Book 1 - Magician

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Me hurt her!” Pug interrupted. He was shocked by the intensity of Roland’s anger and infuriated by the threat “She’s the one playing us one against the other—”

  Abruptly Pug felt the ground tilt under him, rising up to strike him from behind Lights exploded before his eyes and a bell-like clanging sounded in his ears. It was a long moment before he realized Roland had just hit him. Pug shook his head and his eyes refocused. He saw the older, larger squire standing over him, both hands balled into fists. Through tightly clenched teeth, Roland spat his words. “If you ever say ill of her again, I’ll beat you senseless.”

  Pug’s anger fired within him, rising each second. He got carefully to his feet, his eyes upon Roland, who stood ready to fight. Feeling the bitter taste of anger in his mouth, Pug said, “You’ve had two years and more to win her, Roland. Leave it alone.”

  Roland’s face grew livid and he charged, bowling Pug off his feet. They went down in a tangle, Roland striking Pug harmlessly on the shoulders and arms. Rolling and grappling, neither could inflict much damage. Pug got his arm around Roland’s neck and hung on as the older squire thrashed in a frenzy. Suddenly Roland wedged a knee against Pug’s chest and shoved him away. Pug rolled and came to his feet. Roland was up an instant later, and they squared off. Roland’s expression had changed from rage to cold, calculating anger as he measured the distance between them. He advanced carefully, his left arm bent and extended, his right fist held ready before his face Pug had no experience with this form of fighting, called fist-boxing, though he had seen it practiced for money in traveling shows. Roland had demonstrated on several occasions that he had more than a passing acquaintance with the sport.

  Pug sought to take the advantage and swung a wild, roundhouse blow at Roland’s head. Roland dodged back as Pug swung completely around, then the squire jumped forward, his left hand snapping out, catching Pug on the cheek, rocking his head back with a stinging blow. Pug stumbled away, and Roland’s right hand missed Pug’s chin by a fraction.

  Pug held up his hands to ward off another blow and shook his head, clearing it of the dancing lights that obscured his vision, barely managing to duck beneath Roland’s next blow. Under Roland’s guard, Pug lunged, catching the other boy in the stomach with his shoulder, knocking him down again. Pug fell on top of him and struggled to pin the larger boy’s arms to his side. Roland struck out, catching Pug’s temple with an elbow, and the dazed magician’s apprentice fell away, momentarily confused.

  As he rose to his feet again, pain exploded in Pug’s face, and the world tilted once more. Disoriented, unable to defend himself, Pug felt Roland’s blows as distant events, somehow muted and not fully recognized by his reeling senses. A faint note of alarm sounded in part of Pug’s mind. Without warning, processes began to occur under the level of pain-dimmed consciousness. Basic, more animal instincts took hold, and in a disjointed, hardly understood awareness, a new force emerged. As in the encounter with the trolls, blinding letters of light and flame appeared in his mind’s eye, and he silently incanted.

  Pug’s being became primitive. In his remaining consciousness he was a primal creature fighting for survival with murderous intent. All he could envision was choking the very life from his adversary.

  Suddenly an alarm rang within Pug’s mind. A deep sense of wrongness, of evil, struck him. Months of training came to the fore, and it was as if he could hear Kulgan’s voice crying, “This is not how the power is to be used!” Ripping aside the mental shroud that covered him, Pug opened his eyes.

  Through blurred vision and sparkling lights, Pug saw Roland kneeling a mere yard before him, eyes enlarged, vainly struggling with the invisible fingers around his neck. Pug felt no sense of contact with what he saw, and with returning clarity of mind knew at once what had occurred. Leaning forward, he seized Roland’s wrists. “Stop it, Roland! Stop it! It isn’t real. There are no hands but your own at your throat.” Roland, blind with panic, seemed unable to hear Pug’s shouts. Mustering what remaining strength he possessed, Pug yanked Roland’s hands away, then struck him a stinging slap to the face. Roland’s eyes teared and suddenly he breathed in, a gasping, ragged sound.

  Still panting, Pug said, “It’s an illusion. You were choking yourself.”

  Roland gasped and pushed himself back from Pug, fear evident on his face. He struggled weakly to pull his sword Pug leaned forward and firmly gripped Roland’s wrist. Barely able to speak, he shook his head and said, “There’s no reason.”

