Knight's Struggle_Age Of Magic_A Kurtherian Gambit Series

by P. J. Cherubino

  Another messenger burst through the door. His private couriers were the only ones allowed to enter his chambers unannounced. So far, he’d never killed any of his messengers. It’s not that he was opposed to killing to change his moods. He just didn’t want to become a cliche.

  “Dispatch from Chief Commissioner Brovka, Great Protector! Shall I read it?” the messenger said.

  “Set the message at your feet, turn around and don’t say a word to me!” Lungu yelled.

  The messenger did exactly as instructed. Brol went over and picked up the rolled parchment.

  “I’m almost afraid to hand this to you,” Brol said.

  Lungu waved Brol forward. “You’re trying my patience, too, oldest friend.”

  “Then I really don’t want to give you my report.”

  Lungu let Brol hand him the message and told him to sit down. “Attendant!” Lungu yelled. His boy opened the door and poked his head into the room. Brol laughed at the sight of the terrified servant.

  “Tell my secretary to send Chief Commissioner Brovka away. He is not to set foot past the gates. Repeat that back to me.”

  “Y-you…y-you don’t want Chief Commissioner Brovka to get into the Fortress. He is to turn around and go home.”

  “Very good,” Lungu said. “Now go.”

  Lungu pulled out his writing tools and lit a candle. On two rolls of parchment, he wrote two short messages, then sealed them with hot wax. One, he sent to Keep 52, the other, he sent to First Lieutenant Raluca.

  “You’re not going to read that dispatch?” Brol asked.

  “I know what it says,” Lungu said. “Or close enough, anyway.”

  Raluca Estate, in the West of the Lungu Protectorate

  Raluca stood in one of the archways surrounding the courtyard as she watched over the training. Any day now, she thought as she took careful mental notes on the performance of her Movers. Any day, Lungu’s musclebound boneheads will fail.

  She had a talent for seeing the big picture. The controlled chaos of her troops sparring with each other meshed perfectly with the stream of thoughts, memories, and musings flowing through her mind.

  When the first snows came, she told her servants to let the courtyard be. Her House Manager had trouble accepting the order at first. Leaving snow on the flagstone offended his sense of propriety. He had been the estate’s House Manager since Raluca turned ten. He’d taken the job from his father. The job of house manager had been passed from son-to-son that way for a hundred and fifty years.

  Of course, the estate was known by her Father’s name, Junge, back then. Only The Protector’s holdings were called by the family names. In public life, the ranks beneath the protector were known by their given names only. When Raluca took over for her father after he died, her name and that of the Estate became one.

  She intended to elevate her name higher than her father ever dreamed. She might even elevate her unused family name as well. If Lungu kept making strategic mistakes, she thought her chances were more than fair. She imagined for a moment, how good “The Junge Protectorate” might sound.

  But she had to put the most important things first, no matter the potential outcome. To defeat Astrid and her army of bandits, Raluca knew that her fighters needed different training to fight in the snow. Even her normal foot soldiers, numbering nearly two-hundred, trained alongside the Movers.

  Raluca was the only First Lieutenant who trained Movers, Apprentices, and Foot Soldiers in the same regimen. The other estates treated their fighters like herdsmen treated horses. They spent minimal time and effort on the lesser horses and devoted most of their time and attention on the “purebreds.”

  Raluca believed that’s why so many failed when faced with the sort of threat Astrid posed. By contrast, Raluca’s fighters operated as units. Each part of the unit complemented the strengths of the other parts. This was the opposite of what Lungu taught her.

  The Protector didn’t understand how his “strongest” First Lieutenants had so much trouble defeating a group of peasants and former bandits lead by five wandering strangers.

  But Raluca did understand. She saw the inherent weakness in Lungu’s model since she officially became a Mover and earned her Commission. Because soon after that, she watched her father die because of the flaws in Lungu’s system.

  She was head of her Estate, but not because her father passed it on to her when he reached old age. That’s how it should have been. Instead, Lungu threw her father away on one of his classic bold campaigns to secure the Western Border.

