Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  And they each got one stick of firewood. That was it.

  “Where’s the flint?” asked Jofard, annoyed at the lack. “How are we supposed to lay a fire without flint?”

  “That’s your problem, Soldier,” Ancient Feslyn, said as he came by to check on them. “The first of many. That hamper that seems so full is the only food you will be issued for this week. Use it wisely. That water jar is the only one you will be issued. As are all of the other pieces of equipment.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” Jofard complained.

  “Did someone tell you Duin valued fairness?” the Ancient chuckled. “Because they lied to you. War is not about fairness. It’s about survival under adversity. I’m certain you’ll think of something. Or you’re going to have a very cold night.

  “And that goes for the rest of you!” he called to the rest of the squad as they struggled into their new fatigues. “This is not a fair contest. It is not a contest at all. This is not some pretty tournament. It is a sacred mystery with no less end than turning you into a real soldier. - or kill you trying. And if you are not careful, it will kill you. In fact, it can kill you in a hundred different ways if you are not cautious and careful . . . and even then it can still kill you. “

  “Surely one of you churls can manage a fire,” Verd called out, a bit contemptuously.

  “I would be more cautious of treating your squadmates like that, Verd,” Feslyn admonished. “Because if they can, they have very little reason to share that skill with a squadmate who calls them such things. There are no churls here, no commoners, no nobles. There are only your fellow Neophytes. Piss them off, and the Mysteries can get pretty rough. Work together, and you might just survive. “

  “Well how are we supposed to start a fire?” demanded Verd, who didn’t seem particularly bright.

  “Any way you like,” the Ancient said, unhelpfully. “If you want additional fuel, you may scavenge the swamps around you at your leisure. But I wouldn’t recommend leaving your camp unguarded. Keep in mind that all of the other squads are likewise provisioned. And if they run short . . . well, it isn’t unheard of for raiding to occur.”

  “Raiding?” asked Yeatin, his eyes wide. His voice came out like a braying donkey.

  “It can get vicious,” admitted the veteran soldier. “Not usually the first few nights . . . but toward the end of the first week, when the hamper starts to run empty . . .”

  “So we had better set a watch,” suggested Walven. “A good watch, too. I don’t aim to go hungry this week.”

  “You will have a full week’s worth of work ahead of you whether you eat or not. But protecting your supplies is your responsibility. Tomorrow you’ll be issued your squad banner. Your banner is the symbol of your troop. To let it fall into someone else’s hands is highly dishonorable. It should be protected as if it were your sister’s virtue. “

  “You haven’t met my sister,” remarked Gurandor.

  “Opening ceremonies in an hour, Gentlemen,” Feslyn grinned. “I would really encourage you not to be late.”

  “Well, I still don’t see how that’s going to get a fire lit,” snorted Verd.

  “You have magi with you,” he reminded the boy. “Try rubbing a few together and you might get sparks.”

  “What did he mean by that?” demanded the boy, after the Ancient left.

  “Watch,” Rondal said, with a sigh, as he bent to lay the fire properly. When he had tinder and kindling, gathered from twigs in the brush, he whispered a mnemonic and summoned a very little bit of power . . and the fire ignited.

  “That was handy!” said Handol, grinning.

  “That was easy,” boasted Yeatin.

  “It is,” Rondal admitted. “If you know how.”

  The boys sat around the small fire and tried to make plans about how to contend with the sudden threat to their sustenance.

  “We should divide the food evenly now,” suggested Gurandor. “Make each man responsible for his own portion.”

  “And see each man lose and prove a drain on his squad mates,” dismissed Rax. “No, we eat as a squad, we fight as a squad.”

  “Still, I see the benefit of hiding at least a portion of it,” Handol proposed. “Maybe in two separate caches. We can keep a third out at a time.”

  “That seems awfully complicated,” grunted Verd, poking at the fire with a stick.

  “It’s a sensible precaution,” argued Handol.

  “So is setting a watch – who is first?” asked Walven.