  Roland looked into Pug’s eyes, and the fear in his own began to subside. Something inside the older squire seemed to break, and there was only a fatigued, drained young man sitting on the ground. Breathing heavily, Roland sat back, tears forming in his eyes, and asked, “Why?”

  Pug’s own fatigue made him lean back, supporting himself on his hands. He studied the handsome young face before him, twisted by doubt “Because you’re held under a spell more compelling than any I could fashion.” He looked Roland in the eyes “You truly love her, don’t you?”

  The last vestige of Roland’s anger slowly evaporated and his eyes showed some slight fear remaining, but also Pug saw deep pain and anguish as a tear fell to his cheek. His shoulders slumped and he nodded, his breath ragged as he tried to speak. For a moment he was on the verge of crying, but he fought off his pain and regained his poise Taking a deep breath, Roland wiped away the tears and took another deep breath. He looked directly at Pug, then guardedly asked, “And you?”

  Pug sprawled on the ground, feeling some strength returning. “I . . . I’m not sure. She makes me doubt myself. I don’t know. Sometimes I think of no one else, and other times I wish I were as far from her as I could be.”

  Roland indicated understanding, the last residue of fear draining away. “Where she’s concerned, I don’t have a whit of wit.”

  Pug giggled. Roland looked at him, then also began to laugh “I don’t know why,” said Pug, “but for some reason, I find what you said terribly funny.” Roland nodded and began to laugh too. Soon they were both sitting with tears running down their faces as the emotional vacuum left by the fleeing anger was replaced by giddiness.

  Roland recovered slightly, holding back the laughter, when Pug looked at him and said, “A whit of wit!” which sent both of them off on another kag of laughter.

  “Well!” a voice said sharply. They turned and found Carline, flanked by two ladies-in-waiting, surveying the scene before her. Instantly both boys became silent. Casting a disapproving look upon the pair as they sprawled upon the ground, she said, “Since you two seem so taken with each other, I’ll not intrude.”

  Pug and Roland exchanged looks and suddenly erupted into uproarious laughter. Roland fell over backward, while Pug sat, legs stretched before him, laughing into his cupped hands. Carline flushed angrily and her eyes widened With cold fury in her voice she said “Excuse me!” and turned, sweeping by her ladies. As she left, they could hear her loudly exclaim, “Boys!”

  Pug and Roland sat for a minute until the near-hysterical fit passed, then Roland rose and extended his hand to Pug. Pug took it and Roland helped him to his feet. “Sorry, Pug. I had no right to be angry with you.” His voice softened. “I can’t sleep nights thinking of her I wait for the few moments we’re together each day. But since you saved her, all I ever hear is your name.” Touching his sore neck, Roland said, “I got so angry, I thought I’d kill you. Damn near got myself killed instead.”

  Pug looked at the corner where the Princess had disappeared, nodding agreement. “I’m sorry, too, Roland. I’m not very good at controlling magic yet, and when I lose my temper, it seems all sorts of terrible things can happen. Like with the trolls.” Pug wanted Roland to understand he was still Pug, even though he was now a magician’s apprentice. “I would never do something like that on purpose—especially to a friend.”

  Roland studied Pug’s face a moment and grinned, half-wryly, half-apologetically “I understand I acted badly You were right: she’s only settin
g us one against the other I am the fool. It’s you she cares for.”

  Pug seemed to wilt. “Believe me, Roland, I’m not so sure I’m to be envied.”

  Roland’s grin widened. “She is a strong-willed girl, that’s clear.” Caught halfway between an open display of self-pity and mock-bravado, Roland selected mock-bravado.

  Pug shook his head. “What’s to be done, Roland?”

  Roland looked surprised, then laughed loudly. “Don’t look to me for advice, Pug I dance to her tune more than any. But ‘there are as many changes in a young girl’s heart as in the fickle winds,’ as the old saying goes. I’ll not blame you for Carline’s actions.” He winked at Pug conspiratorially. “Still, you won’t mind if I keep an eye out for a change in the weather?”

