Oathbreaker, Book 2: The Magus's Tale

by Colin McComb

The next few moments proved them all wrong.

  A clarion note sounded, cutting across the babble of the marketplace. The din stilled for a moment, and the clarion sounded again. A great clatter of metal on stone took its place, and all eyes turned toward the noise. A company of twenty knights on metal coursers cantered into the square in a column two wide. The leading knights’ lances met at the tip, creating a wedge that drove the shoppers apart, forming an aisle for the knights to drive through. Those who didn’t move fast enough were lashed with the flats of sword blades or the hafts of spears from the next knights in the column. The shoppers panicked, shoving and diving in order to avoid the onrushing column.

  The knights halted their progress in front of the speaker’s house, and their leader vaulted from the saddle with one hand to land on the unshaded porch, and while he looked across the plaza, the other knights dispersed to guard the five main exits from the marketplace. The porch, a good four feet above the ground, commanded an excellent view of the square, and likewise was the focal point of the plaza. The lieutenant, like all his knights, was clad in glittering steel armor embossed with the insignia of the Knighthood—and the insignia on five of them suggested that this company was under the command of the Elite.

  This knight stood atop the porch for a moment, looking out at the crowd, and called out, “Who is in charge here?” His voice, though silken, held an unmistakable undertone of menace. The crowd was still, nervously shifting, eyes on the knights on their coursers, and none spoke up. The weapons the knights bore then flared into life: a coruscation of sparks followed by a low and steady hum.

  Alton and Darien turned wide eyes to Turen Ghos, who had been shrinking within his own paltry armor, and who, under the gaze of these boys, managed to find his courage. He swallowed and stood straight. As the lieutenant opened his mouth to repeat his demand, Ghos called back to him, “I am the captain of the town guard, sir.”

  “Come here.” The man’s flat voice brooked no disagreement.

  The crowd parted for Ghos, and he walked to the porch, where he looked up at the knight.

  “What is your name?”

  “I am Turen Ghos.”

  “Address me as ‘sir,’ Turen Ghos. I am Lieutenant Caltash of the Order Elite, Class of the Crown. That means I am one of the King’s Chosen, and so I speak with the king’s voice. You have no doubt heard that our king lies wounded, that one of his bodyguards attacked and stole his child. Is this the case?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you lead this town as well as defend it?”

  “No, sir. Our speaker does.”

  “Where is your speaker, then?”

  Again, the crowd parted as if pushed back from some invisible barrier, and the speaker stood revealed. He was a fat, short man, a man who had made his living by investing money into the ventures of others rather than labor himself, and though he was respected for his business acumen, he was not revered for the simple reason that he treated too many of his fellow villagers as inferiors. His face bore that certain brand of smug self-righteousness that only willful ignorance of the lives of others can bring. He had bought the post of speaker from the Empire, and he had become richer than ever as a result. Small wonder, then, that the people he represented were so willing to expose him. His name was Jerrold Henge.

  “Come to me, Speaker.”

  Speaker Henge trembled his way through the crowd, his fat jiggling the while. An unpleasant oily sheen had sprung up on his forehead, and his eyes bulged with fear. When he reached the porch, Caltash said, “Up.” Henge began to walk around to the side to mount the stairs there, but stopped when the knight said, “No. Here.”

  The speaker took a good few moments to pull himself over the porch’s edge, and his dignity was gone by the time he stood puffing in front of Caltash.

  “Do you not bow to your betters, Speaker?”

  Henge dropped to one knee immediately.

  “Better.” Caltash turned to the crowd. “I have questions for your speaker, but I wish you all to hear them. If any of you have the knowledge I seek, I want you to speak immediately. Is that understood?” The crowd, silent, watched him. His voice turned furious for a moment. “I said is that understood?” A muttered assent. “That is well.”

  “Now, Speaker, answer me this: last summer or fall, a young man—our erstwhile brother in arms—came into this town. He carried a baby with him. He traveled with an old man. They came walking, most likely. Did you see him, or did you hear of him?”

