Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  To his horror, Rondal realized what the purpose of the rite was – he was learning swordplay, learning it at a fundamental level, at his bones. He’d always swung his sword inelegantly before, but the rhythms and the pattern of strikes against his partner’s blade were teaching his body and his mind to respond as one. He even caught himself humming the cadence of some of the rites to himself, and imagining his positioning as he did so.

  Rondal wasn’t a natural swordsman. His swordmaster repeated every criticism Sire Cei had ever had of his swordplay, but without the restraint of propriety. But for the first time he recognized swordplay as a subject to be studied, not just a reflex. He began to see it as expressions of leverage and force, not pointless exercise. It was like lining up all of the proper sigils in the correct positions in a spell, he discovered, you first had to learn the fundamentals. With every dull impact on his wooden blade, his body and his mind began cooperating a little more, instead of working at odds.

  And much to his surprise, he got better.

  Not much, at first, but he began avoiding mistakes he had been making for months, so that when the first few real sparring matches came along during the Feast of the Crown, he was able to hold his own against his opponents. Most of his squadmates were likewise acquiring proficiency.

  Yeatin, on the other hand, was hopeless. He couldn’t push his lanky frame into the proper position, so his blade was always at the wrong place at the wrong time. His arms and legs and ribs were striped with bruises that night. He persisted in moaning his pain until one of his squadmates offered to knock him unconscious.

  The second day to their surprise, they were actually allowed to rest. They slept until the sun was in the sky, their bodies grateful. That morning they were given a bonus ration of sweetened oatmeal with nuts and raisins and half a mug of ale. It was the most delicious ale Rondal ever tasted.

  Then the Warbrothers began their rites. There were sermons on Life and Death and Duty and Honor, the four blessings of the war god, no matter his name. The power to defend and to attack. The power to destroy and obey. Unity in purpose led to the greater honor and glory. The solemn lectures went on and on. Only the fact that he wasn’t marching kept Rondal from squirming out of boredom half of the time.

  Rondal paid attention mostly because there was nothing better to do. It was even kind of interesting. The nature of the soul was discussed. The legality and moral propriety of taking life in battle was discussed. The warrior monks elicited them each to testify of their own experiences in battle. There were few who had any experience, and most of what was spoken of were skirmishes between feuding families or, in one case, a raid on a farmstead during a boundary dispute.

  When the warbrother called him out, unexpectedly, as a veteran of battle and invited him to speak, Rondal surprised himself by discussing the worst moments of the Boval siege in front of everyone.

  While his squadmates and rivals alike listened, he told them about the sudden attack, the unexpected siege, the abject fear he’d felt from the first time he faced a threat that wanted to kill him. He spoke of how he was given a blade and a wand and a witchstone and not much else and had to fight for his life. He spoke of the first time he had faced a screaming, fanatical goblin face to face and had stuck his sword into his throat. He spoke of the dozens he’d killed since, and the other horrors he’d faced – trolls, hobgoblins, and even the dragon at Cambrian Castle.

  That last admission brought a newfound respect from his squadmates. He downplayed his role in the contests as desperate affairs. He’d followed orders, he fought as hard as he could, but he dismissed his deeds as minor, compared to the others who’d fought with him in the war.

  There were other tales, some no doubt embellished. But Rondal’s testimony captivated them all. There were plenty of un-blooded warriors among them who immediately wanted more details, eager for that kind of glory. Rondal envied their innocence – if he’d had his preference, he would have stayed at Inarion Academy until he’d read every book and mastered every spell his Talent could bear.

  Just before vespers, they were given a few free hours. Many of them used it to sleep. Others foraged through the bogs for berries and roots to add to the last of their food – although after vespers they were each given a honey cake and another half-measure of ale.

  The next morning they were issued fresh rations . . . but a third less than the previous week.

  * * *

  “How do they expect us to survive on this?” Yeatin wailed as he looked at the diminished supplies in the hamper. “We’ll starve to death!”

  “That’s the point,” groaned Walven. “They feed us less, we get . . . hungry.”

