Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “By the Flame, I was wondering what that was!” swore her cousin, Larvan, when he recognized her. He was one of her older cousins, a good Westwoodman who ordinarily worked forestry duty deep in the wood. He had somehow pulled night watch. Larvan let the string of her bow relax, and Dara realized just how close she’d come to being shot by him. “What is that?”

  “A magelight,” she answered, simply, as the feeling of fright receded. “A wizard’s torch, you could say.” She looked at her cousin guiltily, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “It was dark,” she explained, unnecessarily, as she ended the spell – and plunged them both into gloomy darkness.

  “Huh,” her cousin grunted, replacing his arrow in its quiver at his hip. “I suppose we should be used to that sort of thing in the Vale, now,” he said, nodding toward the green glow of Master Minalan’s magelight over the castle. It was far larger than the tiny one she’d conjured, and she’d yet to master colors, yet. But Larvan was correct. Working so deeply in the forest, he rarely went to Sevendor Village, and he was still getting used to being ruled by a magelord, surrounded by wizards, and actually being related to one. “You might warn a body, if you’re going to conjure strange lights in the wood. Folk are jumpy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she agreed, seriously, as she passed over the rickety rope bridge that led to her home. She briefly cursed herself for not using magesight, a way of enchanting your eyes so that they could see beyond darkness.

  Despite Larvan’s warning, Dara was still extremely pleased with herself for managing the magelight without direction or oversight. She really was learning magic, she realized! She was a wizard – or would be, someday – and the promise of that excited her tired mind. She could use magic, real magic, other than her mastery of beasts and birds. Just like a real wizard did.

  Of course, she was still learning what that actually implied. Much of what she’d expected magic to be was laughably incorrect, the result of folk tales and legends of the half-remembered Magocracy, she was learning. But even as Dara’s understanding of the wizard’s profession was being corrected by her training, her appreciation for what magic could really do was growing.

  As tired as she was, once she’d dragged herself to bed she couldn’t sleep. Between the echoes of her time with the Thoughtful Knife keeping her mind a-whirl, and her obsessing on her successful magelight, she was just too keyed up. She practiced making magelights, instead, until a tiny constellation of three hovered over her bed.

  Her dreams that night were vivid, but chaotic. She returned to the castle the next morning bleary-eyed and sleepy... but no less eager for another day of practice on the Knife.

  But something had changed around the castle, she noted, before she’d even gotten through the outer bailey. The mood of the folk she encountered had shifted. The sense of uneasy patience everyone at Sevendor Castle was feeling the last few days was missing, she realized. In its place was a feeling of grim relief. Everyone from the guards at the gates to the drudges running errands moved with new purpose, Dara realized. She wondered what had happened to cause it.

  She didn’t find out until she arrived at the tower. Master Minalan and her fellow apprentices were missing, but Lady Pentandra was there to tutor her in using the Thoughtful Knife. Before they got started, Dara felt compelled to ask.

  “What happened last night?” she asked, simply.

  Lady Pentandra looked troubled. “Minalan came to some decisions. He’s investigating his options, now, with the Alka Alon, but he has an idea. And he has decided a course of action. It hasn’t been announced yet, but he has committed to providing troops to the defense of Cambrian Castle, assuming he can get us there.”

  That caught Dara’s attention. “’Us’? You’re going?”

  “’Us.’” Lady Pentandra nodded. “Including me. And including you.”

  “Me?” Dara asked, her eyes wide.

  “You. Me. Minalan. Tyndal. Rondal. Gareth. And as many others as can be transported. The situation is dire, and if the gurvani cross the river into the heart of Gilmora, hundreds of thousands will be in danger,” she said, sadly. “The King has called upon his Magical Corps for aid. And your master has called upon you to serve. So you will be going to Gilmora, to Castle Cambrian, and fight the goblins. As will I.”

  It was the first time someone had come out and stated it to her. Though softly delivered, the pronouncement shook Dara’s world. She was going to war.

  To fight.

