late, but please feel welcome.”

  “Your house no more, I’m afraid,” Marshal Brendan said, pouring himself a glass of wine and then one for Arsella. “It has been rendered to the Crown for military use – not that you’ll find the estate that productive these days,” he said, laughing at his own pale joke.

  “So I am to be sent away?” Arsella asked, her eyes flashing toward Rondal and Tyndal.

  “Better,” Rondal said, pouring more wine from the bottle. “I had Commander Terleman look into the matter as a personal favor to me, in recognition of all you have done for the war effort here at Maramor,” he said, smoothly. “And it seems you are not entirely alone in this world after all.”

  Arsella stopped her cup before it touched her lip. “I am not?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Nay, my lady,” Rondal said, smiling. “I bear good news: you have an aunt: Lady Yesta. The eldest half-sister of your father, from his sire’s first wife, long married to Lord Shand of Longmarsh, a Coastlord of some means.” Rondal sounded pleased with himself as he sipped the wine and watched the expression on Arsella’s face as he revealed the good tidings.

  “An . . . aunt?”