  “I’m already hungry!” complained Yeatin.

  “So is every other boy out there,” Dolwyn reminded them. “That’s going to make the competition for resources far more difficult.”

  “Not if we’re dead of starvation,” Yeatin moaned.

  “You barely eat enough to keep a squirrel alive, anyway,” Orphil dismissed. “Some of us have man-sized stomachs to fill!”

  Walven looked uneasy. “We’d better do a very good job of caching this,” he warned. “And be particularly careful with the watch.

  The boys did what they could with the little food they’d been issued, splitting it into three small caches around the campsite. As careful as they were, however, upon their return from a class on close-quarters infantry swordplay, they discovered that their preparations had not kept them secure. Their camp had been raided while they were away.

  The racquiel troop stood around and stared in disbelief. heir camp had been torn apart, their blankets torn, scattered, and muddied. The little food that had been out was gone, and one of the two other caches had been raided. What was left could take them two days, perhaps three, but no more.

  “I want their heads!” Rax, the leader for the day, howled, his eyes blazing. “I don’t know who they are, but—”

  “Stop!” ordered Walven, as the boys began to converge on the camp. “Nobody move! If we’re going to find out who did this, we need to read the signs.”

  Gurandor nodded, and started waving his hands around to summon magesight. “I’m reviewing the area,” he reported. “No one get in the way.” Rondal wondered why he bothered with all of that stuff – it was easy enough to do without it. He summoned magesight himself and began scanning, and assumed Yeatin had as well.

  “We know who did it,” Dolwyn said, bitterly.

  “Actually, we don’t,” Orphil pointed out. “It could be anyone. Trying to throw blame and suspicion on anyone else.”

  “But those assholes in—”

  “Exactly,” Walven agreed. “Those are just the assholes we’d suspect. Which makes it possible, if not probable, that we were targeted because they’d be suspected.”

  “And whoever did this is trying to get us to go after them,” Rondal agreed. “That’s as good as theory as any.”

  “Let’s see if the evidence fits it,” Yeatin said, airily. “I see . . . five sets of footprints,” he reported.

  “Agreed,” Gurandor nodded. “Two smaller boys, three bigger, almost adults. Same crappy boots as we all wear.”

  “But,” Rondal observed, “one of them carried a staff or spear and just stood there . . . his prints are still there, deep in the mud. All he did was . . . break our water jar,” he finished sourly.

  “Falor’s Asshole!” Orphil swore. “I can see stealing the food, but breaking our water jar?”

  “That’s what makes me think that it was a raid designed to lure us into attacking the wrong troop,” agreed Gurandor. “If they just wanted food, that would be reasonable enough. We had our banner with us. So the only reason to do that was to piss us off,” he reasoned.

  “Done!” Rax said, swinging his wooden sword angrily at the air. “Just tell me which assholes to kill,” he said, angrily.

  “We’re working on it!” Yeatin whined, irritated. “Gods! All right . . . look for distinctions in their prints,�
�� he suggested. Not only were the magi looking, but Jofard, who fancied himself a hunter, was examining the prints in the mud.

  “I’ve got something,” he said, quietly, as he knelt near the edge of the ruined camp. “Look at this . . .” Rondal came over to examine the spot himself. “See this kneeprint in the mud? It’s as wide as my cock, whoever knelt here was a chubby little bugger! And deep. Look for a fat muddy knee, and you’re in the right domain.”

  “Can you magi do anything with spit?” Rax asked. “I think someone spat over here. At least it looks fresh.”

  “Let me take a look,” Yeatin said, curious.

  “That’s disgusting!” Handol said, making a face.

  “We didn’t do any spit-spells at Alar,” conceded Gurandor.

  “Let the man work,” Walven ordered.

  “Every drop of sweat contains a man’s essence,” Yeatin said, matter-of-factly, as he knelt next to the glob of sputum on a leaf of an evergreen shrub. “Every drop of blood, piss, shit . . . and spit,” he said, almost reverently. “If you know how to draw forth that essence . . .” he closed his eyes and began a spell.