  The thought terrified her, now that it was real. She’d always known in the back of her mind that her experience with the Thoughtful Knife might lead to such deadly adventure, but being told that she was, indeed, going to Gilmora was different.

  She could die.

  She would be expected to kill.

  Dara felt sick to her stomach.

  “W-why are you going?” she asked Lady Pentandra, as her emotions warred with themselves inside her. “You aren’t a warmage!”

  “Not officially,” Lady Pentandra conceded. “I’m a thaumaturge with a fairly exotic specialty. Nevertheless, I am a High Mage – I have a witchstone, for which I swore an oath. The same oath you swore when you won yours at the Magic Fair,” she reminded Dara. “With that power comes responsibility . . . and duty. Minalan and I set it up that way, for very good reasons. Magic should serve mankind, we believe, in defense as well as in life.

  “Now, that being said,” she continued, with a sigh, “just because I’m not a warmage doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use magic in an offensive manner. I come from an old Imperial family of magi in Remere, and I knew a dozen deadly spells before I ever went to the Academy. Some I will teach to you,” she added, with a smirk. “A girl should always know a couple of nasty spells, for emergencies.

  “But as to my position, I will be leading the Magical Corps in a support role. I will be assisting and coordinating the rest of the wizards in battle,” she explained.

  “So where am I to be?” Dara asked, her head in a whirl.

  “Likely, near to me,” Pentandra assured. “Far to the rear of the battle, among many strong knights to protect us from harm while we conjure. Not all warmagi go charging into battle, mageblades flashing. In fact, some of the best use their skills at a safe distance from actual violence. In our case, we’ll be supporting those on the lines as best we can: with scrying out enemy positions, warding our forces from enemy magic, and employing spells to help out our brave soldiers.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Dara said, hesitantly.

  “It’s still war!” Pentandra snapped. She continued, a little more softly. “I’d never seen real war, until I came to Boval Vale,” she confessed. “My ideas of it were brave knights charging into battle, banners flying from every lance.

  “What I saw at Boval Castle was... brutal. Far more brutal than the siege you just experienced,” she added, seeing Dara’s expression. “That was a mere skirmish, compared to Boval Vale. Real war is chaos, unchained. It makes beasts of good men and villains of the rest. It is the province of Duin the Destroyer, god of war, and his fickle mistress Ifnia, goddess of fortune. Bad things happen in war. But by Ishi I will do my best to protect you,” she vowed, returning her dark eyes to Dara.

  Dara swallowed, hard. “Is my family to go, too?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Lady Pentandra considered. “While the exact disposition of troops, outside of the Magic Corps, has not been decided, it is most likely that Minalan will want his most loyal troops beside him. He holds your family in high esteem, and is impressed with their valor during the war.”

  “So... I am going into battle. With my brothers,” she summarized, unsure of how she felt about that. She’d always been jealous of the adventurous nature of their militia training, and relieved she did not have to endure the demands of it. But now that she was suddenly included, a confusing mixture of thrill and despair enveloped her. “Am I to bring Frightful?”

  “If you can control her,
she’d likely prove useful,” Pentandra nodded. “Nor will we send you into battle completely unprepared – I’ve requested the castle armorer find suitable gear for you. And you will be quartered with the Magical Corps. Hopefully, before we depart – deploy,” she corrected, using the precise military term, “I’ll have time to teach you a few simple but useful spells.

  “In the meantime, let’s begin your practice. I had Tyndal up at dawn, running around the valley setting up rotten pumpkins in particular spots. Today I want you to practice flying, spotting, and destroying those pumpkins with the Thoughtful Knife,” she said, handing the control stone to Dara.

  She took it with trembling fingers. Then she took a deep breath.

  I’m a wizard, she reminded herself. This is wizard stuff. I can do this.

  She felt the seductive pull from the Knife’s control stone, and once she was sitting comfortably she allowed it to overtake her mind. In moments, she was easing the sharp magical blade through the tower window and out over Sevendor Vale. The slender artifact flew through the autumn breeze effortlessly and noiselessly, as smoothly as a falcon a-wing.

