Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  He slept fitfully that night, and the next morning awoke emotionally and physically refreshed, almost eager to begin the day.

  He was in the minority. Most of his squadmates were exhausted.

  * * *

  “Today we’re going to head back to Relan Cor,” Warfather Dorith, the high priest who had led the march announced to everyone at dawn formation. “But we’re not going in one large column. Starting every fifteen minutes after this assembly, one squad will be sent back . . . overland. The Ancients and Warbrothers will be patrolling the road – you may cross it, but do not travel upon it. Often a unit gets broken off from its supply and has to forage on its own. It is a test of any Neophyte’s temper, and any squad’s effectiveness. Today you need to find your way back to the fortress without our help.”

  There was a loud groan at the news, but it perked up a lot of the young men. Moving in small groups had to be better than marching in formation.

  “To make things interesting,” the commandant added, over the cadets’ murmur, “we have seven teams of ‘foes’ betwixt here and Relan Cor. They will be wearing yellow and red tabards with the arms of the fortress upon them. They will be armed with wooden swords. And they eager to keep each of you away from your camp as long as possible. Engage or evade them as you see fit, but if they capture you, your role in the competition is over.

  “Oh, yes . . . there is a feast awaiting the first full squadron who returns,” the Warfather grinned.

  The Third Squad, Second Company did not depart until midmorning, with a young, Warbrother, Brother Thurgar, accompanying them for the first half-day to ensure they did not blunder too far off of the path. But he got less and less helpful as they went, until he had gone completely silent. It was up to them, he indicated, to find their way.

  “If we just keep heading south, we’re bound to run into the road eventually,” reasoned Rax.

  “And run into the foe as well,” Walven pointed out. “Not to mention every other squad who can’t think of a better plan than that.” Brother Thugar smirked.

  “South, then bear east for a while,” suggested Gurandor. “We can range wide of the opposition and then head south.”

  “That would take too long,” complained Handol. “We’ve been marching for two days with little to eat – I don’t want to march three or four more with less!”

  “Then use your heads before you use your feet!” counseled the Warbrother. “The solution is there.”

  Something dawned on Rondal. “Why use our feet at all?” he asked.

  The others looked at him strangely. “You have a spell that can fly us all the way back, Sparky?” asked Walven. Rondal ignored the jibe. Walven didn’t mean anything by it.

  “No,” Rondal admitted. “But we might be able to float back.” He recalled the map of the region he had committed to magical memory, in his days leading up to the opening of the Mysteries at Relan Cor. He thought it might be useful, and it was. He took a few moments to sketch it out in the dirt. “According to the map,” he said, slowly, “we’re in this forest here. So if we bear east and north we can come to the Partoline River. That flows south and west – remember that great bridge we crossed? And it comes within six miles of Relan Cor.”

  “And you’re going to turn our shields into dainty little sailboats, I expect?” asked Dolwyn with a smirk.

  “We’ll deal with that when we get to the river,” decided Verd, the chosen leader for the day. “We can steal a boat or make a raft, but that sounds like a better course than marching again.”

  The warbrother did not comment, but Rondal could tell he seemed pleased.

  “There is one more thing,” Brother Thurgar said, as they prepared to depart, “at the end of this journey your unit will chose your War Name for you. That name you will keep with you for the rest of your life, and will be known to your brothers as such. Try not to make it one you’re embarrassed to carry. Good luck, and may Duin guide your path!” he said, adding a blessing before he headed back toward the road.

  “Herus would be a better guide,” grumbled Rax.

  “And the Goblin King better company,” griped Yeatin. “Let’s make for the river,” Verd ordered. “The faster we get there, the faster we can decide what a horrible mistake we’ve made.”