  “Sir Caltash, this is a trade road. I don’t keep track of every traveler who passes this way.”

  The knight casually slapped the fat man. “It was a simple question. Yes or no is all the answer I require.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have any of you in the crowd?”

  Quiet.

  “Do you have children, Speaker?”

  “Yes, sir. A son.”

  “Where is he?”

  The speaker, terrified, darted his glance around the plaza. He paused a moment at his own son, a heavy boy named Jensen, and he quickly looked away. When his sight alighted on Alton and Darien, he pointed to the two boys, and a knight stood behind them almost before they could breathe, each of her hands holding one of their shoulders.

  “Which one, Speaker?”

  The crowd began to mutter upon seeing this, but they silenced with a single glare from Lieutenant Caltash, and Henge pointed to Alton. The knight holding him shoved Darien to the side, clamped her other hand on Alton’s arm, and lifted him from the ground as easily as a housecat lifts a mouse. The boy tried to protest, but she cuffed him on the back of the head, and he lost his tongue under the pain. She brought him to the stage and tossed him up to Caltash, who caught him easily and set him down.

  “Forgive me, boy,” pleaded Henge, still kneeling on the porch, a poor player on the stage in front of his town. “I cannot… he can’t…” and the fat man looked away, ashamed to be sacrificing a stranger for his own son’s life.

  Alton tried again, and got this far: “Please, sir knight, I am not—”

  Caltash’s hand clasped his throat, and the rest came out in a gurgle. The lieutenant lifted him from the ground and held him above the edge of the porch. The man drew a cruel-looking dagger from his belt and addressed his next words to the quaking man kneeling below him.

  “You have failed in your duties as speaker of this town. Your watch has been incompetent and your people noticed nothing, and because of this, you have allowed a would-be regicide and kidnapper to escape. Just as you have allowed a father to lose his child, so too will you lose yours. We hope you will not fail to take note of strange travelers in the future.”

  He held Alton, and the first sign of emotion crossed his face: a brief but terrible breaking of his mask, as if he took pleasure in this work and hated himself for doing so at the same time. Someone in the back of the crowd shouted, “No!” and someone else pushed forward. The people began to surge toward the dais. The knight raised his knife quickly.

  But before he could strike, the dagger erupted in lightning, and the lieutenant let Alton fall untouched to the ground four feet below, the dagger falling harmlessly next to him. The boy coughed and gasped for air, his bruised throat swelling from the knight’s cruel grip.

  “Not today, Lieutenant,” called the magus. He stood at the rear of the market, his beaten staff held aloft. The two knights who had been guarding the entrance sat slumped on the ground, unconscious, their weapons fallen from nerveless fingers. The mage walked toward the porch with his staff still held high, his left hand on his thick belt. The villagers drew away from him in fear. The other knights slipped from the posts through the crowd, moving toward the old man with their weapons drawn. He locked eyes with one and shook his head slightly. The knight’s sword began to vibrate, and sparks flickered up and down its length. At last, with an explosive gasp, the knight dropped his blade, and his legs buckled immediately thereafter.

  The mage stopped his progress. “Really
, Lieutenant. Call them off. I don’t want to hurt them. I just want to stop this injustice.” Caltash made a slight chop with his left hand, and the knights retreated to their places. Two of them hastened to their fallen comrades.

  Two more steps forward, and then, “Caltash? So it is! Well, boy, I see they’ve made you a leader. I thought they might. You showed your mettle during your excruciation.”

  “Magus Underhill. I never dared to dream I might repay you for your… kindnesses… to me when you assisted the archmagus.”

  “I don’t think you will, Lieutenant. The pleasure was assuredly mine. And might I suggest that my kindness has brought you closer to your ambition?”

  “Perhaps sometime we should have a conversation to discuss how well you have served me.”

  “By all means, Lieutenant. But let us first resolve today’s matter.” Magus Underhill’s left hand closed around Alton’s right bicep, a clasp of infinite strength to the scared boy. “Up, lad. You’ll be coming home with me.”