  Pug laughed in spite of his exhaustion. “I thought you seemed a little too gracious in vour concessions.” A thoughtful look came over his face “You know, it would be simpler—not better, but simpler—if she’d ignore me forever, Roland. I don’t know what to think about all this. I’ve got my apprenticeship to complete. Someday I’ll have estates to manage. Then there’s this business with the Tsurani. It’s all come so quickly, I don’t know what to do.”

  Roland regarded Pug with some sympathy. He put his hand upon the younger boy’s shoulder. “I forget this business of being apprentice and noble is all rather new to you. Still, I can’t say I’ve given too much time to such weighty considerations myself, even though my lot was decided before I was born. This worrying about the future is a dry sort of work. I think it would be benefited by a mug of strong ale.”

  Feeling his aches and bruises, Pug nodded agreement. “Would that we could. But Megar will be of a different mind, I’m afraid.”

  Roland placed his finger alongside his nose “We shan’t let the Mastercook smell us out, then. Come on, I know a place where the boards of the ale shed are loose. We can quaff a cup or two in private.”

  Roland began to walk away, but Pug halted him by saying, “Roland, I am sorry we came to blows.”

  Roland stopped, studied Pug a moment, and grinned. “And I.” He extended his hand. “A peace.”

  Pug gripped it. “A peace.”

  They turned the corner, leaving the Princess’s garden behind, then stopped. Before them was a scene of unalloyed misery. Tomas was walking the length of the court, from the soldiers’ commons to the side gate, in full armor—old chain mail over gambeson, full helm, and heavy metal greaves over knee boots. On one arm he bore a heater shield, and in the other hand he held a heavy spear, twelve feet long and iron-tipped, which bore down cruelly upon his right shoulder. It also gave him a comic appearance, as it caused him to lean a little to the right and wobble slightly as he struggled to keep it balanced while he marched.

  The sergeant of the Duke’s Guard stood counting out cadence for him. Pug knew the sergeant, a tall, friendly man named Gardan. He was Keshian by ancestry, evident in his dark skin. His white teeth split his dark, nappy beard in a grin at the sight of Pug and Roland. He stood nearly as broad in the shoulders as Meecham, with the same loose-gaited movement of a hunter or fighter. Though his black hair was lightly dusted with grey, his face was young-looking and unlined, despite thirty years’ service. With a wink at Pug and Roland, he barked, “Halt!” and Tomas stopped in his tracks.

  As Pug and Roland closed the distance between them, Gardan snapped, “Right turn!” Tomas obeyed “Members of the court approaching. Present arms!” Tomas extended his right arm, and his spear dipped in salute. He let the tip drop slightly too low, and nearly broke from attention to pull it back.

  Pug and Roland came up to stand next to Gardan, and the large soldier gave them a casual salute and a warm smile. “Good day, Squires.” He turned to Tomas for a moment. “Shoulder arms! March post march!” Tomas set off, marching the “post” assigned to him, in this case the length of the yard before the soldiers’ commons.

  With a laugh, Roland said, “What is this? Special drills?”

  Gardan stood with one hand on his sword, the other pointed at Tomas. “Swordmaster Fannon felt it might prove beneficial to our young warrior if someone was here to see his drilling didn’t become sloppy from exhaustion or some other petty inconvenience.” Dropping his voice a bit, he added, “He’s a tough lad; he’ll be fine, if a little footsore.”

  “Why the special drilling?” asked Roland. Pug shook his head as Gardan told them.

  “Our young hero lost two swords. The first was understandable, for the matter of the ship was vital, and in the excitement of the moment such an oversight could be forgiven. But the second was found lying on the wet ground near the pell the afternoon the Elf Queen and her party left, and young Tomas was nowhere in sight.” Pug knew Tomas had forgotten all about returning to his drilling when Gardell had come with the hood for his fire pot.

  Tomas reached the end of his appointed route, did an about-face, and began his return. Gardan regarded the two bruised and dirty boys and said, “What have you two young gentlemen been up to?”

  Roland cleared his throat in a theatrical fashion and said, “Ah . . . I was giving Pug a fist-boxing lesson.”

  Gardan reached out and took Pug’s chin in his hand, turning the boy’s face for inspection Evaluating the damage, he said, “Roland, remind me never to ask you to instruct my men in swordplay—we couldn’t withstand the casualty rate.” Releasing his hold upon Pug’s face, he said, “You’ll have a beautiful eye in the morning, Squire.”

