The Sorcerer Knight

by Robert Ryan

  Aranloth pursed his lips. “An interesting strategy. Yes, very interesting. I fear few commanders would agree with you. But the greatest of them probably would. The greatest of them are capable of taking the greatest risks, but they do so only rarely and when great gain is possible.”

  Kareste stirred. “Brand was one such. He took enormous risks, but he seemed to know by instinct when it was time to do so. At other times, he was extremely cautious.”

  Aranloth nodded. “There are few like him, though. But speaking of great leaders, how can you tell if the enemy general is incompetent instead?”

  Faran answered first this time. “That is something that you cannot tell – not with certainty. The enemy may truly be incompetent. Or they may be deceiving you into believing so in order to encourage you into misstepping. It is best to at all times to assume the enemy is skilled.”

  “So it is indeed,” Aranloth replied. “Now, someone tell me the different kinds of warfare.”

  Ferla beat him to answering here, but Faran did not mind. Her answers were always good, and he enjoyed the sound of her voice.

  “The first kind is to attack with superior numbers, or other advantages, when victory is most assured.”

  “But the opposite of that,” Faran added, “is to retreat or evade, with inferior numbers, seeking an opportunity to gain the advantage.”

  The old man put another piece of wood in the fire. At last it was growing warm in the cabin, but the storm outside only grew in ferocity, and the valley must be deep in snow by now.

  “What other kinds are there,” Aranloth asked.

  “To deprive the enemy of food, supplies or morale. This is an indirect means of war,” Faran answered, “best used to attain a slow victory when a direct attack will not yield one.”

  Faran was pleased with his answer. He knew his knowledge of war was superficial. How could it be otherwise? He had never fought in an army, still less directed a battle. Yet Aranloth was a good teacher, and the training he gave prepared for both. So while there was much yet to be learned, he had still learned a great deal. He was not the same person that he had been less than a year ago. Nor was Ferla.

  Aranloth settled back in his chair, but his eyes remained alert.

  “One last question tonight,” he said. “What are the reasons given for making war?”

  Neither Faran nor Ferla answered. They looked at each other, somewhat perplexed. This was not a direction that their conversations had gone in before.

  “To defeat enemies,” Faran said.

  “A simple answer,” Aranloth said. “But not an inaccurate one. What of you, Ferla?”

  “War is an extension of diplomacy by steel rather than words.”

  Faran remembered the old man saying that once before, but he could not recall if he had agreed with it, or merely mentioned it.

  “That too,” Aranloth said, “is a simple answer, but likewise not an inaccurate one.” He leaned forward now, his voice nearly drowned out by the howling wind outside. “Those are reasons given for war. But tell me its true purpose?”

  Faran thought deeply. “The purpose of war is to create peace when other means have failed.”

  Ferla tilted her head to the side. “I’m not sure. It may be as Faran says. Or it may be that it is in the nature of humanity to unleash its dark side. Just as it is in the nature of a bird to fly or a fish to swim.

  The wind moaned outside, and the cabin rattled. Faran hoped his answer was right, but he feared Ferla was correct.

  23. All Things End

  Winter gripped the valley hard, but here and there were warmer days that saw Faran and Ferla continue their training. Even in the snow, they walked to the ridges and back to the cabin. So too their sword lessons continued, and added to them was training with staff and knife.

  When it was too cold outside, they trained inside. This was difficult, and they could not spar, but they could refine their techniques under Aranloth’s watchful gaze.

  But bit by bit, winter loosed its grip. Spring came, and the thaw with it. The lake rose high in its basin, and many little creeks and springs flowed through the valley. Birds that had migrated began to return, and though there were still some days of bitter cold there were also ones of blue sky and beautiful sunlight.

  The garden needed digging over, and this they did in preparation for the spring and summer crops to come. This was hard work, but both Faran and Ferla had grown strong, and they tackled it with enthusiasm.

  Their stores of food were lower, but they still hunted well and cured more meat. And fish, as always, were plentiful in the lake.

  One fine morning, they trained in their favorite place by the water’s edge, close to where they often fished. The sun shone, and it was the warmest day so far.

  Aranloth had conjured one of his illusory warriors, and Faran faced him. But this was no ordinary warrior. It was a Kingshield Knight, and this was something the lòhren had not done before.

  But Faran was confident. He had trained hard. His sword was of the same quality as his opponent’s, as was his armor. The knight, whoever he was or had been, for Aranloth often conjured the images of warriors long dead, was more experienced than him. But Faran felt young and strong, and increasingly he knew he had attained skill.

  The knight glanced at him with cool eyes. They were eyes that had seen fights before, but there was great intelligence there also. But those eyes gave no foreshadowing of the attack to come.

  In one swift motion the knight darted forward and thrust his sword. It would have been a dangerous blow, but Faran, though he did not anticipate it coming, still reacted with speed himself.

