Justyn had only just hired on with the Pack, and he'd been eager to see some real fighting, to get right into the thick of things. But he had quickly discovered that the place of a junior mage, a mere hedge-wizard, was going to be back with the support-troops.
And foolish me, that wasn't enough excitement for me.
He tried to volunteer every time they called for able bodies, but wisely the commanders kept passing him right over-until they came to the desperate running battles with Ancar's troops that decimated their own ranks and left the commanders little choice but to put a weapon into the hands of anyone they could spare and hope for the best.
Justyn had been a good enough archer, but his mind-magic had given him an edge; as long as he got his arrow going in the right direction, he could think it into a target. With a bow in his hands, he impressed even the archery-sergeant, and so they kept him with the archers, and he got more than his share of excitement. Until his first battle, he'd thought that actually killing someone might be a very difficult thing, for he would be thinking his arrow into the body of a man, not a straw target-but then when he saw what he faced, there was actually a grim and melancholy sort of pleasure in it. "Hell-puppets" were what the other fighters called Ancar's line-troopers; conscripted and controlled entirely by blood-magic, Ancar had depleted the countryside for fighters, and had raised the power for the spells that controlled them by killing their families in cold blood. When Justyn killed one of the troopers, it was actually a longed-for release for the poor clod.
Spell-bound and spell-ridden, for most of them that arrow came as a blessing, taking them out of Ancar's hands and on to a place where their loved ones were probably already waiting. Ancar had not used his people well, to say the least, and Justyn found himself sending prayers along with each arrow.
And as for the officers and mages commanding Ancar's troops-there was great pleasure in ridding the world of creatures so depraved and sadistic. And perhaps it was wrong for him to feel pleasure in killing even something as vile as Ancar's toadies, but he couldn't find it in his heart to regret taking even one of them out of the world.
And fighting was a great deal more exciting than grinding herbs, lighting campfires, and sealing wounds. When the archery-sergeant had halfheartedly given him the option to go back with his old group, he'd declined.
And, to be honest, I felt more like a man. I was actually doing something, and other men, other fighters, praised me for it. How could I go back to work among the cooks and the mule-drivers?
It wasn't only the members of the Pack who praised him, either. He'd met several of the Valdemarans in the form of some of the Guard when they'd picked up a stray squad or two along the way, the sadly-depleted remnants of a Valde-maran Company that had been holding the line before the Pack came to reinforce them. They thought he was a fine soldier, and said as much as they all shared exhaustion and the rare hot meal between engagements.
Heady stuff for a young fool, I suppose.
"Wonder where the boy went?" Harris said idly, interrupting Justyn's thoughts. Justyn had the needle clamped between his teeth and couldn't answer, but the question was rhetorical, for the man answered it himself. "Probably ran off into the woods. My boy's seen him running off there before. I'm telling you, Justyn, there's bad blood there, and you'd better do something about it before he gets more than himself into trouble."
Justyn really wasn't paying much attention, lost in his own thoughts as he was, and the half-conscious grunt he made in reply seemed to satisfy the man. At the moment, he really didn't want to think about young Darian, though he was getting an increasing number of complaints from the villagers that he wasn't keeping the boy under firm enough discipline.
No, his thoughts were in the past, at the moment, drawn there by the task of stitching up something that could have been a wound made on purpose, rather than accidentally.
If I hadn't been so young, I would have realized from the state of the Valdemaran Guard and the fact that my own commanders were willing to risk a mage in the front lines that something was very, very wrong.
What had gone wrong was that they were all trapped on the wrong side of the enemy lines, and only the fact that they had good commanders had gotten them as far as they had gone. He had learned later that the Guard and Pack Captains had agreed on a last-ditch dash for the Border at a weak spot in the enemy lines, hoping for a combination of surprise and overconfidence to bring them all through. And the ploy worked-
Except that for it to work, someone had to hold the rearguard, and the most logical group was the mixed archery squad guarded by a handful of swordsmen.
They fought their way back toward Valdemar, step by step, until the only barrier between them and safety was a river with a single wooden bridge. One man with a bow could hold the enemy off long enough for everyone else to get across-and by that time, he was considered the best shot in the group.
So, of course, like a young hero who hasn't quite grasped his own mortality, I volunteered.
That was when he learned the great and vital truth about being a bowman.
When you run out of arrows, you can do virtually nothing against a man with an ax.
He had fended off attacks for a few moments with his bow and knife, getting some painful wounds in the process, and the last thing that he remembered was watching the flat of the ax blade descending in strangely-slowed time toward his head.
He had awakened in the infirmary tent; after his heroic efforts, there hadn't been a man in the decimated ranks willing to allow him to go down without trying to rescue him.
But his skull had been cracked like a boiled egg, and it had only been good fortune and the fact that Wizard Kyllian was present at that very site that had kept him alive to thank his rescuers.
