Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “We were asked to evaluate your areas of weakness, identify your strengths, give what remedial instruction it was felt was necessary, and prepare a course of individual study for each of you, in preparation for eventually taking the traditional Journeyman examinations. Here, then, are our specific findings.

  “Sir Rondal of Sevendor,” he continued, glancing at a scroll – and obviously using magesight to correct his vision to read it. “You have demonstrated an admirable grasp of Philosophy of Magic, Thaumaturgy, a decided competence in Greater Elemental practice, an understanding of Lesser Elemental theory and Alchemy, an impressive knowledge of magical history, and a talent for mathematics, natural science, pyromancy and enchantment. Well done, young man,” the old wizard said. “If you had been enrolled here, no doubt you would have been ready for your exams a year ago. Or advanced study.”

  “Thank you, Head Master,” Rondal said, humbly. Tyndal’s face burned. At least he could have the good grace to gloat a little.

  “Sir Tyndal of Sevendor,” Master Alwyn continued, as a second scroll was brought to his attention by an aide, “your scores were . . . less impressive, but in consideration of your unique circumstances, it is felt that your wit is sufficient to absorb some remedial education in certain subjects to bring you up to level.

  “You do have an excellent grasp of basic cantrips,” he said, almost apologetically, “and a talent for woodbending – I saw the chair you put together, that was quite striking – a good basic knowledge of Greater Elemental practice, and a bit of a knack for sigils and runes. But there are many, many gaps in your education, gaps that I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to leave here unfilled. Not if we are to fulfill your master’s request.”

  “Thank you, Head Master,” Tyndal said, almost choking on the words.

  “So, my lords,” the wizard continued, flopping the scroll onto the table, “I am recommending that young Sir Rondal, here, be given two more weeks of advanced study with the lecturers in Thaumaturgy, Enchantment, and Lesser Elemental Theory.

  “Sir Tyndal shall spend the next four weeks in training. When he has satisfied the faculty of his basic competence in his deficient areas, then he will be sent after you.”

  “Four weeks?” Tyndal almost shrieked. “I’m going to be—”

  “Studying, my lord,” Alwyn said, sharply. “Studying every waking moment. Taking every opportunity to improve your knowledge of our Art.”

  “That’s not fair!” Tyndal almost shouted. He struggled to keep himself under control. “It’s not my fault that I didn’t get started until a few years ago!”

  “And this is not a punishment, young man,” Alwyn riposted. “It is an opportunity. An opportunity hundreds of magi across the Duchies would give a limb for, and you should keep that in mind.”

  Tyndal opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He knew the man was right. Inarion Academy was the largest and most renowned school of magic in the western Duchies. And one of only three in the new Kingdom.

  “I understand, Master Alwyn,” Tyndal sighed. “I’m just not used to such . . . inactivity.”

  “Nor should you be,” Alwyn chuckled. “I was a young man once – even did a stint as a warmage, believe it or not, before I caught a flux. I have heard that you occasionally practice in the guard’s yard – I encourage you to continue. It will help keep you focused and your mind on your studies if you exercise an hour a day.”

  “But both of you can count on a full course load for the next few weeks. I suggest you take advantage of it. From what I understand, your opportunities to study will likely be limited in the future.

  “This is a new world your Master has forged for us, and it appears you are destined to become his agents in it. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen . . . there are many of us who are suspicious of the consequences of overturning the Bans.

  “But regardless of what happens, you are to be warmagi . . . Knights Magi, they’re calling it. A blend of chivalry and sorcery – the very idea is novel. And dangerous.”

  “But Master,” Rondal objected, “we are faithful servants of the Spellmonger, and loyal to the King!”

  “It isn’t your loyalty – or your dedication – that is at issue, Sir Rondal. Young men are by nature hot-headed and foolish. Such power in young hands is inherently dangerous.” The old man looked out the window wistfully. “Part of me dreads the trials ahead of us. For good or ill, your master has smashed the old way of doing things.”

