Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “About . . . gaining by the sword,” Tyndal began, slowly. “Just what are a knight’s duties, responsibilities . . . and liabilities in conquering someone?”

  Sire Cei smirked. “Ambitiously planning your empire, are you?”

  “Well, is that not the right of any knight?” asked Rondal. “The right to challenge possession in combat?”

  “Ambition is good in a young knight, but without support from a good liege, going around and randomly attacking someone else’s property is rarely a wise idea. Such errantry exists, as some lords feel that if a man can conquer, he is strong enough to hold it and will be therefore a better vassal than his predecessor.

  “Other times they take great offense. Often with hundreds of men-at-arms. If you plan on conquering a domain, Sir Tyndal, you had best be prepared to fight to keep it. If your neighbors do not attack you, your predecessor nearly always has relatives. And even if you should prevail, you may well find your new lands very difficult to rule.”

  “Like the troubles Master Minalan is having,” Rondal observed.

  “In that context, it is Magelord Minalan,” reminded Sire Cei. “He holds those lands and rules them on the basis of his nobility, not his profession.”

  “I see,” Tyndal frowned. “But if I wanted to raise an army and take them away from him – theoretically – ”

  “Then I prophesize that Magelord Minalan would kick your arse until your nose bled . . . theoretically speaking,” pronounced Rondal.

  “And raising an army is not as easy as it sounds. Many a knight has beggared himself hiring men for conquest, and afterward ended up a sellsword himself to pay off the debt. Raising an army of peasants is possible, of course . . . but doing so is rarely seen in a favorable light by your peers.”

  “Peasant uprisings,” nodded Rondal, sagely.

  “Dead peasants,” corrected Sire Cei. “A man who falls to a sword cannot plow a field or clip a sheep. A knight who is not capable of conquering a domain by attracting real fighting men to his cause is rarely worthy of such rule, history shows. Oft the best conquerors make the poorest rulers. Such men are better suited to selling their swords in service of more powerful men, rather than inflict their poor rule on some poor peasantry.

  “And of course there is the legality – if a proper Writ of Conquest is not submitted to the Kingdom, then the King can order you deposed and the original owner or his heirs restored. If you wish to contend with a Royal Army the likes of the one Count Salgo is building, I wish you luck. And I pray we meet again in the afterlife.”

  “I . . . see,” Tyndal said, scratching his chin.

  “I hope you do,” Sire Cei said, sternly. “Such conquests should never be entered into lightly, for the cost of war is dear to all. A knight should be prepared for battle, always, but never lust for it so much that he destroys more than he gains. His honor most of all.“

  “And a domain that can be easily conquered is likely not worth the price,” Rondal observed. “No offense, Sire Cei, but should someone wish to conquer it . . .”

  “Then they will face the wrath of my liege . . . and kin to my lady wife,” Sire Cei grinned. “As his son holds one of my neighboring domains, and his son-in-law another, I feel secure enough not to invest in fortifying my tiny fief. Besides,” he chuckled, “whomever would risk such retribution would win a poor prize. It may be a lovely place, but it is hardly lucrative. Bees make poor tenants.”

  “But not all knights are landholders,” Rondal pointed out. “You weren’t, until you won the Chepstan Fair tournament.”

  “True, Sir Rondal,” agreed Sire Cei. “The difference between ‘sir’ and ‘sire.’ There are many landless knights, oft younger sons of poorer houses who have the training and skills to rule a domain, in theory, but lack the patrimony to do so. Usually they take honorable service with a higher-ranked lord, for as you know there is much involved with the management of estates.

  “I served as deputy castellan for Lord Mieyor, in Ganz, before Sire Koucey took me to service under old Sir Gindon. When the old knight took ill, Sire Koucey gave me the opportunity, and then found little reason to change.”

  “What happens if you can’t find a lord to serve?” asked Tyndal, looking amused for some reason.

  “Then one has three honorable recourses,” Cei said, refilling the glasses for a second time. “To take service with one of the Free Companies, to take holy orders, or . . . errantry.”

  “Errantry,” Rondal repeated. “Doesn’t that just mean . . .”

  “It means a number of things to a number of people,” explained Cei. “Usually it means wandering from place to place, looking for a position . . . but horses must eat and knights cannot graze by the side of the road. So a knight errant will fast, pray, and seek what opportunity the gods see fit to send to him. At need a knight might work for wages, but only when starvation beckons.

  “When no honorable means is available to sustain him, then traditionally the knight seeks to live on his honor. Finding a cause to support, a widow to defend, a tournament to enter, a shrine to protect, a rogue to be slain.”

  “Or a fair lady to be rescued from a horrible marriage,” grinned Tyndal.

  “Those are far fewer than the stories would suggest,” chuckled Cei. “But I cannot say such things do not happen – not after how I met my good Estret,” he said, glancing out the window fondly at his pregnant beloved, who was tending the flower garden with her daughter and a crone from the village. “Errantry can prove its own reward, and every knight should undertake it, at some time.”

  “That seems like a haphazard way to pursue one’s livelihood,” Rondal said, doubtfully. “I prefer a roof over my head and a good meal every now and again.”

  “But a knight must have faith that the gods will reward and support his chivalry,” Sire Cei pointed out. “If he did not throw his fate into the wind without fear from time to time, then the gods have little opportunity to blow the chaff of his life to the wind, leaving only the kernel of his honor.”

  “That’s . . . a complicated metaphor,” Tyndal said, slowly.