  But inside the tower, her hands were still shaking.

  Chapter Five

  Armed And Armored

  “You want my Dara to go to battle?” Yeoman Kamen, her father, asked his liege lord incredulously. “Are things really that desperate that we are arming little girls, now?” he demanded.

  Dara winced. She knew Master Minalan was a kind lord, but few commoners got away with taking that kind of tone with the nobility. In some domains, she knew, such disrespect could mean a quick trip to the stocks or worse.

  “It is not that things are that desperate, Kamen,” Minalan explained, carefully. “It is that she has some special abilities that could prove vital to the coming battle.”

  “And no one else can do these things?”

  “No,” Minalan said, shaking his head. “Not the way she can. At least, I haven’t found anyone better. I assure you she will be in the most protected place in the battle,” he promised. “I will have her guarded by my best men.”

  “Yes, you will,” Kamen assured his master, evenly. “For your best men are Westwoodmen, and we shall be there, protecting her. Or she will not go,” he said, firmly.

  The Magelord looked troubled for a moment, and Dara wondered if her father had pushed his master too far. She was Minalan’s apprentice, after all, and he now had legal responsibility for her now. Only she’d been Kamen’s daughter for thirteen years, and to his eye that came first. Dara tensed for a confrontation.

  Thankfully, Master Minalan saw the justice of the proposal, and eventually nodded.

  “I was hoping to use your family’s skills as woodsmen in Gilmora, but in truth rangers work best in lands they’re familiar with,” he sighed. “I have yet to assign duties to the expedition, but I will ensure that the Westwood be used to guard the Magical Corps reserves. That might be more trouble than battle,” he added, wryly. “I’ve put out a call for warmagi, footwizards, and other magi to aid us, with witchstones as payment for superior service. You’ll need to guard and support them all, and that might be more chaotic than you suspect.”

  Her father shrugged. “I can contend with wizards.”

  Minalan chuckled at some private joke. “So I see! Lady Pentandra will have command over them, so I doubt they’ll get too rowdy. But I do need someone I can trust, there. I’ll consider it, seriously,” he promised, rising from the bench. “Thank you for your continued service. I will not forget the Westwood, when I have an opportunity.”

  Her father nodded and gave a short bow as he rose. Dara could tell he still wasn’t happy about the prospect of seeing his daughter conscripted into military service, but if he was there to watch over her, he could hardly shirk his duty to the Magelord. His words echoed her thoughts as soon as they were outside of the castle.

  “I’m not fond of this notion, Dara,” he said in a quiet but resigned voice. “War is dangerous. People die,” he emphasized.

  “I know, Father,” she said, formally. “When you and my brothers and cousins and uncles all went off to guard Caolan’s Pass, I knew that you could die. When you faced down the men from the castle at the bridge, I knew you could die.”

  “That’s different,” he grunted. “Your brothers and I were trained in arms.”

  “And I am trained in magic,” she replied, defiantly, though she knew her training at this point was nominal, at best. That wasn’t the point! “Master Minalan needs me,” she emphasized.

  “So I have heard,” her father sighed, gloomily. “When a man is forced to march to war, he may have to go with his sons. But he assumes his daughters will be safe behind him.”

  “Where they can worry themselves into illness, waiting for their kin to return home,” Dara said, evenly. “Or are slaughtered by foes when their men leave them unprotected.”

  “Aye, I am aware of all the horrible things that come with war. I am not eager for you to see them. But at least you’ll be where I can keep an eye on you,” he considered. “The Flame protect us, but that’s a relief, somehow. You in battle is bad enough to imagine, but if I had to depend upon others to watch over you...”

  “Father, I am not a child anymore,” she said, indignantly. Did he not think she could take care of herself?

  “Nor are you a woman, yet,” he pointed out. “Dara, do you not realize that we may all be marching to our deaths?”