  That’s when the arguing began, and it became clear that something needed to be done. Part of the squad wanted the boys to each take a short shift, while the other part wanted half the boys to take longer shifts on alternating nights. The merits of both were discussed, and neither party wanted to yield to the other.

  “We’ve wasted an hour debating,” said Walven, sourly. “One thing is clear: we need a leader.”

  “And that should be you, should it?” asked Verd, suspiciously.

  “I offer myself as a candidate,” said Yeatin, officiously. Everyone ignored him. Almost.

  “He’s got as much right as any,” pointed out Handol.

  “So who do we want to lead us?” asked Gurandor, the first time the mage had spoken. “I say we leave it to the gods to decide. Whoever gets the burnt twig leads until this time tomorrow, then we’ll pick again.”

  No reasonable argument could be made against the plan, so it was adopted, and soon Handol was chosen as the leader of the squad. He set the watch on alternating shifts, giving half of them at least one full night of rest every other day. Rondal was satisfied with the plan and even volunteered to take one of the mid-night shifts.

  Then the horn rang for their assembly. Opening Ceremonies, the beginning of their long, dark journey toward the realization of the Mystery.

  * * *

  No one disturbed them that night, as the other camps were as excited and eager as theirs to train. The next morning, an hour before dawn, they were less eager. The chill had been more than the thin blankets we made for. The Ancients and warbrothers began rousing the squads while the stars were still in the sky, using drums and trumpets and whatever else they cared to make noise with.

  Ancient Feslyn’s grinning face informed them that this was the Week of the Left Foot, in which they were to learn the intricacies of a formal unit formation. He taught them how to stand, how to walk, and how to march within short order and soon the cold was forgotten as they marched to their place on the Practice Field.

  That’s where the real fun began. As the sun was just lightening the eastern sky, the sweaty boys were taught the basic exercises of Imperial Infantry calisthenics, an essential part of the Mysteries. At first Rondal found the exercise a pointless waste of time. Then he found them boring. But soon, as his muscles began to ache and the Ancients screamed at everyone indiscriminately, the vigorous, repetitive movements became a challenge. Rondal was no weakling, but he quickly learned just how untrained and weak he was. And if he chanced to forget, Ancient Feslyn made certain to remind him in excruciating and voluminous detail.

  Every moment Rondal expected them to end the exercise, certain that they’d pushed them all to their limits. But them more exercises came. His chest began heaving with exertion, his rough tunic became soaked with sweat, and his arms and legs began to quiver under the strain. A few boys dropped out early . . . and were subjected to such brutal humiliations as a result that the rest resolved to move faster. Rondal merely kept his body doing what it was supposed to, as long as he physically could . . . and then some.

  Finally, collapsed in a heap, the cadets were allowed to rest for a few moments while a warbrother read morning prayers. Then they were forced to get up and run the three long miles up to the gates of Relan Cor, proper, and then back. They arrived just as the light was bright enough for Rondal to see Yeatin’s acne. They would have collapsed in a heap had Ancient Feslyn not told them they had but twenty minutes until the first bell of the day to prepare and eat
breakfast.

  They spent the morning learning how to march. Rondal always thought such a thing was pretty straightforward – after all, it was just walking. But it didn’t take long for Rondal to discover the painful difference between walking and marching. All morning long they marched, from one end of the field to the other and back again. Nothing more complicated – and nothing he had ever done seemed harder, after the first three hours.

  When the horn called for lunch, they sprinted back to their camp to gobble down a few morsels, drink some water and tend to their personal needs. All too soon the drum summoning them to parade sounded. Rondal made it back in time, still chewing a brutally hard piece of journeybread, but not everyone was so lucky. Yeatin and Orphil were both late to formation. After he saw what they went through as a result, Rondal vowed never to be late for formation.