  “No one disturb him,” Rondal ordered. He hated when someone did that to him while he was trying to cast a spell. Especially now that he had to raise power the old-fashioned way. “But assuming he’s successful, what are we going to do about it?” he asked, quietly.

  “What do you mean?” Rax asked, confused. “I want their heads!”

  “That seems like a lot, for a little raid,” Orphil pointed out. “I’m pissed, too, but . . . what can we really do?”

  “Steal it back!” answered Handol.

  “Maybe,” Walven conceded. “Or maybe we get our asses kicked, because that’s what they’re expecting.”

  “But . . . that’s what I’m expecting, too!” Rax said, angrily.

  “But that’s not winning,” Walven pointed out. “That’s revenge, not victory. We need to eat. That’s our first priority. It would be lovely to punish who did this so that no one else will be tempted, but if we spend all of our energy on that, we’ll starve in the meantime. Getting ourselves messed up and injured on our own time won’t help us be victorious.”

  “Then what will?” demanded Orphil.

  “Eating,” Handol supplied. “Eating a lot would be, in my mind, a point of victory.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Walven. “We need to eat. We also need a new water jar. We can waste a lot of time running around figuring out who did this, coming up with some brilliant scheme to get back at them and get ourselves beat up, too . . . or we can focus on the problem instead.”

  “So how do we eat?” asked Orphil. “Rob someone else?”

  “That would be one way,” conceded Handol. “But let’s face it: no one else got more food than we did.”

  “So we go outside of our supplies and forage,” reasoned Walven. “Ancient Feslyn always said that was allowed. These are swamps. Even this early in the spring there are fish and frogs and . . . other things,” he said, looking a little grim. “We can hunt.”

  “I can hunt, with proper equipment,” Jofard offered.

  “You can hunt without the proper equipment,” ordered Walven. “See what you can put together. In fact, everyone should start hunting. Any kind of protein would work. Does anyone know what kind of tubers and such are edible from a swamp?”

  “Don’t pick any fungus,” suggested Yeatin. “There are thousands of deadly poisonous ones.”

  “There are birds, too,” agreed Orphil, suddenly looking up. “Maybe use a spear?”

  “Or sling,” suggested Handol. “I used to be good with a sling.”

  “Get good again,” Walven said, “quick. The faster we pile up protein, the better off we’ll be. That goes for everyone.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “All right, who has cooking duty? Cook the rest of the food – all of it. Tonight.”

  “Why?” asked Yeatin. “Are you that confident that we’ll be successful hunting?”

  “I’m that confident that knowing there isn’t any food left back at camp will motivate you better,” Walven replied. “Besides, what’s in your belly can’t be stolen.”

  Even though he was not the official leader, Walven’s calmly-delivered and well-reasoned plan was what they needed. The effort to identify the raiders was abandoned for scavenging duties.

  Most of the boys headed into the swamp to forage while the others prepared the two soup-cakes and the pound of grits left in their larder. Rondal followed after the foragers, unsure about what he could do. But he knew from personal experience just how powerful a motivation hunger could be.

  He had little native energy for magic, outside of a few cantrips, but magesight revealed a number of creatures in the marshes. He discovered a nest of some kind of mammal he’d never seen before, one that bore a striking resemblance to a giant rat, and called it to the other boys’ attention. As they trooped off to hunt down their prey, he turned his focus toward the water.

  Water was the abode of all life, his masters had told him frequently enough. These swamps were beginning to teem with it, now that winter’s harsh edge was past. Though he felt handicapped without the resources of his stone, Rondal was not useless. With a little searching he found two big tubers he knew were edible. Enough to feed the squad for a day.

  The rest of the hunters had varying degrees of success. When the last of them dragged back to camp at twilight, there were three small mammals, six tubers, four decent-sized fish, and two birds – Gurandor had fashioned a bolo from a few thongs and had plucked them both off of the same branch. There were also some winterberries, herbs, marshnuts, and other fare they had managed to gather in the dying light.