  He looked back at them sharply. “And part of me is envious that I am not myself young enough to enjoy the changes. I do not blame you for your enthusiasm and eagerness,” he said, amused, “I merely urge you to temper it with education, caution . . . and wisdom.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “I bet you’re elated!” Tyndal said accusingly as they left the Master’s Hall. “Two more endless weeks of studying everything you want!”

  “Are you kidding? You’re the one who should be thrilled,” Rondal said, angrily. “You get to read in peace for four weeks! I’ve got to go to bloody military school in a fortnight!”

  “How is that fair?” Tyndal agreed, disgusted. “Why should you get to go first?”

  “Get to go?” Rondal shrieked. “I feel like I’ve been condemned . . . for being better than you!”

  “What?” Tyndal whirled around to face his fellow apprentice. “Better than me?”

  “You know what I mean!” Rondal said, sourly. “I know more than you. I’m a better wizard than you. I—”

  Tyndal stared at him in disbelief. “Better wizard? Just how do you figure that? You know more than I do . . . on parchment. Did you defeat two Censors on your own?”

  “If you remember correctly, Lady Pentandra and I were there to help out!”

  “I was doing fine without you!”

  “You were about to get blasted without us!”

  “Without her, maybe. You were pretty much useless!” Tyndal snorted.

  “I was following her orders!” Rondal said, his nostrils flaring.

  “I was saving Master Min’s family!” Tyndal stated triumphantly.

  “And that makes you a better wizard?” Rondal asked in amazement? “That speaks to your motivations, not to your skill. Someday maybe we’ll settle who the better wizard is . . . but based on those marks you’d better hope it’s not any time soon!” his fellow apprentice nearly bellowed as he stomped away.

  Tyndal seethed as he watched him go, but he didn’t have a ready retort. Mostly because he couldn’t really argue with Rondal’s reasoning. Tyndal had outstanding motivations . . . but even in the scrap he’d just bragged about he hadn’t used anything much classier than a cantrip.

  Rondal was, Tyndal realized, the better wizard. And for some reason that infuriated him.

  Tyndal considered heading to the library to study, as he had been bidden . . . but his mind was not on scholarship, after his argument. Instead he sought out the gatehouse guards and managed to work out some of his emotions with wooden swords and padded armor.

  He’d been fortunate enough to arrive just as the duty shifts were changing, so he was able to spar with four guards each in turn. One after the other they fell to his blade – or at least gave him a challenging fight. Only Ancient Galdan had any success in keeping the lad’s swift strikes and well-delivered blows from bruising him.

  “What’s gotten into you today, boy?” the older man said, after their third pass with the wooden practice swords. “You seem driven by demons!”

  “Just working out some tension,” Tyndal said, tight-lipped.

  “That’s more than mere examination stress,” the old veteran said, quietly. “I’ve seen enough students come through here to tell. Nay, lad . . . someone’s gotten to you.”

  “I’m just not nearly as good a mage as I am a warmage,” snorted Tyndal as he strapped on the practice armor.

  Galdan shrugged as he traded his steel sword for a wooden one. “That’s to be expected.
Takes years to become a good mage.”

  “Well, I didn’t get years,” Tyndal complained, sourly as he came into guard. “I got months. And now everyone is expecting everything from me!”

  Galdan chuckled as he returned Tyndal’s off-handed salute. “Lay on! Welcome to manhood, boy. You’re going to spend the rest of your life chasing after your own inadequacies, no matter if you’re a mage or a miller.” He rocked back and forth as he and Tyndal circled around a common axis, seeking advantage of their opponent.

  “That’s hardly a comforting thought,” Tyndal said acidly as he threw a vicious combination of blows to head, torso and leg.

  “Nor was it meant to be,” the soldier said, philosophically, after neatly blocking them. “There’s damn little comforting in manhood. First we fail the expectations of our fathers,” he said, striking quickly each new point, “then of our masters, then our wives, and then our children.”

  “So why even bother?” the younger man asked as he spun and struck at the man’s opposite shoulder.

