“Very well,” she said. The desperate hope in his eyes stunned her. “If you still want to do it tomorrow morning, after we wake up, we’ll go to the masters and ask them to set up a dueling ground. And if you change your mind, we won’t mention it again.”
“I won’t,” Casper said.
He wouldn’t, Emily knew. He’d talked about challenging her months ago, when they’d first met. He was desperate. To him, the risk was something that just had to be borne. And if it got him killed ... at least he’d be killed doing something he wanted to do. She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. His life was never going to be the same.
She held out a hand, helping him to his feet. “Sober up,” she advised, sternly. “You don’t want to go through morning hell with a headache.”
Casper snorted. “I’m used to it.”
“It isn’t doing your health any good,” Emily told him. There were spells to help someone sober up, although they tended to have side effects. “Let me help you.”
“You are helping me,” Casper told her. “But if you insist ...”
He half-walked, half-stumbled out of the door and towards the washroom. Emily readied the spell in her mind, then cast it as soon as they reached the chamber. Casper looked pale for a long second; Emily stepped back as he hurried into the washroom, slamming the door behind him. The door was solid, but not strong enough to keep her from hearing the sound of him throwing up. He’d empty his stomach as the spell cleansed his system.
She shook her head ruefully, then walked to the kitchen and poured him a large mug of cold water. He’d need to wash his mouth out, afterwards. And he’d need to keep himself hydrated. The barracks wasn’t as stiflingly hot as the tent, but it was still pretty bad. She made a mental note to drink more water before she went to bed as she walked back to the washroom. Casper was still retching, the sound echoing down the corridor. Just how much had he had to drink?
Too much, she thought. For all she knew, the bottle he’d finished hadn’t been the first. If Casper had been trying to drown his sorrows for weeks ... she shuddered at the thought, flashing back to her childhood. Her mother had drunk several bottles of cheap wine each day. It won’t do him any good.
Casper emerged, looking pale. Emily passed him the mug, watching silently as he drank the water. She’d half-expected an objection, but Casper finished the water without saying a word. He wasn’t stupid, she reminded herself. Merely ... merely desperate. She wished, suddenly, that she could have a few sharp words with General Pollack. One son desperate to impress him, the second unsure if he even wanted to stay in the family ... the General’s family was far from perfect. And yet, they were so much better than her own that it wasn’t even funny.
“Thank you,” Casper said. His voice sounded shaky. “It means a lot to me.”
“Thank me afterwards,” Emily told him. She still wasn’t sure if she’d done him any favors or not. Sergeant Miles was not going to be pleased with her. And Lady Barb was going to be furious. Hell, Casper’s mother was going to be furious too. “Now, bedtime.”
“Yes, mother,” Casper said. He smirked. “Do you tell Caleb to go to bed too?”
Emily flushed. “Brat.”
She glanced at her watch. The masters would awaken them at the crack of dawn, unless they decided to show mercy ... it wasn’t very likely. And that meant they had roughly six hours to sleep before they were forced out of bed. She headed back to the barracks, washed her face quickly and scrambled into her bedding. If she was lucky, she’d fall asleep at once ...
... And if she wasn’t, she knew, it was going to be an uncomfortable night.
Chapter Eighteen
“JOIN HANDS,” MASTER STORM INSTRUCTED.
Emily gritted her teeth. Having Cat on one side wasn’t too bad, but having Sawford on the other was irritating. His touch made her skin crawl. And yet, there was no choice. They had to practice using rituals before it was too late. She closed her eyes, trying to focus her mind on the spell. She’d practiced ritual magic at Whitehall, but it had never worked out very well.
Too many of my classmates were nervous around me, she thought, sourly. And they couldn’t hold the connection.
She forced herself to relax as Master Storm began the spell, magic surging around the chamber. This time, at least, she wasn’t the problem. Casper seemed to have issues working with Gaius, while Sawford and Cyprian didn’t seem to work together very well either. The spell flared to life, then came apart in a flash of light. Master Storm dispelled the rest of the magic, his annoyance plain to see. Sergeant Miles, leaning against the chamber wall, didn’t seem pleased either.