  “The speaker’s son is mine, Magus,” said Caltash. “Terona requires a demonstration of its displeasure.”

  “Terona will have to settle for a gentler demonstration, then. I have this boy’s apprenticing papers with me now, making him legally mine, and if you try to take him from me you will most assuredly regret it.”

  “Then go. I plan to remain here for some time. Perhaps we will meet again.”

  “Likely. Come, boy.” Magus Underhill, Alton’s arm still firmly in his grasp, turned and dragged the boy back through the crowd to the rear of the square. Alton’s fellow citizens watched him, none of them meeting his terrified eyes. He looked for support in the crowd, and only Darien dared to glance at him, but the other boy made no move to help him. The square was absolutely silent until the two had left the plaza, when Caltash’s voice rang across the air:

  “If the speaker’s son is to be spared, then his house shall not be. Burn it down, and know, you citizens, that the king’s fury burns hotter than this.”

  Black smoke arose behind Alton and the mage as they left the town behind.

  Alton’s world had been swept from beneath him. Yes, he had dreamt of dealing with the magi and knights and affairs of the Empire, but he had never seriously entertained the idea that he might actually find himself thrown into these things. Nor had he considered the possibility that the life of a farm lad might turn suddenly into that of a wizard’s apprentice. As Underhill strode from the town, Alton in his wake, the boy rapidly regained his mental footing, and at last, his natural curiosity finally overwhelmed his awe and his fear.

  “Magus?” He was only slightly out of breath.

  The old man never slowed his long, mechanical strides, but he glanced back over his shoulder for a moment: “Yes, boy?”

  “Do you really have my apprenticeship papers?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I see them?”

  The magus drew up short, and Alton scrambled to avoid running into him. “Can you see them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Curiosity, sir. I want to know what price you got for me from my aunt and uncle.”

  “You’d be disappointed.” He resumed his purposeful stride.

  “I’d still like to see them, sir.”

  “Very well, boy, you’ve found me out. I was bluffing the lieutenant, and I was trying to bluff you as well. I had planned to apprentice you later, but the speaker’s stupidity and cowardice forced me to act sooner.”

  “So the knight can still have me arrested and executed, since I’m not actually your apprentice. When he finds out I’m not the speaker’s son, he probably will.”

  “I will have your aunt sign your papers tonight, and she will swear to the knights that I had them signed earlier in the day, if they are bold enough to ask.”

  “Are you going to use magic to make her do that?”

  The mage gave a short, barking laugh. “No, boy. I will use fear. If she fears me more than she fears them—and she will—she will say whatever I tell her to say.”

  Alton frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you scaring her.”

  “Would you prefer to be dead?” Underhill’s tone was decidedly more irritated now.

  “…No.”

  “Then be so kind as to allow me to conduct my own affairs, would you?”

  “I just thought—”

  “Boy, one of the reasons I don’t go into town much is because I cannot stand ignorant prattle, and my temper is very, very short. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He stepped from the road and disappeared into a small copse of trees. “Come.”

  Alton hopped the ditch and stepped into the copse. A steely smile crossed Underhill’s face as the boy joined him. The magus raised his staff into the air and brought it down hard on the ground. Metal rang on metal, and Underhill said, “Your new life begins now.” He rapped the ground again, and lightning rose from his feet.

  The world tore Alton apart, and his spirit fled into the blackness.

  The Guardsman’s Tale

  CY 592

  My boy,

  This is William Lawson. Now that you’re the new Magus Underhill, you’ll be a busy man. I hope you’ll forgive my interruption of your labors with this letter, but you deserve an explanation as to why things have gone the way they have. There’ll be some pieces you’ve figured out for yourself, and some that might bedevil you for years. I hope this’ll help you put together those missing parts.