  They made it through the woods surprisingly fast and crossed the few miles of fields and pastures until they got to the sluggish Partoline. It wasn’t particularly wide, the magi told their mates, after a little scrying, but it was deep. They found a small punt nearby, large enough for only one man, and sent Yeatin (who claimed some familiarity with boats) upriver in it to scout while the rest of them stood around and speculated just how quickly the weak mage would get himself drowned. Surprisingly, he returned with a small rowboat boat in tow. A similar journey downriver secured two more small craft, and before long a flotilla of stolen boats made their way down the deep stream.

  “This is much better than marching!” Rax sighed, pleasantly, as he paddled along.

  “So far,” agreed Walven. “But don’t get complacent. And don’t be lazy on the paddle. If we get back first . . .”

  They hadn’t discussed that prospect, but the idea of a feast was alluring. So much so that the three magi, after consultation began enchanting their journey.

  Only in small ways – Rondal lacked the power to conjure a proper water elemental – but they did reduce the friction of the boats somewhat. The banks slipped past them at a goodly pace for miles as they skipped the long, painful road full of fake “enemies” who would beat them up.

  Along the way they discussed everything from girls to their futures to girls to their hopes and plans after graduation to girls. Twice they saw fellow cadets on the banks as they floated by, fellows who had figured out the expediency of river travel late, but the Racquiel Squad passed them in good order without challenge.

  They found themselves at one point facing a bridge toll, and had to convince the bridgekeeper to let them pass without paying. That took a fair amount of intimidation from the boys, but eventually the man relented, and opened the river gate to let their craft through while Dolwyn stood menacingly behind him. Then their journey continued.

  “I’m getting hungry,” complained Rax, late in the afternoon.

  “I’ve been hungry for days,” agreed Dolwyn. “What are we going to do about that?”

  “We could steal food?” Handol suggested, anxiously.

  “We could buy it, if we had money,” agreed Orphil, dejectedly. “But I seem to have forgotten my coinpurse. My belly is dancing with my backbone!”

  “Why can’t one of you idiots fish?” demanded Yeatin from his punt.

  “It would take too long to stop and cook it,” Walven decided. “Sparky, you’ve got that magical map in your head. What is the next village we come to?”

  “Uh . . . Grynwyn. Domain of Clairberry,” Rondal supplied. He really hoped his new War Name was not going to be “Sparky”. It was a common term for warmagi, the way you could always call the camp cook “cookie”, or the company medic as “doc”, but still . . .

  “They have an inn there?”

  “The map I studied didn’t specify,” Rondal said, dryly. “And we have no money, besides.”

  “My father,” Dolwyn said, slowly, “always said that gold might not get you good swords, but good swords will always get you gold.”

  “Our swords are wooden,” Rax pointed out, unhelpfully. “Does that get us wood? I’ve got enough wood already,” he joked.

  No one laughed. The novelty of penis jokes had faded weeks ago. “No one else knows our swords are wooden,” Walven pointed out. “In fact, apart from that we look like any mercenary troop.”

  “Of children!” snorted Rax.

  “Of young recruits,” corrected Walven, evenly. “Plenty of lads our age enter military service. And with helmets on it’s hard to tell our ages. Especially in the darkness, which we should soon have an abundance of.”

  “So . . . we’re going to steal some
one’s food at the point of a wooden sword?”

  “No,” Walven said, smiling. “We’re going to convince them to give it to us.”

  The village of Grynwyn was on the edge of its domain, the river acting as the border of the land. There was no bridge there, but there was a decent ford, and the boys were able to drag their boats onto the bank without discovery.

  Under Walven’s guidance the squad formed up under their thin cloaks, spears in hand, and marched not toward a village inn, but toward the manor hall of Grynwyn. It was a squat, one-story affair at least a century old, but there was a three-story tower there and no less than five grain silos. Walven, who acted as leader by acclamation, pulled his helmet down over his eyes until they were barely visible, and encouraged the rest of them to as well.

  They marched in good order to the gate of the manor where they rang the bell. The gatekeeper came to see them, lifting a lantern high and peering into the shadows. Everyone kept their shields up. In the darkness it was hard to see the wooden points of the practice weapons they bore.