“It is important that you learn to put aside your differences and work together,” Master Storm snarled. “We will need to cast these spells when the battle begins!”
Emily nodded in agreement. After breakfast, they’d been given a tour of the city, starting with the castle and keep and moving out to the battlements. Farrakhan was surrounded by impressive defenses — and the soldiers were preparing more — but most of them wouldn’t do more than slow down a necromancer. Combat magic, including a number of incredibly destructive spells, might be all that stood between the city and utter destruction.
“I am trying,” Gaius said. “But Casper isn’t meshing his magic into mine.”
“That’s because you won’t stand still,” Casper snarled. He’d been polite over breakfast, but his frustrations were clearly building up again. “You move every time I try to touch your magic.”
“Magic does move,” Master Storm said. He sighed. “Gaius, swap places with Sawford. It might make things easier.”
Emily rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. Ritual magic was never easy. Maybe the first stage would be smoother, if Casper worked with Sawford, but they would still have to work as a group to cast the spells. And yet ... maybe it would work. They were going to need the spells.
Gaius took her hand. “Focus your magic on me,” he muttered, as the circle reformed. “It should prove workable.”
“Begin,” Master Storm ordered.
Emily closed her eyes and reached out with her magic. Gaius was an overwhelming presence, right next to her. His power throbbed in the air ... no wonder, she reflected as she pushed her magic forward, that Fulvia had considered him a suitable match for Melissa. And yet, there was something slippery about his magic, as if he was reluctant to lower his defenses and make contact. Sawford had been trying, she admitted. Gaius didn’t seem to be making more than a minimal effort.
“You need to push out more of your magic,” she muttered, as their power was sucked towards the spell. “Gaius ...”
The magic destabilized. There was a brilliant flash of light, followed by darkness. Emily thought, just for a second, that she’d been blinded, before her eyes snapped open. Casper was rubbing his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath. Beside him, Sawford didn’t look much better. And Gaius ... Emily glanced at him and realized that he looked perfectly calm. He didn’t even seem surprised.
“The spell went out of shape,” Master Storm said. He sounded annoyed. “We’ll be testing it again, I think.”
“But not today,” Sergeant Miles said. “Everyone needs a chance to calm down.”
Emily allowed herself a moment of relief as she let go of Cat’s hand. She wasn’t sure quite what had happened, the second time. Gaius hadn’t cooperated properly, but that hadn’t been the only problem. Or was she wrong? Casper hadn’t done a good job either.
“Gaius isn’t allowing his magic to merge with ours,” Casper said. “He needs to practice.”
“And you aren’t focusing properly.” Gaius sneered. “Magic isn’t a blunt hammer you can swing around at random.”
Casper’s face darkened, but Master Storm spoke before he could come up with a biting response. Emily felt relieved. She had no idea if Casper had spoken to Master Grave or not, yet she didn’t want him to get in trouble when they needed a favor from the masters.
“Ritual magi
c is never easy,” Master Storm reminded them. “Learning to trust can take months, if not years.”
“We don’t have months,” Gaius said. “Master, perhaps we should try with fewer of us.”
“Then the spell wouldn’t be balanced,” Sergeant Miles said. “Six magicians — and the master caster — is the minimum.”
He clapped his hands. “Emily, Gaius; with me. Cyprian, Sawford; report to Master Grave. Casper, Cat; remain with Master Storm.”
Emily rose, brushing down her trousers. Her body ached, even though their morning exercises had been cut short. But at least she’d managed to wash properly before eating breakfast. Gaius winked at her as they followed Sergeant Miles out of the room and down a long stone corridor. The smell of the city wafted to her nostrils as they stepped out of the barracks and onto the streets.
“Sir Roger has requested your presence,” Sergeant Miles said. “And I must confess I am curious myself.”