  “No,” she confessed. “Because I am not a woman yet, so this is all a little exciting to me. I’m to report to the castle armorer,” she added, proudly.

  “That’s a relief, as well,” Kamen nodded. “I’ll have a campaign bag packed for you,” he decided. “I’ll have one of the girls get it ready, and have one of the lads check it over. But Dara,” he said, with one final sigh, “why must they take you?”

  “I’m a ... a secret weapon,” she told him, not certain what she was and wasn’t supposed to speak of. “Because I can do Brown Magic, Master Minalan has found a useful place for me.”

  “I did not think there as a useful place for a girl on the battlefield,” Kamen reflected. “Particularly one like you.”

  “I will do my best to inflict chaos only on the foe,” she said, with mock seriousness.

  Kamen sighed, his eyes searching his daughter’s face. “Then our victory is assured,” he joked. “By the Flame, no force could withstand that.”

  Dara was anxious – for her father, she realized. It wasn’t that she wasn’t scared of death, herself – she didn’t want to die, that was certain. But the idea of being slain and leaving her poor father behind to grieve, after losing her mother... it was almost more than she could bear.

  She practiced with renewed determination that day, sending the Knife zooming across the Vale and through the growing town of Sevendor as she “slew” the half-rotten produce Pentandra had set up. All around the valley folk were running to prepare – either for the harvest or for the deployment – as she zoomed the Knife over their heads. Dara was pleased when she sliced the tops off nine moldy apples in a row with the edge of the Knife’s wing, then slammed through a gloriously rotten pumpkin perched on a fencepost so hard the gourd exploded.

  Dara’s mastery of the Knife grew by the hour. It helped that the spells that controlled it were so brilliantly sophisticated. Flying soon became effortless, and she began automatically reacting to things she was only barely aware that the Knife was communicating to her. That allowed her to focus on the deadly business of seeking out her targets and destroying them.

  Though the Knife was shaped like a gigantic arrowhead, the effect of its impact was more akin to being hit by an axe... flung by a cyclone. When Dara experimented with speed, she overshot the far north ridge of the Vale and found herself in strange territory. When she tried to see how high she could fly, she gained altitude at a rate that the strongest bird in the world could not hope to match.

  Her finest moment, she had to admit to herself, was late in
that second full day of practice... when she encountered Tyndal and Rondal riding back from the Diketower. She could not help herself. Despite her new acquaintance with her senior apprentices, she felt compelled to tease them, somehow. When she spied the overfull ditch in the center of the road, swollen with autumnal rain, she knew what she had to do.

  She drove the Knife far slower than usual, almost stalking the boys from behind. When she was reasonably certain of her course, she told the Knife to speed up until its body was skipping boisterously across the top of the ditch, dipping a razor-sharp wing into the wet muck... and showering the boys with the spray.

  She heard some choice cursing through the Knife as the two apprentice warmagi drew their wands and blasted angrily away at projectile as it retreated back to the castle.

  Pentandra called for a break, when she reported what she’d done... and for the first time in her life, an adult poured wine for her. And then added an equal measure of water.

  “Well done, Dara!” the Remeran wizard praised, as she put away the knife after cleaning the pumpkin residue off with a cloth. “That is the kind of skill that will make you successful in battle. I hope,” she added. An extremely anxious look flashed across her face before she hid it again.

  “What?” demanded Dara, as the first rich taste of wine she’d enjoyed in her life entertained her tongue. Even watered, it was an experience. “What happened?”

  Pentandra looked embarrassed for having allowed her inner thoughts to be guessed.

  “The Emissaries from the Alka Alon may have figured out a way to transport our relief force... magically,” Pentandra reported, when she realized Dara was not going to relent in her curiosity. “In addition to the Thoughtful Knife, the Alka Alon sent us more treasures, including one that allows magi to combine their energies with great ease. With that kind of power, the Alka Alon think we can bring the armies to Gilmora in the blink of an eye.”

  “Is that even possible?” Dara snorted, skeptically.