  “This is your squad banner!” the Captain of Neophytes announced as the Ancients handed out long poles with small green flags on the end of them to every tenth man. “Each banner has an animal, your squad number, and your company number. “ Rondal stole a quick glance at theirs, clasped in Verd’s meaty fist. It had a large 2, a smaller 3, and a racquiel embroidered upon it. He’d never seen one of the nocturnal mammals himself, but the goofy nose and the big eyes didn’t seem particularly terror-inspiring.

  “For a cadet squad to lose its banner is the supreme dishonor. A squad without their banner at morning call is subject to restrictions and punishments. A squad who loses their banner and does not recover it . . . does not pass the Mystery. Protect and guard your banner. And remember how great the honor is in capturing the banner of an enemy.”

  He said nothing further on the subject, but the intent was clear. Rondal immediately began to feel anxiety about the stupid pole.

  “This morning, you learned how to walk in a straight line. That’s the essence of the Left Foot, and you’ll master that this week.” There were loud groans. That’s how the rest of the Week of the Left Foot went. Just when they thought there could be no more nuance to the art, they learned even more about marching.

  After a week, they were, indeed, masters of the art. That’s when they learned about the Week of the Right Foot.

  “Last week you learned how to walk a straight line,” their warbrother informed them. “This week you will learn to walk in a straight line . . . carrying a spear.” There were even louder groans. “But since none of you can be trusted with proper weapons yet, we shall use these poles, instead,” he said, gesturing to two great piles of staves on either side of his horse. Each one was far thicker than any spear shaft.

  For the next seven hours, until long past twilight, they learned how to march bearing a spear, and then learned the rudiments of presenting and shouldering the weapons. When Rondal could have sworn he’d marched his feet off, they were summoned into formation for the warbrother’s vespers and a sermon. At last, when the moon was rising, they were dismissed, their overlarge spears over their shoulders, back to their camps to eat and sleep.

  “Sweet Mother Trygg, are they trying to kill us?” complained Yeatin, his voice twisted into a torturous whine. “This is just week two! I can’t properly feel my legs anymore!”

  “Oh, shut up!” growled Verd as he savagely tore into his ration of journeybread. The soup was not hot yet, but some were gulping it down anyway, clumps and all. “All you did today was bitch and moan and I’m sick of it!”

  “If they would be reasonable—” Yeatin insisted, rubbing his aching, bone-thin calves.

  “They don’t have to be reasonable,” Orphil said, philosophically. “In fact, being reasonable doesn’t make good soldiers. They’re just following the same book every other Imperially-trained infantry for the last thousand years has. The original Mystery is said to have come from Perwyn, a gift of the primal god of war. The Mystery has been completed by hundreds of thousands of soldiers. It works.”

  “It didn’t work against the Narasi,” argued Jofard, his mouth full. “We rolled right over them!”

  “I don’t believe you were there,” the Remeran, whose ancestors had fought against them shot back. “And the Imperial Army was still better trained than your barbarian cavalry – you just had more. But your ancestors never won an infantry engagement against the Magocracy. On horseback, by surprise and stealth, your ancestors excelled. On foot, they died in droves. Kamalkavan conquered from horseback, but he could not rule until the infantry surrendered.”

  “Why the hells are you talking?” moaned Handol, his head between his knees. “Let’s pick a leader, post a guard, and go to sleep! Do you know how soon dawn is?”

  “Is that an order, petty-captain?” asked Dolwyn with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Damn right it is. Do it now. My last order.”

  Walven drew the burnt twig. He set the watch, finished his stew and rolled into a blanket. Rondal followed suit, the cold, hard ground beckoning him like the softest feather bed. He was asleep the moment his head touched the ground.

  Once again Ancient Feslyn awakened them before dawn for calisthenics, and thence to their mastery of the Right Foot. That day they learned not only how to march with a spear, but how to move a spear while marching. After a long morning marching, another run up to the gate and a surprise additional ration of bitter bread, they fell in for a surprise inspection.

  Rondal swung his over-sized spear haft as deftly as possible, but nothing seemed to please Ancient Feslyn. He hurled insults at him, berating him for a coward and the son of a whore. Rondal took it in stride – he’d accused Dolwyn of abusing sheep.