  And her fool of an old man charged into battle, no matter how stupid the order was. His sacrifice only proved to Raluca that Lungu was crazy enough to outspend his enemies with the lives of his magic users. It was the strategy of an idiot.

  Raluca vowed from the day she took over her father’s estate that she would not be an idiot.

  So, her soldiers trained in an icy, cold courtyard among piles of snow. She had them drill among uprooted trees that her workers sank into the ground. That way, they’d learn to use natural cover.

  Phase two of her training would be in the actual forest. Right now, she wanted to simulate the environment in a controlled manner. Movers simply didn’t train to fight in the woods. For a hundred years, they’d fought as non-magical soldiers in open fields with strict rules of conduct.

  Raluca followed the threads through the past, the present, and the future she wanted to create. And then, she felt the skin prickle at the base of her spine.

  “I can feel you back there,” Raluca said. Cosmin’s training made her sensitive to any mental magic.

  “And I can feel your chaotic thoughts like sauna steam,” the Reacher replied. In his homeland, in the Protectorate of Vasile, he was Raluca’s equivalent.

  She turned from the clashing and shouting in the courtyard and smiled at her unlikely ally. “I can feel you reading me now.”

  “So, you must know I am aware that you are anxious, resentful and more than a little angry,” Cosmin said.

  Raluca grit her teeth and shook her head. “Did you also get the sense that I am eager to get to the point of our training where you teach me how to block your ability to read my emotions?” She gave up the ghost of a smile in her discomfort.

  “Soon,” Cosmin replied. “It’s only fair, considering how I’ve acquired some of your skill in moving objects.”

  Raluca smiled more freely at that. “We all started with a few grains of rice. It wasn’t long before we were moving bushels.”

  “And more importantly,” Cosmin said. “It proves my theory that magic is not limited to individual ability, but it can be learned by anyone who shows the capacity.”

  “But what if it’s more than that?” Raluca asked.

  Cosmin cocked his head. “It’s hard for me to imagine anything more than that.”

  “Why not take another leap,” Raluca said. “For three decades, we’ve been taught that magic can only be channeled by very special people. What if it’s just a matter of training and discipline?”

  Cosmin smiled. “Then we have nothing to worry about. Most people have no discipline and can’t be trained in much more than threshing oats.”

  Raluca turned and pointed at an ordinary Estate trooper who was driving back one of her Movers with a wooden sword. “That young man over there,” she said, “the one who is happily embarrassing one of my best Movers—he came from a village where he threshed oats. Now, he’s one of my best swordsmen.”

  The Mover jumped back and held out his hand. The ordinary soldier relented, then the two discussed where the Mover’s swordcraft went wrong.

  “You have a remarkable…” Cosmin struggled with words. “I don’t even know what to call it. Your fighters work together seemingly without rank.”

  “Oh, they have rank,” Raluca said. “Believe me. But they are more of a family than an army. But they are a family driven by a single purpose.”

  “What purpose is that?” Cosmin asked.

  “To be the mos
t deadly fighters in all the protectorates,” Raluca declared, rounding on Cosmin with a toothy, predatory grin.

  Cosmin took a deep breath and stepped back. “That time,” he replied, “you were projecting your feelings my way.”

  “Don’t worry,” Raluca answered. “You’re part of the family.”

  “That,” Cosmin said, “is a relief.”

  “But first,” Raluca said. “We have to let our leaders fail.”

  “Why wait?” Cosmin asked.

  Raluca turned her head slowly to her new ally. “What do you have in mind?”

  “How long will it take you to be satisfied with their training?”

  Raluca had a ready answer. “No more than three days until they’re ready for some basic field operations. I plan to take them into the forest for live drills tomorrow.” Cosmin smiled and Raluca cocked her head. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Give me some of your troops,” Cosmin said. “Just the regulars. No Movers. I want to bring you a prize.”