Emily frowned. Sir Roger had asked for her? Why? And in what role? Gaius shot her a puzzled look, but she merely shrugged. Maybe Sir Roger wanted to show off his new weapons, or maybe he merely wanted her support. She hadn’t been able to convince him to stop calling her a baroness every time they met. He still insisted on addressing her by her full title.
She wondered, as she followed Sergeant Miles through the streets, if she should tell him about the planned duel. Casper had wanted to tell the masters, but ... Sergeant Miles wouldn’t thank her for ensuring that he was the last to hear. And yet, she didn’t want to talk about it in front of Gaius. Whatever the source of the bad blood between Gaius and Casper, she didn’t want to make it worse. She’d have to try to have a private meeting with Sergeant Miles later. If, of course, he had the time.
There’s always work for a sergeant, she thought. Sergeant Miles seemed to be a regular Jack-Of-All-Trades at Whitehall. When he isn’t teaching combat magic, he teaches soldiering.
The streets seemed more crowded, she noted. It was easy to tell the citizens from the refugees and the soldiers from the guardsmen, even though nearly all of them had haunted looks. The refugees wore filthy clothes and begged for alms; the city-folk looked finer, yet just as worried. There were thousands of starving people on the streets, soon to become more as the food ran out. God alone knew what would happen if — when — the population realized their masters were hoarding food. There would be riots on the streets.
They turned a corner and headed onto a playing field. It had probably once been used for football, Emily decided, but now it had been turned into a firing range. Three dozen men stood at one end of the field, carrying primitive muskets; Sir Roger watched, barking instructions, as they steadily loaded their guns. The stench of gunpowder hung in the air, a grim reminder that firearms technology had a long way to go. If the wind hadn’t been picking up, she suspected the field would be covered in smoke.
“We cleared this entire section,” Sergeant Miles commented, as Sir Roger turned to face them. “All the civilians were ordered to leave.”
“They’re too close to the walls,” Gaius said. “They were probably grateful.”
Emily had her doubts. If the walls held, the civilians would have been fine; if the walls fell, the civilians would be dead anyway. Having to move halfway across the city — if they were lucky enough to have somewhere to go — would be unpleasant. But she kept the thought to herself. Gaius might understand, but neither Sergeant Miles nor Sir Roger would understand her concerns.
“Lady Emily,” Sir Roger said, as he strode over to greet them. “It would be a very great honor if you were to inspect my men.”
There was, Emily knew, no polite way to refuse. She glanced at Sergeant Miles for permission, then allowed Sir Roger to lead her over to the musketeers. Up close, it became clear that someone had been putting a great deal of thought into their appearance. The leathers they wore were closer to a proper uniform than anything else she’d seen, outside King Randor’s personal guard. They stood at attention, holding their muskets pointed at the sky; they watched her, carefully, as she made her way down the line. Sir Roger and his fellows had clearly been experimenting, she noted. One line would fire, then kneel to reload while the second and third lines fired. And then the first line would be ready to fire again.
“My men can load and fire three to four shots per minute,” Sir Roger informed her. “We have been trying to make it faster, but accidents happen.”
Emily nodded. It was pathetic, compared to an assault rifle or a machine gun, but it was very good by their standards. Each line would fire four bullets a minute ... a charging army would disintegrate, if it managed to stay together long enough. And if the defenders managed to remain in formation. Sergeant Harkin had been fond of reminding his students that the only thing separating an army from a mob was raw discipline. If the first line panicked and fled, the other lines would follow in short order.
They wouldn’t have a choice, she thought, ruefully. They’d get trampled by orcs.
“They look impressive,” she said, once she’d finished inspecting them.
“Thank you, My Lady,” Sir Roger said. He motioned for her to stand back. “And now ...”