  Changing the topic, Pug said, “How are your sons, Gardan?”

  “Well enough, Pug. They learn their craft and dream of making themselves rich, save for the youngest, Faxon, who is still intent on becoming a soldier next Choosing. The rest are becoming expert cart-wrights under my brother Jeheil’s tutelage.” He smiled sadly. “With only Faxon at home the house is very empty, though my wife seems glad for the peace.” Then he grinned, an infectious smile that rarely could be viewed and not answered. “Still, it won’t be too long before the elder boys marry, and then there’ll be grandchildren under foot and plenty of merry noise again, from time to time.”

  As Tomas drew near, Pug asked, “May I speak with the condemned?”

  Gardan laughed, stroking his short beard. “I guess I might look the other way for a moment, but be brief, Squire.” Pug left Gardan talking with Roland and fell into step beside Tomas as he passed on his way to the opposite end of the court. “How goes it?” Pug asked.

  Out of the side of his mouth, Tomas said, “Oh, just fine. Two more hours of this and I’ll be ready for burial.”

  “Can’t you rest?”

  “On the half hour I get five minutes to stand at attention.” He reached the terminus of his post and did a reasonably sharp about-face, then resumed walking back toward Gardan and Roland. “After the fire-pot cover was finished, I came back to the pell and found the sword missing. I thought my heart would stop I looked everywhere I almost thrashed Rulf, thinking he had hidden it to spite me. When I returned to the commons, Fannon was sitting on my bunk, oiling down the blade. I thought the other soldiers would hurt themselves holding in the laughter when he said, ‘If you judge yourself skilled enough with the sword, perhaps you’d care to spend your time learning the proper way to walk post with a poll arm.’ All day walking punishment,” he added woefully “I’ll die.”

  They passed Roland and Gardan, and Pug struggled to feel sympathy. Like the others, he found the situation comical Hiding his amusement, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone and said, “I’d better get along. Should the Swordmaster come along, he might tack on an extra day’s marching.”

  Tomas groaned at the thought. “Gods preserve me. Get away, Pug.”

  Pug whispered, “When you’re done, join us in the ale shed if you’re able.” Pug left Tomas’s side and rejoined Gardan and Roland. To the sergeant he said, “Thank you, Gardan.”

  “You are welcome, Pug Our young knight-in-the-making will be fine, though he feels set upon now. He also chafes at having a
n audience.”

  Roland nodded. “Well, I expect he’ll not be losing a sword again soon.”

  Gardan laughed “Too true. Master Fannon could forgive the first, but not the second. He thought it wise to see Tomas didn’t make a habit of it. Your friend is the finest student the Swordmaster has known since Prince Arutha, but don’t tell Tomas that. Fannon’s always hardest on those with the most potential. Well, good day to you both, Squires. And, boys,”—they paused—”I won’t mention the ‘fist-boxing lesson.’ ”

  They thank the sergeant for his discretion and walked toward the ale shed, with the measured cadence of Gardan’s voice filling the court.

  Pug was well into his second mug of ale and Roland finishing his fourth when Tomas appeared through the loose boards. Dirty and sweating, he was rid of his armor and weapons. With a great display of fatigue, he said, “The world must be coming to an end; Fannon excused me from punishment early.”

  “Why?” asked Pug.

  Roland lazily reached over to a storage shelf, next to where he sat upon a sack of grain soon to be used for making ale, and got a cup from a stack. He tossed it to Tomas, who caught it, then filled it from the hogshead of ale that Roland rested his feet upon.

  Taking a deep drink, Tomas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Something’s afoot. Fannon swooped down, told me to put away my toys, and nearly dragged Gardan off, he was in such a hurry.”

  Pug said, “Maybe the Duke is getting ready to ride east?”

  Tomas said, “Maybe.” He studied his two friends, taking note of their freshly bruised countenances. “All right. What happened?”

  Pug regarded Roland, indicating he should explain the sad state of their appearance. Roland gave Tomas a lopsided grin and said, “We had a practice bout in preparation for the Duke’s fist-boxing tourney.”

  Pug nearly choked on his ale, then laughed. Tomas shook his head. “If you two don’t look a pair. Fighting over the Princess?”