Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  Unfortunately, Galdan wasn’t alone in the yard today. Apart from the two guardsmen who were working on shield technique, there were two noble students Tyndal had gotten to know in the week he’d been here. Stanal of Arcwyn and Kaffin of Gyre.

  They had been hanging around watching him for a few days now, and Tyndal had learned a little about them without actually speaking to them.

  Stanal was a beefy boy Tyndal’s age, and would have been knighted by now with his own domain to rule if his Talent hadn’t emerged. Under the old Bans of Magic, he couldn’t own property or be ennobled if he had Talent. Under Master Minalan’s new system, he could now inherit from his father’s estate, and even keep his noble title.

  Unfortunately his bulk did not deter his intelligence, which was canny, or his arrogance, which he had in abundance. His father was Baron Sargal of the southern Riverlands region of Arcwyn Dales. He was Sargal’s third son, and not a favorite, from what Tyndal had learned. The Baron had apparently been more than happy to ship the brutish-looking, arrogant boy off to a cloister of magi, rather than deal with his powers at home.

  Kaffin of Gyre was also of noble stock, but was the second son of a knight from the coastland domain of Gyre Shore. The Sea Knights of Gyre, as Tyndal had learned six times in the two weeks he’d been here, were descended from Farisian pirates who’d sworn fealty to the Dukes of Castal, in return for keeping their brethren at bay . . . and engaging in a little lucrative piracy against Merwyn and Alshar themselves.

  Kaffin reveled in his family legacy of honorable cutthroats and their skill with the blade. Becoming Talented was, from Tyndal could see, a crushing blow to the enthusiastic heir of the Sea Knights of Gyre. He did not let that stop him from learning how to use the slightly-curved blade his family preferred.

  “Where’s Ancient Galdan?” he asked the corporal on duty. “I was going to see if he was up to sparring for a bit.”

  “He’s gone to town with the manciple to collect a debt,” answered the corporal. “But have at it, Sir Tyndal,” he said with a smile.

  Tyndal really wished he hadn’t said that – as one of the few knights magi to have been created, he was one of the very few amongst the largely-aristocratic population of Academy students to actually be ennobled . . . and that was a sore point among many of them, who had been forced to give up their titles when they entered the trade. Under the Bans that was law. Now, many of them would be appealing their status, but until it was confirmed by the Crown they remained . . . common.

  Except for him. The horse-shit-on-his-boots ignorant Wilderlands apprentice was a knight. They had been respectful about it, but he could tell they resented it. And him. Tyndal sighed and chose a wooden sword from the rack and began to warm up. Without Galdan here, it seemed pointless, but . . .

  “You want a bout . . . Sir Tyndal?” smirked Kaffin, arrogantly. “I’ve been fencing since I was six,” bragged the son of a seaknight. “I’ve had three swordsmasters . . . before my Talent emerged. I’d like to think I’ve kept it up since then,” he sniffed.

  “Ever . . . kill a man?” Tyndal asked, casually, as he selected his wooden sword from the rack. That took the young aristocrat aback.

  “I haven’t had the need to,” the boy replied. “Have you?”

  “I have had the need to,” Tyndal admitted. “You first, or the big guy?”

  “The ‘big guy’ is Stanal of Arcwyn,’ and his ears are way up here at the top,” the larger boy said, snidely. “I’ll get what’s left of you after Kaf has warmed you up.”

  “Suit yourself,” Tyndal shrugged, giving his blade a few more practice swings. He didn’t care who he fought when, really, he just wanted to sweat. And hit something. “Ready?” he asked Kaffin. When the man nodded, Stanal signaled for the bout to begin. And Tyndal immediately relaxed, feeling at home for the first time in two weeks.

  This was Tyndal’s element: a single opponent, a single sword in front of him, a single sword in his hand. He noted both of the other boys had chosen long cavalry-length wooden swords, no doubt due to their knightly instruction.

  Tyndal had chosen a somewhat shorter sword. Not as short as an infantryman’s, but the approximate length of his mageblade, Slasher. It was the sword he was most used to, and the mock blade was close enough in length and balance to make him confident in its use.