He barked a stream of orders to his men. They moved smoothly, with a well-oiled precision that struck Emily as genuinely impressive. The first line took aim and fired, then dropped down to allow the second line to fire. Emily covered her ears, using a quick spell to keep away the smoke. The second line fired, followed by the third. By the time they finished, they had — if her calculations were accurate — fired over two hundred bullets. Any charging army would be hard put to keep going after being hammered so hard.
Any human army, Emily thought. The orcs might just keep going.
She peered towards the far wall. Someone had painted out a set of targets, inviting the soldiers to do their worst. It looked as though most of the targets had been hit several times, although there was no way to be sure. She rather doubted the musketeers had aimed very well, either. Sir Roger might brag that his men were well on the way to becoming sharpshooters, but they were more concerned with spitting out as many bullets as possible rather than accuracy.
“Very good,” she said, finally. “My complements to your shooters.”
“Thank you, My Lady,” Sir Roger said. He waved a hand towards the wall. “As you can see, we can and we will pull our weight. The archers have had their day.”
“And so have the charging cavalry,” Sergeant Miles put in. He walked over to them, looking surprisingly pale. “The horses wouldn’t be able to endure those hits — and they’re bigger targets than men.”
Emily nodded. The cavalry relied on shock and awe to break through enemy lines — and they could be countered, if their target held their ground. A well-trained infantry company could stop them in their tracks. But now ... she shuddered at the thought of dozens of horses being killed, their riders thrown to the ground as the poor beasts died. And anyone could produce muskets and deploy musketeers. The secret of gunpowder was out and spreading. It wouldn’t be long before blacksmiths started to put together their own gunpowder weapons.
“They could be scared off by magic too,” Gaius said. He looked surprisingly composed. “Or arrows. Charges have been broken by archers before.”
“It takes longer to train an archer,” Sergeant Miles muttered. “Or a combat sorcerer.”
“And there are wards to stop bullets,” Gaius said. “Or there will be, won’t there?”
Emily had her doubts. Magicians did throw objects at one another, but the spells kept them going until they hit their target or were cancelled. And if they were cancelled, the objects simply crashed to the ground. But bullets followed ballistic trajectories ... she wondered, darkly, just how many trained magicians would think to protect themselves against thrown objects. Wards designed to do that drained magic faster, far faster, than most protective wards.
She kept that thought to herself, wondering if either of them would work it out for themselves. There was no
way to be sure — yet — but she rather suspected a machine gun would break through a standard protective ward. A single impact wouldn’t be enough, yet a whole stream of impacts would shatter the protections. And then ... who knew what would happen?
“Eventually,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded perturbed. “These guns will change everything, won’t they?”
“Eventually,” Emily echoed.
Sergeant Miles shot her a sharp look, then turned to Sir Roger and asked him a string of questions. Sir Roger answered as best he could, while his men cleaned their weapons and replenished their powder supplies. Emily was relieved to see that they did know to clean their weapons, something that would probably have been hammered into their heads during basic training. Muskets and cannons clogged so rapidly that they might become useless after firing a few dozen shots if they weren’t cleaned regularly.
Which is another problem, she thought. The longer the battle lasts, the less effective the muskets are going to be.
“There’ll still be a place for sorcerers,” Gaius muttered. “Won’t there?”
“Of course,” Emily said. “But the world will be very different.”
She shook her head slowly as the wind picked up, blowing the scent of the desert towards her. Earth would have studied magic extensively, if it had suddenly been discovered; science and the scientific method would have been deployed to crack and eventually duplicate the secrets of magic. And then they would make their own magic. But the Nameless World didn’t have that science and technology base. Who knew what would happen in the future?
A hybrid world, she thought. Or perhaps there are technological limitations we have yet to discover.
It was an odd thought. Gunpowder worked, perfectly. And that suggested that chemistry worked, just as it did on Earth. But beyond that? She wished, suddenly, that she’d been carrying a mobile phone when she’d been kidnapped. There wouldn’t have been any signal, of course, but she would have learned a great deal just from finding out if it worked or not.
11- The Sergeant's Apprentice Page 18