  Once the speaker’s house burned, life in Lower Pippen got a lot harder. You remember how the knights stuck around, the whole cohort of ‘em, and they were prying bastards. Said that since this was where they’d lost the trail, they’d make this their headquarters. Ordinarily they’d have stayed in Northvale, with the baron’s family, as befitted their station, but they billeted themselves in town instead. So they followed us out on patrol, plotted our movements, sometimes drawing up plans that made it look like they were going to lay siege to the town. It spooked us fierce, and that made us close tight and doubly vigilant. Not that it would have done anything for us if they’d decided to attack, mind you. There wasn’t a one of us who wasn’t willing to stand against the knights if it came down to it. None of us were cowards. But there was no chance it’d do a lick of good—we could take maybe one of them, two if we were lucky, and none if we weren’t. I figure that maybe they just wanted to make us watchful.

  My father was a guardsman in Lower Pippen, as was his father before him, but it wasn’t them that got me into the ranks. I worked hard for this, damn hard, and I moved from the scouts to the guards when I was eighteen years old. Thirty-five years in this job, keeping the peace, solving disputes, occasionally hunting bandits and poachers. Thirty-five years thinking I was making a difference. Then the knights come, and the old magus brings power on his staff, and it becomes clear that we’re useless against the big troubles. Thirty-five years and for the first time I’m thinking that I’ve wasted my life.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself again. I’ll start over.

  I suppose the roots of our trouble came when the old magus decided he wanted an apprentice. It would have been a pity if you’d been killed, yes. You were a good kid, gentle, smart, and it would have been a loss for Lower Pippen. But we’d have gotten over it, I think—you might’ve been killed by wolves in the winter, drowned in a creek or pond or river, or waylaid by bandits like your poor father. Point is, we townsfolk have dealt with loss before, and we’d have done it again if Lt. Caltash had killed you. At least then the squad of knights would have nosed around for a time and moved on. Now, though…

  Now Caltash was determined to get under Underhill’s skin. Deep under. You saw how he burned down the speaker’s house. Well, when he found out that you weren’t the speaker’s son, he had the man’s real son flogged while the knights held Henge’s face and made him watch. He terrorized the fat old bastard into accepting whate
ver the knights wanted to do. This made our jobs that much harder, like I’ve said, because we had no recourse when they interfered with us.

  Almost as bad was that the knights took over the Goat’s Beard (our tavern—I don’t know if you knew the name). They took the top floor as their command post, and they took their meals there, too. They forbade us from going upstairs unless they summoned one of us to act as a messenger or to upbraid us for our failures to monitor the movement around town effectively. They treated us like lackeys in our own tavern!

  Still, we kept frequenting the place, in part because we didn’t want to drink with the farmers and the trappers at the Torn Trestle. This was our place, by the gods, and damned if these boys from the capital’d drive us out. The other part was that keeping to our old haunt let us keep an eye on the knights. My spot by the window, in particular, let me overhear Caltash in his new quarters right above me. Not well, not all the time, no, but thanks to a trick in the structure of the place, sometimes the voices came just right, and I’d know what he had planned. It helped that I have excellent hearing. Knowledge of your enemy, they say. And yes, they were our enemies. We all thought they’d do more damage in the long run than we could handle. Imperial men and women, you know—no understanding of life on the frontier, always thinking they had the right of every side.

  For instance, when the reavers came from over the mountains, out of the west in that first winter in 587, the knights helped us drive them back. They lost one of their number, a woman whose name I didn’t catch but whose face you might remember. They killed the raiders and tracked them to their home. The knights slaughtered all those who had remained behind—including the old, the women, and the children. When we protested, we were met with this: “Women fight as hard as men,” said Caltash, “the old have already committed their crimes, and the young are just waiting for the opportunity. This is long-awaited justice for some and preemptive justice for the others. If you object to our methods, we shall stand aside next time.”

  (Something like that, anyway: long and flowery, full of self-righteous tone. I’ve tried to remember what people said and put it in the voice they said it, but as good as my memory is, it’s not perfect. Fact is, I’ll probably mention some talk throughout this letter, and I don’t want you to think that I’ve put it all down just as it came. But the tone and memories might prove useful to you.)