  “What is this?” demanded the rustic watchman.

  “We’ve come to arrest the lord of the manor,” Walven said, authoritatively.

  “What? Sir Andras? Why?” the man cried in alarm.

  “Because those are our orders!” Walven insisted. “Open at once, or we wills storm the manor!” To emphasize his point, the rest of the squad brandished their spears menacingly.

  “All right, all right!” agreed the man in panic, as he opened the latch. “By whose authority are you—”

  Rondal touched the man and whispered a word, and he fell instantly asleep.

  “I like that!” Rax smiled, as they helped the guard to the ground.

  “Spread out,” ordered Walven, gesturing. “Secure the stable, the front door, and the side door. Gurandor, you and Handol take the rear.”

  The boys scattered out as commanded without questioning Walven’s orders. They had learned the importance of obeying first. In moments they had effective control of the manor.

  “If I’d known conquest was this easy . . .” Jofard grinned.

  “It helps when they don’t know you’re coming,” said Walven. “But you fellows just back what I say, stand around and look menacing, and we’ll be fed before you know it.”

  He led the rest of the squad to the door of the manor where he pounded until someone came. As soon as the door opened, he pushed his way in.

  “Where is Sir Andras?” he demanded of the confused old woman.

  “What? Trygg take you, the master is at board!” she insisted, angrily. Walven put his hand dangerously on the hilt of his wooden sword.

  “Then lead us to him,” the boy said, his eyes narrow. “We would have words with him. And be sharp about it!” he insisted. The woman wailed and led the cadets back to the great hall of the manor. Three men and two women sat at a trestle table.

  “Seize him!” Walven ordered. Rondal was surprised, but marched forward to where the oldest man was sitting, and grabbed his left arm as Dolwyn grabbed his right. They dragged the old man to Walven, who was looking at him appraisingly.

  “Sir Andras of Devas, you are hereby bound by law by the rightful—”

  “Wait, wait!” the old man squealed. “You have the wrong man! You have the wrong man!”

  “What?” Walven said, scornfully. “I think not! Sir Andras of Devas, you have—”

  “But I’m not Sir Andras of Devas!” the old knight insisted, shaking the boys’ hands off. “I’m Sir Andras of Culwen! I’ve never even heard of Devas!”

  “What?” Walven said, feigning surprise.

  “I said, I’ve never even heard of Devas! Ishi’s bum, I’ve never even left the county!”

  “So . . . your liege lord is not Arscot, Baron of Drune?” Walven asked, confused.

  “No! Never heard of the man!” the knight insisted.

  “That’s just what a fugitive might say, Captain,” Rondal offered, helpfully.

  “So it is,” Walven agreed, his eyes narrowing. “Can you prove that you are not, indeed, Sir Andras of Devas?”

  “Fetch my patent! Roquilly, fetch my patent of nobility!” he shouted, apparently to his maidservant. “Quickly!” he insisted, terrified.

  “This is highly irregular, Captain,” Rondal pointed out to Walven, playing the part of the officious clerk.

  “If he’s not Sir Andras of Devas,” Walven said, just loudly enough for the man to overhear, “then what will we do? This is most embarrassing!”

  “Slaughter them all, Captain?” Rondal suggested, evilly.

  “We’ll see,” shrugged the cadet.

  The fat little maid brought a sheaf of parchment bearing many seals attesting that the man was, indeed, Sir Andras of Culwen, not the miscreant Sir Andras of Devas.

  Walven appeared reluctant to accept his story, and even ordered his men to prepare to burn the manor down, when Andras finally broke down and pleaded for his life and livelihood.

  “Well, I hate to report a failure,” murmured Walven. “And I was ordered to arrest Sir Andras, and I don’t think my commander really cares which Sir Andras is supplied . . . yet . . .”

  “Sir,” Rondal said, respectfully. “Perhaps if the men were fed and rested while we sort this out? It might keep them from getting . . . anxious.”