  When he came to Yeatin, however, the Ancient was really harsh. He virtually devoured the lad, who quivered uncontrollably with fear as the iron-jawed Ancient bellowed out his deficiencies in colorful terms. It didn’t help his cause that Yeatin could barely handle the three-inch thick pole, as the Ancient proved by knocking it out of his hand repeatedly.

  Disgusted, Ancient Feslyn ordered the entire squad punished. Their poles were replaced by five-inch poles, almost unbearably heavy. Then they practiced marching in formation again until the evening stars rose.

  And so it went, and even the beginning of the Left Hand Week was starting to be anticipated – anything had to be better than marching with a pole. While everyone was furious at Yeatin, they had not the strength to even bully him much once they slumped back to camp. They half-heartedly drew lots, ate a few mouthfuls, drank, and passed out. Rondal had been assigned the first watch, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

  The next week, the Left Hand, went much the same, only to their burden was added a twenty-five pound wooden shield. The strap was cumbersome and fit unevenly. The weight and made their shoulders ache within the first hour. By the end of the week they were exhausted, ready to collapse into dust every night . . . that’s when they were forced on a scenic march through the bog to the south of the fortress. They went to sleep that week often unable to even prepare a proper meal.

  The next week was the Right Hand. They were finally issued heavy wooden swords, portraying short infantrymans’ blades. They did not use them to practice fighting . . . they simply marched with them. On and on they marched. That first Right Hand afternoon they received backpacks, each containing a few extra rations and a bottle of water. It also contained three heavy sticks of firewood. They marched to the gate and back again. Rondal was starting to hate the sight of the gate.

  The bruises and blisters on his feet were nearly unbearable. He and the other magi used what spells they could to tend the squad’s wounds at night, but none were medically-gifted. Only with his witchstone could he have summoned the power needed to do a proper job. At most he stopped the pain enough to allow them to sleep. Most hadn’t even stripped off their packs, falling asleep the moment they returned to camp, their poles and shields cast aside.

  That was the night of the first raid. One of the other squads had exhausted their food supply, and decided the Third’s squads could make up for it. Luckily, their watchman had better sight than the rac
quiel that was their totem – Gurandor had employed a Cat’s Eye spell during his watch, and was able to rouse his mates quietly just before the first of them entered the camp.

  What ensued was a confused melee with wooden swords and poles, where friend could only barely discern friend in the darkness. Rondal roused himself quickly enough – he’d learned that trick back in Boval, during the siege. Wooden sword in hand he faced his opponent, his magesight coming to him automatically. Despite days of exhausting toil, little food and little sleep, he didn’t feel his muscles ache or his bones protest as he gave a savage cry and defended his territory.

  He was surprised how quickly he responded, and how viscerally. He wasn’t the only one. The racquiel squad responded with a punishing defense. It only took a few hard strokes to speed the other cadets on their way. He faced two different boys and bested them both in their contests. Most of his fellows were victorious, as well, with only a few nursing bruises.

  Rondal screamed triumphantly over the victory. Someone stirred the fire to life and they spent a few moments ensuring neither the flag nor dwindling food supply had been touched. They crawled back into their blankets sore and tired, but feeling victorious.

  Two more days they marched and marched and marched, until the Mystery mandated two days of rest and instruction. Rondal had stopped being able to feel his feet days before and his back only ached miserably, not intolerably now. He was shocked, as he sat at morning prayer, that his legs felt like marching now. He marveled at the sadistic whim of the war god in the irony of that.

  The day of rest included little actual rest. Instead it involved instruction in rudimentary swordplay and a whole new regimen of calisthenics designed to strengthen the muscles of the infantry swordsman. They learned the Rite of the Sword, the ancient basis for all swordplay, according to legend. They practiced with their wooden blades for hours, not sparring, just exercising against each other in predetermined patterns. There were sacred chants associated with each exercise to help time them.