  It wasn’t quite a feast, but there was a feeling of triumph as they sat around their fire that night. Even Yeatin, who had found some wild garlic and some rosemary, was in a good mood. They roasted the meat over the fire before adding it to the soup, and then devoured the whole kettle. Before bed, Walven detailed two boys to fetch water in the empty kettle. The pared-down tubers were boiled until the fire died.

  “Wasn’t this a better outcome than plotting revenge?” Walven asked, just after they chose lots for leadership. Orphil was chosen this time, which made the boy nervous.

  “I still want their heads,” muttered Rax.

  “They wouldn’t taste as good as this . . . whatever it is,” Handol assured him. “If we’d gone after our raiders, we would have gone to bed with empty bellies. I prefer this outcome.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t keep our eyes open,” Jofard nodded. “If we can figure out who did this, we wait for a shot, and then we take it. Hard.”

  “Agreed,” Walven nodded. “But lets wait for the gods to give us the opportunity.”The next morning, the beginning of the Week of the Head, hey began learning small-unit tactics on the practice field, participating in squad-by-squad sorties to demonstrate each valuable point.

  The ancient, proven Imperial system of infantry triads, in which two shieldmen side-by-side protected a polearm or spearman, was hammered into their brains until they all began to re-form that way every time their line was crushed. The Ancients yelled at them with renewed purpose as they forced the boys to learn to work together in a coordinated manner. Ancient Feslyn heatedly defamed their ancestry, their personal habits, and their likely sexual proclivities as they struggled.

  Like the rest of the Mysteries, it was a brutal exercise. For three days they skirmished and learned and drilled and practiced. Rondal found the weight of his shield less bothersome, and was more focused on his stance and his guard than his misery. It helped that every infraction against their orderly deployment was punished harshly. He quickly learned not to mess up more than once, else his whole squad suffered. Yeatin was responsible for several painful exercises, but even he learned. At night they had dreams of formations and maneuvers, after chocking down their scavenged dinner.

  Along with the physical practice they were lectured on the theory of unit tactics, and
schooled in the horn calls and drum beats that were code for the professional infantry battalion. The pace was merciless, but when problems arose with a squad there seemed to be no shortage of Warbrothers and Ancients willing to take a squad in hand and work with the remedially.

  The fourth day, after reprising all that they had learned, they were given an opportunity to demonstrate it. Three caches of food were placed atop three wooden pillars, along with a cask of ale, bread, and other luxuries. The short rations had been telling on everyone – it wasn’t unusual to hear bellies grumbling in combat. So when the bounty was displayed before the squadrons, there was a tremendous interest.

  “The rules are simple,” Ancient Feslyn said with a wolfish grin. “The squad who can capture and hang on to the food, gets it.” The horn call to prepare for action sounded.

  “I want that food!” Rax declared.

  “We all do,” muttered Walven. “What are your orders, Squadleader?”

  Jofard had drawn the previous night. He quickly looked around. “Orphil, Handol, see if the squads to each side of us are interested in teaming up and splitting the loot,” he said, quickly. “When the horn call sounds, whoever gets there first is going to have a very brief advantage. Then they’re going to be defending against everyone else who gets there. Some will wait for the victors to emerge and pounce.”

  “So how do we get around that?” asked Rax, exasperated.

  “The magi,” Jofard decided. “Can you lot do something to discourage anyone from getting too close?”

  The three magi conferred quickly. They had few spells hung between the three of them, but they managed to figure out a few ways to keep other squads at bay. They discussed it with Jofard, who agreed with them.

  Their fellows in the Second and Fourth squads of Third Company were willing to go along with them. Jofard suggested they protect the flanks of the pole while the Third Squad took care of the retrieval and removal. A hasty two-minute conversation between the three squad leaders ensued, and with surprisingly little debate (Second Squad insisted on first crack at the ale, should they prevail) they hammered out a quick battle plan. Just as they finished, the horn call to action sounded.