  “Yes, yes, by all means, Captain!” Sir Andras said, his eyes wide. “Have a seat, let us feed you – you must be weary!”

  “Well,” Walven said, appearing to waver. “If this is the wrong manor . . . and you are the wrong Sir Andras . . .”

  “I am, I am!” he insisted. “Let’s talk about this like reasonable gentlemen!”

  The entire squad ate well that night, raiding the manor’s pantry for food and drink, and then stuffing their pockets with more, all at the urging of the frightened manor staff. When Walven was satisfied, he finally agreed to leave without further attempts to arrest Sir Andras.

  “And that, gentlemen,” the squad leader said as he led them back to the boat in darkness, “is how you rob a manor house.”

  “I’ve done it before,” Rondal dismissed. “But we didn’t even use magic on this one. Impressive,” he admitted.

  “I’m happy with the results,” agreed Rax, picking his teeth. “Now let’s see just how far downstream we can make it tonight.

  The boys almost missed their landing the next morning, as they made better time than they expected. But Rondal, alert with his magemap, got them to stop and haul their boats ashore just before the bridge closest to Relan Cor.

  “Six miles?” scoffed Verd, as they began to march. “That’s nothing!”

  They moved quietly through the countryside, along the road to Relan Cor, and were nearly there . . . when they ran into a knot of yellow-and-red-clad warriors bearing wooden swords.

  “There’s seven of them!” moaned Rax, as they peered up the road from cover.

  “There are ten of us,” Yeatin pointed out.

  “Nine,” corrected Dolwyn scornfully. “Look at the size of them!”

  “Regardless, we outnumber them,” Yeatin said. “And we need not engage them. We can always go around.”

  “That doesn’t look practical,” Walven suggested. “Not unless we want to backtrack up river and try to go through the swamps.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Let’s attack,” Rondal decided. He was elected leader again the night before, after the successful raid on the manor. They’d slept only four or five hours before they got under way again. “I’m tired of skulking around. And we don’t have to kill them,” he reminded, “we just have to get past them.”

  “Attack?” asked Walven, curious. “I didn’t think you were the aggressive type. Why not use some spell?”

  “I’ve had occasion to learn,” Rondal said, dryly. “And while I’m sure there’s some clever magical device I could use to achieve our goal, the truth is I’m sick and tired of skulking about. Our camp is right over there, and I need a hot meal a
nd a warm blanket more than the breath of life itself. There are only seven of them. And how many times have we been told that a sudden, all-out attack with no regard for our personal safety was often the best tactic to take in an engagement?”

  “I thought that was just bluster!” Yeatin whined.

  “It was good advice,” Orphil agreed. “But I still don’t want to get creamed the moment we stick our heads out there.”

  “We won’t,” Rondal assured. “Remember, we only have to get past them, we don’t have to defeat them.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  Rondal looked around. “Someone needs to steal some rope.”

  It took almost half an hour for the boys to round up what they needed, under Rondal’s direction, and if they were skeptical about the plan, they couldn’t conceive of a better one.

  It began with the smallest of the squad, Verd, apparently blundering out into the road in front of the guards without his helm, shield, or sword. He looked for all the world like a cadet who got separated from his unit. The yellow-clad guards grinned and gave chase, most of them, leaving only two guarding the entry to Relan Cor.

  While Verd led his heavily-armored pursuers on a merry chase through the village, the other boys surprised the remaining guards. To keep from getting bogged down in a protracted engagement, Rondal had the largest two boys pick up the small punt and rush the defenders with it, using it as a giant shield against their blows. Immediately behind it ran four more boys, who sprung out against the bowled-over guards and bashed their helmets with their wooden swords while the others passed by.

  Meanwhile, Verd rounded a corner of the road and ducked into an alley between two hovels, and nimbly leapt over the rope they’d stretched between. In their cumbersome helmets, their attention on Verd, the warriors didn’t see the rope until it was too late. By the time they untangled themselves from it, Verd had sprinted away to follow his mates.