  Kaffin began by circling him to the left, which Tyndal expected, and countered with a quick step-and-reverse pivot that put him on the boy’s other side within moments. Footwork, Sir Cei had always drilled into him, was the key to swordplay. He was borne out when Tyndal reached out and tapped Kaffin’s unprotected shoulder just hard enough to sting.

  “Hey!” protested the student, whirling and striking back. Three fairly-standard blows at head, arm, and neck. Tyndal parried all three easily, and then crouched well-below the usual position one expects from a dueler.

  “Come on,” Tyndal encouraged. “That was almost good.”

  Kaffin grunted before flinging a flurry of blows that proved to drive Tyndal back two steps before he pivoted once again and re-directed the fight elsewhere. They crossed the sand pit quickly, forcing the other combatants to get out of the way. Tyndal grinned when he realized that Kaffin had failed to control his momentum . . . so he side-stepped and tripped the boy. When he fell to the ground Tyndal’s wooden blade was on the back of his neck.

  “I yield!” groaned the young scion of pirates, weakly.

  “Your turn, Big Guy,” Tyndal said, encouraging Stanal to attack. The larger boy snorted derisively as he watched his friend crawl to his feet, then hefted his greatsword-sized wooden blade in a mock salute and advanced.

  Tyndal actually enjoyed fighting Stanal more than Kaffin, for the simple reason that Stanal was indeed a bigger opponent. That gave him far more area to target, and the big guy was by nature slower than the wiry former stableboy. While Stanal was wise enough not to charge headlong into him, he did swing with exaggerated arcs, and his balance was atrocious. Sire Cei would have scolded him into the Void for that kind of sloppiness, no matter his size.

  Another pivot, and a backhand strike at the student’s thigh, giving a satisfyingly meaty thwack.

  “Duin’s dong!” he swore. “Don’t hit so hard! It’s sparring!”

  “My apologies,” Tyndal said with a bow. “I’ll try to be gentler in the future.”

  “Asshole,” spat Stanal, who lunged at him again.

  Tyndal saw his way through the big sword was through using Stanal’s bulk against him. Even a sword that big could only be in one place at a time. Tyndal took two pivots and a side-step, and laid his faux mageblade across Stanal’s shoulders.

  “You cheated!”

  “I won,” Tyndal corrected. “I’ll win again next time, too, if you keep lumbering around the ring like an ox.”

  “I, Sir, do not ‘lumber’,” Stanal said, self-consciously. “I . . . amble.”

  “You’re going to amble yourself into a blade, if you fight like that. Don’t ever let an opponent get behind you like that. A big sword doesn’t make any difference if you have a slit throat.”

  “I still think you used warmagic,” Stanal said, sullenly.

  Tyndal laughed. “If I had used warmagic, I could have slaughtered both of you in an instant. I don’t practice with augmented senses. It defeats the purpose.” He spoke authoritatively on the subject . . . because he had been lectured about it dozens of times by his various sword masters, Master Minalan, included.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Kaffin asked.

  “The point of sparring isn’t to show how deadly you are, it’s to work on your technique and reflexes. Using warmagic to win doesn’t help your technique and reflexes.”

  “But . . . you do know warmagic, right?” Kaffin asked. Tyndal put down his sword.

  “Yes, some,” he admitted. “It’s . . . useful.”

  “I might become a warmage,” Stanal said, thoughtfully. “They say that’s about the only way to get irionite.”

  “E
ven then, it’s no guarantee,” Tyndal agreed. “There are hundreds of professional warmagi in line for them. There are less than a hundred High Magi.”

  “But you’re one,” Stanal pointed out, as if Tyndal didn’t deserve to be.

  “I was in the wrong place at the right time, or something like that. But if you want one now you have to get it the hard way . . .”

  “You are so lucky!” Kaffin fumed, enviously.

  Tyndal stopped and whirled around to face the boy from the coast.

  “Lucky? Do you know what it’s like to have your home ripped away and destroyed? Half the people you ever knew dead, some of them . . . eaten? Your home turned into an abomination and a home for abomination? Do you have any idea what it’s like to know that that . . . that thing is out there, and he won’t rest until every man, woman and child in the Duchies is dead? And he doesn’t even sleep!”