  He rocked his weight onto the back foot and avoided the blow, but he had not retreated. Transferring his weight forward again, he launched his own counterattack, slashing at the neck of his opponent where there was a weak spot between helm and chainmail.

  The blow did not land. His opponent gracefully stepped aside, avoided the blow and stabbed his own blade forward again, this time at Faran’s head.

  Steel crashed against steel, and sparks flew off blades. Faran blocked the attack, just barely, and launched into a vicious assault.

  The two combatants traded blows. Each fought with controlled fury, like a fire burning inside ice. At first, Faran thought he was a chance of winning. He had this knight’s measure. But slowly and surely his enemy wore him down. He was that little bit faster. That little bit more skilled. And the longer they fought the more those advantages told.

  At length, Faran had been struck glancing blows along both arms and to his helm. None were killing blows, but together they would have weakened him in a real fight. In such a case, he would be dead now.

  The knight came for him once more, those intelligent eyes cool but not without pity. Yet determination glinted in them, and Faran knew that he had given up too soon. Had he the determination of this man, he might find a way to win despite his situation.

  But he did not. Soon after, he felt searing pain as the great sword of the knight hammered into his helm. From a blow such as that, he would be disabled in real life and vulnerable to any attack. Even the illusory blow stunned him, such was the nature of the magic Aranloth had wrought.

  He staggered back, and when his vision cleared he saw that the knight was standing at ease, his sword dropped low.

  “The fight is over,” Aranloth said.

  Faran nodded grudgingly and went to sit down. “Your turn, Ferla,” he said.

  Ferla barely looked at him. Her face was a mask of determination, and her eyes hard as diamonds. She was better than him, and just maybe she would win here when he had not. It would be a great feat, given that this was a Kingshield Knight.

  Aranloth sat back to watch. So too did Faran. This would be a fight worth seeing.

  The two combatants, one real and the other illusion, but seemingly as real as the other, saluted and began to circle each other.

  Both looked intent and determined. For once, Ferla did not grin. And she attacked
first.

  Tempest Blows the Dust transformed seamlessly into Clouds Drift Across the Moon, which in turn became Stork Soars.

  But her blade met only air and the cold steel of the knight’s own sword. Then the knight, awaiting his chance, saw a weakness. He attacked.

  Ferla retreated. Steel clanged against steel, and the sound of the swordfight rang through the valley. But Ferla remained untouched by her opponent, and in turn, seeing a weakness herself, she moved smoothly from retreat into offence.

  But the knight evaded her attacks, and in turn launched his own. Thus it went back and forth, and neither could gain the ascendancy. Aranloth watched intently, and Faran watched both him and Ferla. There was determination on her face, and pride on Aranloth’s. But after some time, the lòhren clapped his hands.

  The knight bowed gracefully, then faded away.

  Ferla did not seem happy though. “Why did you stop it? I might have won.”

  “Perhaps,” Aranloth said. “But know this. You are flesh and blood, and grow tired. My illusions do not. The advantage was swinging toward the knight, and you deserved better than to be beaten because of that. It was a draw.”

  Faran went over and hugged her. “Well done!” he said.

  Ferla still did not look happy. Faran knew if she had her way, she would have kept going. She would never have given up, but the lòhren was right.

  “We’re improving,” Faran said to the old man. “That was a knight, and Ferla was not beaten by him.”

  Aranloth nodded slowly. “You have both come a long way in a short time. Never has anyone learned the skills of a knight as swiftly as you two. Then again, there has never been such need for it before.”

  Faran grinned, and even Ferla seemed to lose some of her displeasure at the fight having been stopped.

  “I always give you the truth,” Aranloth continued. “That is part of your training. You have done very well indeed. But you should also know the knight you fought was Lembath. He lived some three hundred years ago, and he was a good man. He was a poet, with the soul of a poet. His writings could make grown men weep, and I miss him. But he was one of the least skilled swordsman the knights have ever seen. That is simply the truth. All of the current knights would kill him swiftly in combat. Yet this is also the truth. No knight ever admitted to the kingshield order is a poor fighter. All are greatly skilled. To hold your own against one such as that is an achievement worth celebrating. I’m proud of you both, and in time you will be a match for even Lindercroft and his like.”

  Faran felt a surge of pride. Some was for himself, but most for Ferla. She had done better than he had. But they were both on track to obtain the skills they needed.

  “Off with you now,” Aranloth said. “You’ve had enough sword practice for one day. Time for a run, I think.”

  They took off, running smoothly despite the armor and sheathed swords. Aranloth had rewarded them for their good efforts, because the sword training would normally have gone on much longer.

  They ran along the lake shore, which was where all their runs started from.

  “Where to?” Ferla asked.

  “How about the dead oak?”

  They both liked it there. It was one of the best views of the valley, and that was the direction they had first seen it from.

  Ferla did not answer, but nodded. They saved their breath while running, for they set a swift pace. There would be time enough to talk when they reached their destination and rested with their backs to the old tree.