Kyllian himself was too old by then to take part in any battle-magics; he had confined himself to instructing the new Herald-Mages and to helping the Healers when their own ranks grew too thin, for Fireflower was a School that produced mages who were equally versed in Healing and mage-craft. Reputed to be a great friend of Quenten, the head of the White Winds School at Bolthaven, Justyn really didn't know why he'd chosen to come North when the Valdemarans sent out a call for mages through Quenten. Perhaps it was some need of his own that drew him there, or some urge to leave the sheltered confines of the Fireflower Retreat. He didn't confide his reasons to Justyn, who was just one among many of the patients that he pulled back from the soon-to-be-dead and into the land of the living.
It was obvious almost at once that Justyn was not going to be any good for fighting anymore; the blow to his head addled his vision enough that he would never be able to accurately sight an arrow again, and he simply had never had the strength of body to be a swordsman. Nor did he ride well enough for the cavalry.
But there was still magic-the magic he'd despised, that suddenly seemed desirable again.
But like a lover scorned, his magic had left him as well. Much of what he had learned, the blow to his head had driven from his memory; he had trouble Seeing mage-energies with any reliability, and the mind-magic he had was so seriously weakened he could no longer lift anything larger than a needle for more than a few moments.
He had gone in a single instant from hero to a discard. And what would he do with himself outside of the mercenary Companies? He had no skills, no abilities, outside of those of the magic that was now mostly gone from him.
When he was able to get out of bed and care for himself, the Healers turned him loose to complete his recovery on his own, and the Pack gave him his mustering-out pay and their good wishes. The Captain expressed his regret, but pointed out that the Pack couldn't afford anyone who couldn't pull his own weight, and suggested that he might find employment somewhere as a server in an inn, or the like.
A server in an inn? Was that what he had come to? All at once, he couldn't bear the idea that he must give up all of his once-promising future to become a menial, a drudge, another cipher with no future and no prospects. That was
when he had approached the great wizard, hat in hand, like a beggar, and asked for advice.
He must have fairly radiated despair, for Kyllian had sent away the people he was talking with and took him into his own tent, sitting him down and presenting him with a cup of very strong brandy.
"I suppose you think that your life is over," the great wizard had said, wearily but kindly. "And from your perspective, that's an appropriate response. I understand you put on a fairly brave show out there."
He had flushed. "Brave, but stupid, I suppose-"
"Depends on who you would ask. Your fellow mages, now, they would say it was stupid, I'm sure, risking your Gifts as well as your life in physical combat-but the fellows you shot covering fire for would have a different opinion."
He had been rather surprised that Kyllian remembered the details of how he had been injured, but there were more surprises in store for him.
"So, you're brave enough to die," Kyllian had continued, watching him closely. "But are you brave enough to live? Are you brave enough to learn skills that will get you little gratitude, brave enough to practice them among people who will probably despise you and certainly won't believe your tales of battle heroics, but who nevertheless will need what you can do?"
What could he answer, except to nod mutely, having no notion of what that nod was going to get him into?
"It wasn't magic that saved you, boy," the old man had told him bluntly. "It was simpler stuff than even you are used to practicing. Bonesetting and flesh-stitching, herbs and body-knowledge, patience and persistence and your own damned refusal to be a proper hero and die gloriously. Do you know what's happened, out there in the hinterlands of Valdemar?"
He had shaken his head; obviously, how could he have known? He wasn't a native of the place-
"Well, I do, because the Healers come and wail on my shoulder about it at least three times a day. There are no Healers out there now; they've all been pulled east to take care of this mess. Even the old wisewomen, the herbalists, and the beast-Healers have turned up here; anyone that could travel has come here, where the need is greatest. That leaves vast stretches of territory without anyone that a sick or injured farmer can turn to-not an earth-witch, not a hedge-wizard, not even a horse-leech. No one. And people are going to die of stupid things like coughs and festered wounds unless people like you take the time to acquire a few more skills and go out there to help them." Kyllian had eyed Justyn shrewdly. "And I can virtually guarantee it will be a thankless proposition-but you'll be doing a world of good, even if no one is willing to acknowledge it."
"Why do you care what happens to the people of Valde-mar?" he'd asked, with equal bluntness. "And why should I?"
The old wizard had smiled, an unexpectedly sweet smile that charmed Justyn in spite of himself. "I care-because I don't care what land people own allegiance to, so long as they are good people. And I suppose I care because of the philosophies that made me choose the School I chose. Ask any Healer of whatever nation how he feels about Healing a man from another land, even one that is his enemy, and he will look at you as if you were demented for even asking such a foolish question. Healers don't see nations, boy. They see need, and they act on that need. That is why I care."
"And why should I?" Justyn had repeated.
"Why did you volunteer to hold the bridge?" was all Kyllian asked, and although Justyn had not quite understood the question then, discovering the answer had formed a large part of his life from then on.