  “That’s what you have to figure out,” Galdan said, parrying the strike. “Every man gets a different answer. For some it’s duty,” he said, breaking away and resuming the fight, “or honor, or the pursuit of a craft or a vision. For some it’s a woman . . . or all women. For some they struggle and seek their entire lives and die before they figure it out. For you?” he continued, looking at the apprentice with an appraising eye before rushing to attack. “For you, I’d suggest you figure it out quickly. Before it burns a passionate lad like you to cinders,” he said, as Tyndal blocked his blows.

  “What if all I can come up with is ‘disappointment’?” asked Tyndal. “That’s hardly a worthy aspiration.”

  “Then you’d be doing as well as many a man,” the old Ancient agreed, stepping away and saluting after the rigorous session. “Although I doubt you’ll do anything so uninteresting, Sir Tyndal. I’d offer you another bout, but I think I see fresher victims approaching . . . “

  He was not mistaken – a small group of students was approaching, four or five of the seniors, boys about his own age – Kaffin and Stanal, leading them. He recognized a few, from brief introductions here and there and the occasional lecture. Bandran of Gars was one, one of those boys who talked far too much, and the shifty-eyed Daris of Hoden’s Mead was there, too, a lad from the Castali Wilderlands whose reputation for being an asshole was greater than Tyndal’s.

  “We heard you were practicing, Sir Tyndal” Kaffin said with a broad grin, when he got to the edge of the yard. “Some of the lads wanted to watch . . . mayhap get in a little sparring, if you’re agreeable,” he added, casually. “And not too winded.”

  Tyndal surveyed the group and grinned. “As long as you don’t accuse me of cheating again,” he agreed.

  “Of course not,” Stanal said, hurriedly. “You’re just . . . anyway, you said you weren’t even using warmagic.”

  “I wasn’t, I swear,” Tyndal said, adjusting his helmet.

  “So . . . what if you did?”

  “What?” Tyndal asked, not understanding what the boy was asking.

  “What if you used warmagic when you fought,” Kaffin explained. “How many of us could you fight? At one time?”

  “And win?” Tyndal asked. “You know, I have no idea.”

  And so it was decided that Tyndal would try to fight four of the boys at the same time, much to the amusement of the guards and their captain. They scraped together enough armor – with Tyndal promising not to hit any exposed bits – and outfitted four of the boys enough for the bout. While they were armoring, another half-dozen had gathered from across the campus.

  “I really haven’t tried this before,” Tyndal said, almost apologetically. He suddenly realized that just beating them without a lesson wasn’t exactly . . . chivalrous. He felt obligated to turn it into a demonstration, to remove the dishonor.

  “The spell I’m about to use is a standard warmagi perception augmentation. It burns power like cheap wood. But it speeds your perceptions, as if time were slowing down around you. A psychomantic charm,” he added, proudly displaying his new knowlege as he strapped his helmet on. “It acts only on yourself, on your own mind . . . but it can make seconds seem to pass like minutes.”

  He tapped into his witchstone around his neck and invoked the proper symbols in his mind, whispering the mnemonic that triggered the spell. It had become second nature by now. He had it hung almost all the time, now, thanks to the possibility of sudden attack by Censors or goblins or angry fathers and it got easier and easier with each use. “Lay on!” he shouted, and encouraged his fellow students to attack him as the spell took hold.

  Suddenly everything around him was moving as if through a cloud of thick, cold honey.

  It was during moments like this that Tyndal’s mind was the clearest. When he could stop and consider his options and their consequences, carefully weigh his best course of action, and then proceed with confidence and commitment. Augmented, he commanded his universe. It was when he got rushed that he made clumsy mistakes.

  Within the first few seconds in his augmented state he had evaluated the strengths and weaknesses of each boy facing him. None of them were particularly noteworthy – of them all, only Kaffin seemed to understand how to hold and wield a sword. The rest had a litany of problems, from shoddy footwork to poor posture to embarrassingly weak grips. They may have studied arms in their youth, but these scions of nobility hadn’t held a sword in earnest in years.