  Both of the boys looked at Tyndal, shocked by his reaction. Tyndal was shocked a bit himself. He realized he was clenching the practice sword as hard as he possibly could. Hard enough to hurt his hand.

  With a sudden spark of reason he realized that if he lost control, he could inadvertently tap into his stone and unintentionally do something regrettable. Like kill a couple of students who probably didn’t deserve it.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “Long day.” He tossed the wooden sword back at the rack. It missed, clattering to the ground. He didn’t pick it up. “That’s enough relaxation for one day. I’ve got to go face Lesser Elemental Theory, now.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Tyndal returned to his quarters he shared with Rondal in the North Tower after his long and intense session with Mistress Selvedine.

  It had not gone well.

  The tyrannical old bag had questioned him thoroughly and relentlessly . . . and gotten “I don’t know, Mistress” for her trouble more times than not. She had grown increasingly impatient with his ignorance, and as each new question arose Tyndal became more and more intimidated. After the first twelve or thirteen lesser elements he had had to confess his ignorance of the others. He even confused the Sacred Number of Carbon with that of Silicon. That had caused an eye-roll and a snort of disgust.

  By the end of the examination, there was no doubt what the venerable mistress of magic thought about Tyndal’s education. Whatever else he would do in his professional future, alchemy and enchantment were unlikely to be major elements of it.

  The fact that he had spent almost a year fighting goblins, running for his life from the Censorate, and helping re-organize the way magic was administered in the new kingdom impressed her not at all. Not even his witchstone impressed her – in fact, he thought she found it insulting. At least that’s how she sounded when she lectured him: power without knowledge, she had said at least five times during the interview, was as useful as being in a boat in a storm without a sail.

  But even that insult wasn’t the worst of it. She had ended the examination by writing him out a list of thirty-two books and scrolls she advised him to read . . . before he left Inarion. Some of them, she pointed out, were the only copies in the world, and should be savored for their rarity. Most were odiously boring, judging by their titles. Introduction to Alchemy. The Meaning And Purpose Of Lesser Elemental Theory. Yrentia’s Gift: A Practical Tour Of The Elements. And more. Many, many more.

  When he got back to the visitors’ room in the North Tower they’d been given to share late that afternoon, Rondal was also back from his afternoon exams, sitting at the big, highly-polished wooden table in the double room. But he seemed far more pleased with himself than Tyndal was.

  “So how’d you do?” he asked, eagerly. Without waiting for a response, he continued to prattle: “Master Indan and Master Trondel were both impressed with my knowledge of practical thaumaturgy and magical materials – they said I had the makings of a first-rate enchanter, should I choose to specialize! Or even a thaumaturge, if I felt like going an academic route. They’re going to pass me on the thaumaturgy part of the exam for certain!”

  “That’s . . . great,” Tyndal said, without enthusiasm as he flopped into the other chair in the room. “Mistress Selvedine was less charitable. I, apparently, am a young idiot.”

  “Well, she could have just asked me, and I would have saved her some time,” teased Rondal, uncharacteristically.

  That surprised Tyndal. So he wasn’t above that sort of thing. It was perhaps the most interesting thing he’d said in months, in Tyndal’s estimation. And the most telling.

  “I kind of wish she had,” admitted the disheartened “senior” apprentice. “She said I had almost no understanding of rudimentary lesser elemental theory, thaumaturgy, magical theory, or anything beyond . . . cantrip magic. She hinted I might make a good market-day conjurer, if it wasn’t for my glass.”

  “That seems a bit . . . harsh,” Rondal said, putting down his book. “I mean, that would take you a couple of years of practice, and you don’t really have ‘showmanship’ down, exactly. Maybe if you studied with my friend Baston—”

  “I’m a bloody Knight Mage, not a market stall conjurer!” exploded Tyndal, annoyed. “Why in six hells do I need to know how magic bloody works? All I need to know is how to work it!”

  “It’s actually a lot easier when you understand the theory,” soothed Rondal. “But I agree, some of the concepts are a bit . . . obtuse.”

  “I know! I’m struggling, here!”