  Raluca considered the request, carefully weighing the risks. In the end, she said, “Why not? Let’s see what happens.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Argan Village

  They buried David three days after he was killed. Astrid spent some time with the grieving family.

  The traditional mourning period of the woods people cast a somber mood across the village. But then, after the funeral, the drinking started. Apparently, the woods people believed in the grief cycle on a schedule. Their version of acceptance was to throw a massive party.

  Elder Popova released three kegs of ale stolen from Keep 52 the week before. Astrid was touched that the former bandits asked permission to consume the ale, since they were the ones who liberated it. Popova knew she couldn’t say ‘no,’ anyway. But, as the New Ancients said, it’s the thought that counts.

  In times like this, Astrid could almost respect the wisdom of the New Ancients that managed to survive the World’s Worst Day Ever, the Madness, and the chaotic decades that followed. She supposed those idioms survived for a reason, even though the world that created them was long dead.

  It was late afternoon and most of Woody’s tribe was drunk. The villagers stayed away from the reserve field that had become their camp. The full acre of land looked like a small city defined by tall teepees and hide-covered yurts.

  Their mourning consisted more of stories told of the dead and laughter rather than tears. A few fistfights broke out, but nothing too serious by the standards of the woods people.

  The big problem for Astrid was getting coverage for patrols. George had been more than happy to cover security duty with his people, but they weren’t as familiar with the protocols as Woody’s folks.

  Astrid had discovered that George’s clan excelled at field operations. She was training them to be rangers—troops that would handle special missions and first-reaction operations. If something hit them, George and his people seemed best suited to be a handy weapon to strike back. Woody’s folks were their first line of defense.

  It took Astrid most of an hour to get through the tents on her way to the longhouse to meet with Gormer and Pleth. It had been four days since he made his proposal. They had little word of what was going on in the Keep. Something big had happened, though. A few traders came back from the neighboring villages with rumors of upheaval, but nothing definitive.

  A sharp, brief whistle brought Astrid’s attention to the far end of the longhouse opposite the kitchen area. The place was getting crowded.

  Astrid headed over and sat down at an empty table with Pleth and Gormer.

  “I’m here,” Astrid said. “But don’t ever whistle for me again.”

  Gormer covered his discomfort with a joke. “Ok, geez. Didn’t know you had a hangup about whistling.”

  “You whistle for dogs and horses,” Astrid fired back, “Which one do you take me for?”

  Gormer opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but Astrid’s hard stare told him to shut up. “Right,” he said instead. “I’ll get to it then.”

  Pleth nodded his head eagerly, then blurted out, “Most of the guards and Assessors I knew from the Keep are gone. Krann is dead—killed by First Lieutenant Balan.”

  “Slow down,” Astrid said.

  “Asshole,” Gormer interjected, shaking his head. He was smiling a bit, but Astrid could tell he was pissed. “You stole my thunder. I wanted to tell her.”

  “Sorry,” Pleth said. He didn’t look sorry, but amused.

  “Boneheads,” Astrid said with a slight roll of her eyes. “I’m really busy. Get to the point.”

  Gormer dove in next. “This is the perfect time to slip into Ward 52 and get more information. Let us be spies. Maybe we can even cause some trouble.”

  Astrid shook her head sharply, trying to process the rapid-fire delivery of the information. “I have zero doubt you can cause trouble, but what’s got you so excited about this? I mean, even if I did let you go, it’s high risk. Also, tell me where you got this information and why you trust it.”

  Gormer tapped the side of his head. “Some of our friends from Blue Creek came by with a few pack loads of things to trade. They passed three wagons full of people leaving Ward 52 with their families and all their possessions. Anyone who can resign is resigning.”

  “One of the guards saw Krann fly out a top-floor window and go splat. Sour bastard lived a few minutes after his flight, too.”

  Astrid chuckled. “I almost did that to that son of a bitch, too.” She turned to Pleth. “Did you know that douchebag had actuarial tables to show how many people he could starve before he reduced taxes? He told me himself. I ended up throwing him at some guards instead. You should have seen his face.”