But at the time, given his utter lack of anything else he thought he could do, and the fact that the great Wizard Kyllian certainly seemed to want him to volunteer, that was what he had done.
First, though, he needed to begin a new course of learning. He had apprenticed himself to the leeches and herbalists and wisewomen on the battlefield, absorbing their knowledge of matters other than the injuries of combat when they weren't all up to their elbows in blood and body parts. He acquired herbals and other books, brought what was left of his magic up as far as he could, and when Herald-Mage Elspeth and Hawkbrother Darkwind and Adept Firesong did whatever it was they did to end the war with Hardorn, he was there for the celebration of victory, then volunteered his services to both the Healers and the Heralds. After all, he was at least a little bit of a mage, as • well as a certified bonesetter and herb-Healer, and Selenay of Valdemar had decreed that Valdemar still needed mages. Kyllian had been right, and he was assured that Valdemar could use anyone with either of those skills, and desperately. Ancar's mages hadn't confined their attentions to killing Valdemaran fighters; they'd made a point of going after the tents of the Healers and other noncombatants, contrary to every accepted convention of war. Far too many of the Healers and leeches who had volunteered were not going back to their homes again.
Those services that he offered were gratefully accepted, and the Healers sent him off so far into the West that he wasn't certain he was still on a map of Valdemar. A whole string of folk went, most with about as much magical power as he had, and some with less; a Healer and a Herald went with them and found them towns and villages who wanted and would support folk like himself. The last village on the list was Errold's Grove, and it was here that he found that Kyllian had been only too right. People had already died needlessly of stupid things-a compound fracture gone septic, a winter epidemic of fever, an infected foot. The people here needed him and wanted him, and the Healer and Herald went back to Haven to look for more volunteers to fill all those empty places where Healers had once been.
At first, things hadn't been as bad for the village and the villagers as they were now. Traders still came for the dye-stuffs, and there was both ready money and the goods coming in from outside to spend it on. The villagers had seemed impressed by the little magics he could still do, such as finding lost objects and predicting the weather. He had been given a house and was promised that, like the woodcutter, all his needs would be taken care of. A strange and scruffy black cat had simply appeared one day, a cat that seemed unnaturally intelligent, and he took it as a good omen, that he had gotten himself a proper familiar, that his magic might once again amount to more than the wherewithal for a few parlor games. He set about looking for an apprentice to teach, and saw the light of magery dancing in the eyes of a young child, the son of a pair of fur trappers. He had every confidence that he would one day be able to persuade them that their boy should have a chance at a better life than they held, and get young Darian for his apprentice. It seemed as if the gods were finally smiling on him again, and he rechanneled his ambitions into another path. If he could not become a great mage, he could train one. It didn't take having the Talent and the Gift to be able to train the person who did. He transmuted his dream into the dream of being the mentor to a powerful magician, and thought that he would be content.
But then the mage-storms began, and his fortune dropped along with that of his village. When one or two monstrous creatures invaded the village, no one wanted to go out into the Pelagiris Forest and encounter more-and since the dye fungus wouldn't grow outside of the Forest, that pretty much put an end to the dye-trade. With no money and no traders coming in, the villagers were forced to become self-sufficient, but self-sufficiency had its cost, in time and hard physical labor. The narrower the lives of his villagers became, the less they in their turn were willing to forgive. The demands on him became greater, and he was less able to meet them. And when Darian was orphaned and was bound over to him by the villagers, the boy reacted in exactly the opposite way he would have expected-not with gratitude, but with rebellion.
That, perhaps, was the worst blow of all. The boy had seemed so tractable with his parents, so bright, and so eager to learn! And with his parents gone and no relatives to teach him a trade or care for him, he should have been relieved and grateful to get so gentle a master as Justyn, who never beat him, never starved him into submission, never really scolded him.
Justyn was nearly finished with Kyle's wound, but the problem presented to him in the shape
of young Darian was nowhere near as easy to deal with.
Was it only that the villagers were right, that the boy had bad blood in him? Just how "bad" was the "bad blood," if there was such a thing? Was it insurmountable? Should he give up, and see the boy bound over to the smith, perhaps? Certainly the smith would not tolerate the kind of behavior Darian exhibited now-but how could that be fair to the boy?
Was it only that he was strong-willed and stubborn, unwilling to turn his hand to another path when the one he had been on was closed to him? It would have been natural enough for him to plan to follow in his father's footsteps, and certainly there was every indication that he knew quite a bit about the business of trapping and preparing furs. If it was only that, could his stubborn nature be overcome? Surely Justyn could make him see reason-the Forest was too dangerous to go out in, now, and the deaths of his parents should prove that to him, if only he could be made to acknowledge the fact. If two people with all the experience and caution they displayed could not survive there, Darian had no chance of prospering, and surely Justyn could make him understand that.
Lackey, Mercedes - Mage Storms 04 - Darian's Tale 01 - Owlflight.doc Page 4