  “For example, we know energy cannot be created or destroyed . . . but when we do magic, we’re ‘borrowing’ energy from the cosmos, or ‘returning’ it. With our brains.”

  “But it feels like it is just coming out of nowhere!”

  “‘Magic is the arcane art of intertwining of thought and reality, perception and matter, order and chaos into beauty, truth, wisdom and light,’ quoted Rondal from some important book Tyndal probably should be able to recall. “Magic is essentially powered thought. And it’s hard to put a thought into a measuring cup.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of bullshit I’m talking about,” sighed Tyndal wearily. “Why would I need to know that?”

  “Because it helps to know how it works if you’re trying to do a really complicated spell,” Rondal reasoned. “Look, I’m sure Mistress Selvedine suggested a book or two—”

  “Actually,” Tyndal said, unfurling the parchment she had sent him along with, “I have over thirty here. Apparently our master did not include some elementary texts on the subject in the six months he was teaching me about curing warts on cow udders and other useful crap.”

  “Ouch!” Rondal said, wincing. “Thirty books?”

  “Thirty-two, actually,” groaned Tyndal. “And all in one subject! I haven’t read that many books in my life!”

  “And she wants them read . . . ?”

  “Before I leave,” groaned the boy again. “Sometime when I’m an old man.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Tyn,” Rondal said, trying to rally his fellow apprentice as he took a look at the list. “It isn’t that bad. The first six are pretty short scrolls, and then – oh. I mean . . . oh. Never mind. Yeah, it is pretty bad. These two are only in High Perwynese.”

  “See what I mean?” Tyndal declared in frustration. “It might as well be in gurvani pictographs! It’s like they’re determined to fail me!”

  “We’re already High Magi,” Rondal said dismissively. “Brave warriors of the Penumbra, and all that. And we have irionite. They can’t take that away from you. Only Master Min can.”

  “I know, I know,” he sighed. “That’s part of the problem. You know what kind of stock he places in formal academics. When he got you as an apprentice I’m sure he wept tears of joy. When he finds out just how bloody awful I am . . .”

  “Relax. Look, if you read . . . these five here . . . then that will cover most of the basics,” suggested Rondal. “I mean, these others are useful, but when it comes to understanding lesser elemental theory, these are the five that will cover almost everything you need t
o know.”

  “And the other . . . twenty-seven?” he asked, after figuring out the remainder in his head. “Why those?”

  “Because they each cover a specific element or class of elements in lesser elemental theory that these first five don’t. Not in any depth, at least. But they can be useful, especially . . . this one, this one and – oh, yeah, that one is brilliant,” he said, reverently, as he finished reading the list.

  “You’ve read all of these?” Tyndal asked, incredulously.

  “No, just . . . well, nine of them. But I’ve read the summaries of the others. Useful reference texts for the professional alchemist or enchanter, no doubt, but they don’t really cover basic theory as well as these others.”

  “Where did you find the bloody time?” Tyndal said, irritated. “It takes me weeks to get through a book. You finish one in a day!”

  “It’s just practice,” Rondal said, a little defensively. “You’ve been reading for only two years or so. I’ve been reading for eight. You get faster, the more you do it.”

  “All those words make my head hurt!”

  Rondal shrugged. “Just think how hard it would be if you had to find a living authority on each of those subjects,” he reminded him. “Those books are invaluable. And once you’ve read them, you’ll know them. Lesser elemental theory is the essential building block to alchemy,” he reminded, “not to mention enchantment.”

  Tyndal groaned a third time, even more expressively. “Don’t mention enchantment! Tomorrow I have to face the enchantment masters. I don’t know anything about enchantment, outside of warwands and such. I’m doomed!”

  “You aren’t doomed,” Rondal said, patiently, “you’re ignorant. Doomed can’t be solved. Ignorance can,” he said, tapping the book Tyndal was supposed to be reading – Loray of Bannerbane’s Introduction To Thaumaturgy, one of the five his “junior” apprentice had recommended before his thaumaturgy examination with Master Indan tomorrow. “If you start on it tonight, maybe you can get a good lead into it by the time you see him. And then you can study before you see Mistress Selvedine again.”