  It was almost too easy. Taking his wooden mageblade in hand, he carefully moved between his first two opponents while they were still lunging clumsily at him, and without otherwise touching them he smacked them both solidly in their helmets. Bandran of Gars and Daris of Holden’s Mead fell like toy soldiers. Not enough to injure, but enough to ring their chimes and knock them off-balance.

  Stanal was being more cautious in his approach this time, but Tyndal couldn’t help but note how loosely he held his blade as he tried to direct the attack. Smirking to himself at incredible speed, he plucked the wooden greatsword out of the big student’s hands, reversed it, and used the hilt to clunk the boy in the back of his helmet. Once he was sure Stanal was going to end up face-down in the sand, Tyndal could turn his attention to the last boy, Kaffin.

  The son of a seaknight was wild-eyed as he frantically looked around for his opponent. His body had yet to catch up to his reflexes, and while he swung his blade in a passable strike, Tyndal was far beyond its reach. Instead he put his body in line with Kaffin’s, extending his leg so that the boy tripped over his thigh.

  His practice sword was flung away – and to his horror, Tyndal realized its trajectory would carry it directly into the unprotected crowd.

  Cursing to himself, Tyndal realized what he had to do to avoid catastrophe. He leapt over Kaffin’s stumbling body and made an effort to get to the sword before it landed. He made it with little time to spare, even in his augmented state. He grabbed the wooden blade just before it collided . . . with the very pretty face of Estasia, the Imperial student he’d met the day before.

  She must have come at the commotion, he realized, not knowing it was he who was creating it. Grinning broadly, he couldn’t resist showing off. He continued to hold the wooden sword in one hand, but tucked his own under his arm before leaning casually on the fence that surrounded the yard. He also took a moment to thoroughly smell the tantalizingly girlish scent of the dusky lass and appreciate her pretty features up close and in the daylight. Only then did he drop the combat augmentation.

  “I just knew you couldn’t stay away from me,” he said to her, casually, while the four boys behind him tumbled into the sand, their helmets ringing.

  “EEP!” Estasia squealed in surprise, startled. When she realized who the speeding warrior was, she blushed, then frowned. “You!”

  “Me,” Tyndal admitted, charmingly, as he lowered the carelessly flung sword. “Just saving the day.”

  “You!” she repeated.
r />   “And your face,” Tyndal added.

  “You . . . I . . .” the girl sputtered.

  “Excuse me, won’t you?” he asked, sweetly, then turned to face his opponents and address their performance. “Kaffin, you were bloody awful, and you were the best of the lot. If you don’t keep your feet under you, why have them? Stanal, if you don’t hang on to your sword, don’t expect to keep it. And you two? Bloody pathetic. If your sires paid for swordmasters, I hope they got refunds. Daris, I could have handed you your head, you were so slow, and Bandran, you . . . you just need help,” he said, sadly.

  The crowd burst into applause and cheers. Tyndal felt a little foolish accepting them – this wasn’t difficult magic to do, just obscure. Who taught warmagic at a scholarly Imperial academy? Why would they need to?

  But he didn’t mind the attention. Even Estasia had to admit she was impressed, although she spun it into a technical vein that meant she didn’t have to admit she was impressed with him – just his magic.

  Tyndal was no fool. He took the compliment. Law Twelve of the Meditations instructed the young man to maximize his strengths and minimize his weaknesses when under a maiden’s thoughtful gaze. Magic and swordplay were both strengths for him. She might be a cool academic, but Estasia couldn’t ignore his performance.

  He did the stunt twice more, the third time besting six opponents to the amazement of an ever-more growing crowd.

  “That third time would have been beyond the ability of all but adept warmagi,” he said, panting from the exertion. “Without irionite, it’s difficult for a mage to raise enough power to manage that for more than a few seconds. With a witchstone . . . well, I could go all day,” he said, earning some naughty chuckles and girlish giggles from the crowd.

  He grinned at the girls, and made a point of speaking with a few who weren’t Estasia, particularly the plainer-looking ones who were overly expressive about their admirations.