  Running was somewhat dangerous. The ground was often damp and slippery. But the grass was short, and the way clear.

  In the little woods they passed through on their way to the ridge, it was cooler than elsewhere. Sometimes snow remained in hidden hollows, and they liked to see that. The woods were like a different world, and they reminded them of Dromdruin, which had been much more heavily forested than this valley.

  They continued upward. Swallows glided and dipped through the sky. To their right, a kestrel hovered in a current of warm air, its head swiveling from side to side, its sharp eyes seeking the movement of prey below.

  The land prospered under the warming sun, and the bitter nights of winter were but a memory. And as the land prospered here, so Faran felt did he and Ferla. They were more than they were. They were better than they were. Their bodies had strengthened and learned skills, while their minds had expanded.

  They did not hasten, but they still moved quickly, their long strides eating up the distance. It mattered little to them if they ran uphill or downhill. It was no obstacle either way.

  They wound their way up toward the dead oak. It stood by itself, though not far from a patch of woods. As always, they slowed as they reached the top of the ridge.

  The ridges of the valley marked the end of their territory. Beyond here, they did not go. But more importantly, the ridges were a high point without cover. To stand there was to be seen from the wide lands all around.

  They came to the dead oak, just a little below the ridgeline. As usual, they crawled over the little hill before it. The grass here was usually taller, but they still had no trouble finding enough cover to hide themselves as they peeked into the world beyond the valley.

  They did so together, shoulder to shoulder, and Faran felt Ferla stiffen and go still beside him.

  He went still himself, and the blood ran cold in his veins as he saw what she had seen.

  24. Fire and Smoke

  Peering through the grass, Faran saw a hundred or so soldiers. They were from Faladir, and mounted on a black stallion at their head was a Kingshield Knight.

  And not any knight. Even at a good distance away, it was clear that the figure was Lindercroft. There was an arrogance to him, and a sense of menace that radiated from him in waves.

  Ferla cursed, and together they moved back carefully through the grass until they were below the ridgeline. Ferla cursed again, more loudly, even as they broke into a run.

  They headed for the closest wood. From there, they would have to be very careful to keep it between them and the enemy, lest they be seen. If that happened, a pursuit would begin and they would be caught before they could give warning to Aranloth and Kareste.

  They reached the wood, but did not slow down in its cover. Once out the other side, they kept it between them and the approaching soldiers. This they would have to do with several different woods until they reached the bottom of the valley. It would take them longer this way, but they had to try to get to the cabin without being seen. That would win them more time in the end because the soldiers were only marching and not hastening. But if Lindercroft saw them, he would likely order a swift chase. For that matter, he may leave his men behind and pursue them on horseback by himself.

  They were tired by the time they reached the floor of the valley. They had run as fast as they could, and they had run farther than they would normally have, seeking out woods and gulleys that hid them from view.

  They hurried along the shore of the lake toward the cabin. Here, they must travel in the open, but of Lindercroft and his men there was no sign. They must have entered a wood, and that made sense because they would try to approach unseen.

  Aranloth stood in the cabin doorway. He must have seen them approach and read urgency in their manner.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Lindercroft,” Faran answered. “And a hundred soldiers. They’re coming into the valley.”

  Aranloth showed no surprise. “I knew he would find us, but I had hoped for more time than this.” He looked them over. “This will be difficult. But come inside and be ready.”

  “Inside?” Faran asked. “Surely we should run while we have the chance.”

  “I think not. He has found us, and he will have more forces coming in than you have seen. Probably, there are four separate groups approaching from each side. He won’t be taking any chances.”

  That was a shock to Faran, but he should have seen it coming. That would be the way to do it, but he
had never had command of men, and despite his training it was all theory. He was just not used to the idea of having hundreds of men at his disposal.

  They went inside. Kareste was there, and she had heard the news.

  “Quickly,” she said. “Gather food supplies and water. Then be ready.”

  Faran and Ferla did as asked. But first they strung their bows. They could not beat all these soldiers and Lindercroft as well, but they would not go down without a fight.

  It seemed to Faran that gathering supplies was a waste of time. They were trapped here, and there could be no escape. Unless Aranloth was going to use some sort of illusion to disguise them and get them out. But that could hardly work. If nothing else, Lindercroft would be aware of Aranloth’s magic and on guard against it.

  By the time they were ready, Lindercroft and his men were close. Aranloth was watching them through the small window near the door. Faran looked over his shoulder, and his heart sank. The old man had been right. There were more soldiers here now than they had seen before.

  “We can’t hold the cabin against them all,” he said.

  “Courage,” the old man replied. “The cabin is better designed than you know.”

  Faran gave no answer to that. Did the old man mean the wards? But they were known to him and Ferla, and he did not think they would provide protection against normal attacks by the soldiers.

  Lindercroft and his men drew close to the cabin. It burned Faran’s soul that they did so. These men were murderers. Certainly Lindercroft was. His very presence defiled the valley.