  “Astrid,” Gormer said. “You are one scary bitch.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she said, and gave him a wink and a smile.

  “Why am I so turned on right now?” Gormer asked.

  Astrid felt a flash of anger that made her see red for a second. Then, she couldn’t help but throw her head back and laugh. “Because you don’t have a healthy sense of self-preservation.”

  “That sounds about right,” Gormer said.

  Astrid grew serious and studied both men carefully. After a few moments, she made her decision. “Do it,” she told them. The two moved to get up. “Not so fast!” Astrid said. “Sit.”

  They sat.

  “I don’t want to lose either of you,” Astrid said. Gormer opened up his mouth to say something smart-assy, but Astrid stabbed her finger towards his face. “I mean it,” she said. “I have to be willing to order people to go on dangerous missions. I don’t have to like it. If you end up dead, you will seriously piss me off. So, don’t die. Got that? Be smart. For once in your life, resist the urge to dick around.”

  Astrid turned her intense gaze to Pleth. “That goes double for you. If I thought your death was the best way to pay for what you’ve done, I’d have killed you months ago. Don’t make me tell your family you’re gone like I had to tell David’s family.”

  Pleth looked down at the table.

  “Look at me and tell me you understand,” Astrid urged him. Pleth looked up with fire and determination in his eyes.

  “I understand,” Pleth replied.

  Astrid smiled. “What are you waiting for? You have a big job to do. Go. Get to work.”

  She waved her hand and looked away. Closing her eyes, she set an intention and trusted in the Well to guide them and to keep her spy team safe. For their sake, she pretended not to worry, but she did.

  Later that night in Pleth’s Hut

  “But Karla,” Pleth said. “I’m the only one who can do this. The Village needs me. Astrid needs me.”

  “Owl scat,” Karla growled. “Pure ego. Your children need you. I need you. We are a team, remember? Isn’t that what you said when we left Krepska Village together? You told me that you’d pass the Assessor’s test and get a nice house and raise a family while supporting the Protectorate.” />
  There was a pregnant pause as she stared into his eyes. “I believed you. When Adi got sick, you said you’d find a cure for him. You found the healer and told me you’d raise the money to pay her. I believed you then, too. Even when I found out you were stealing, Julius, I stood by you. You are a man who can set his mind to things and make something from nothing. But why this?”

  “Because—” Julius Pleth tried to say.

  “I know, I know. You told me, but that’s not it. You are not a soldier. You’re not a tough man. You’re not brave.”

  “Hey now…” Pleth said, shifting on his feet and looking down at his once-fancy, but now work-worn boots.

  “But I love you, Julius. You are a good man, in spite of all your faults. Maybe even because of them. I knew that the moment I set eyes on you when we were both ten years old. You’re just doing this to be a big man, just like you wanted to be a big, rich Assessor. Don’t you understand that I don’t care about that? I care about you.”

  A teardrop fell from Pleth’s nose and sank into the mud on his boots. “Maybe it is ego,” Pleth said. “But I’ll tell you what it feels like to me.” He took a deep breath and met Margaret’s eyes. “I never knew why you thought I was so good. I never believed it, even when I was a kid. There’s something wrong with me, Margaret. I know that. I just… end up doing bad things sometimes. But I need to do this to make myself good so that I can believe it. That I can do something for more than just me and what I can hold in my arms.”

  “Asshole,” Karla grumbled, then flung herself at him. They kissed passionately. “Go prove to yourself what I already know. Just come back.”

  “I have to,” Pleth declared with a smile. “That’s one of my orders.”

  Karla shook her head. A small, pale face peeked out from behind the post holding up the hut’s roof. “Come on out here, Adi,” Pleth said. “Give your daddy a hug goodbye.”

  “Where are you going?” Adi asked.

  “I have to go away for a few days and do some work,” Pleth replied.

  Adi frowned. “Will we have to leave our house again? I like it here. The Pixie lady has my medicine, and I don’t want to leave Charlie.”