  “But apt,” Cei promised. “Choose another, if you like. Consider steel: it must be tested and tried by fire and hammer, beaten and beaten—”

  “Wheat is a fine metaphor,” Rondal interrupted. “For Huin is a mighty god and Trygg his wife is the mother of all.”

  “But every knight should have the faith in his skills and the blessings of the gods to test himself. In tournaments against his worthy peers, in battle against a fell enemy, in the world against injustice and disorder. In so doing he not only seeks to improve himself and his fortunes, but test his peers and give them good challenge of their own honor and chivalry.”

  “And enrich himself, should the chance occur,” Tyndal added, cagily.

  “Strong faith is oft well-rewarded by fortune,” conceded Cei. “But when the hand of Ifnia is involved, such faith can lead to glorious death or utter ignominy as easily as fortune and glory. Such are the caprices of the goddess of luck. But by such tests of our faith and our virtue our honor is forged. The chaff blown away by challenge. Ever does the knight seek to improve himself, for honor is a cup never filled.

  “Which brings me to my final point about wine,” Cei said, draining his glass. “One cup for courtesy, two for orders, three for instruction. But no more in one sitting, if you want to get anything else done in the day. And while quiet reflection feeds a man’s soul, we have much work to be done and precious little time to do it. Tomorrow, gentlemen, we embark on your abbreviated squire-hood. Warriors and magi you might be, but tomorrow you learn the sublime art of chivalry.”

  * * *

  The next morning saw them in a familiar situation, if an unfamiliar place. The practice yard of Cargwenyn was just off of the main yard, a well-tended sand-pit that had seen decades of moderate use. It was more garden than guard’s den, with planters of flowers and herbs around the edges and a wide paved stone pergola at one end.

  “This is lov
ely!” Tyndal said, chuckling as he strapped on his armor. “I feel so . . . dainty!” It was a decided change from both the practical mud pit at Sevendor castle and the gloomy confines of Relan Cor. And it was far more pleasant in form than the little sandyard at Inarion that had played such a large role in his recent history.

  “You’ll feel less so if one of Noapis’ children decides to join you under your gambeson,” Sire Cei said as he placed his gorget around his neck. It sounded as if he knew from experience. “As pretty as it is, It suits our purposes. I want to see how you two rogues have improved, since last we crossed swords.”

  “I think we might surprise you,” Tyndal smirked. He had trained hard at Relan Cor, spending hours and hours in the yards and learning all he could from whomever he could get to teach him. He felt his skills had vastly improved – and were well able to prevail over such a mature man as Sire Cei.

  “I hope you do,” Cei said, settling his helm on his head. “You and I first, Sir Tyndal.”

  Tyndal had been anticipating this contest for weeks. Apart from their master, they both had sparred with Cei as their instructor for most of the last year. It had been his yelling, sarcastic insults, and discipline to which they had been subjected, and he was as close a thing to a swordplay master as Tyndal had. They saluted solemnly, the gods, the ancestors, and each other, and began.

  Both were using single practice swords. Tyndal had the wooden double of Slasher he used for practice, less blade and more hilt than the traditional greatsword Sire Cei’s weapon mimicked. It was lighter, and presumably more maneuverable.

  “No augmentation spells,” Rondal called from the side. “That would be cheating.”

  “I know,” Tyndal said, annoyed. Just like Rondal, trying to bring him down. He was trying to enjoy this.

  They circled and sized each other up as if they were meeting him for the first time. Tyndal saw a large warrior with a very big sword, but he also noted how close together Cei’s footwork was. He had learned that such steps usually signaled an overly cautious nature, and a willingness to only attack when the advantage was clear.

  Tyndal, on the other hand, took much wider steps. He crossed a lot of ground, compared to Cei, and soon he was circling the Dragonslayer instead of the movement being mutual.

  That suited him fine. He took two quick steps and threw a strike at Cei’s right shoulder – only to have it blocked when the man twisted and parried. That surprised Tyndal. He thought the move would have gotten past Cei’s guard.

  Tyndal threw a fast combination from the Sword Dance, but Cei managed to deflect all of his strikes. He switched to a leg-and-shoulder-targeting flurry of blows that departed wildly from what he was used to, only to have Cei sidestep the first one, block the second, and catch the third on the tip of his blade . . . before powering back so hard that Tyndal nearly lost his footing.

  Tyndal had fully expected to have first blood by now.

  He shook off his disappointment and launched a sophisticated combination that involved half-steps in one direction and then a change-up to the other, then a sudden dart back. Ordinarily, he should have bisected his opponent. Sire Cei was too fast. When his fake mageblade swept back, Cei’s long blade was inexplicably in the way . . . held at an angle behind him, over his shoulder.

  Tyndal was so surprised he didn’t realized that he had been set up for a nasty spin attack that drove the sweet spot of the blade so hard against his helm that his ears rung.

  “First blood,” Rondal called. He sounded pleased with it.

  “All right,” Tyndal sighed. “What did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Sire Cei said, taking a step back and raising his helmet. “You did it flawlessly.”

  “Then how come you got first blood?” complained Tyndal.

  “Because while you performed flawlessly, that doesn’t always mean you prevail. There is a lesson there. Again.”

  Cei and Tyndal sparred for five or six bouts before Tyndal finally scored a solid hit on the man. He became more and more impressed by Cei – and realized just how much he had babied them before they had gone to the War College. At first he resented it, and then he just felt a little embarrassed. But he started trying a little harder, and just when he was starting to get exasperated, he finally saw an opening and struck.

  “Well done,” Cei said, approvingly. “You really have improved, Sir Tyndal. I can see a definite refinement in your technique. You have true talent at this. Now you,” he said, pointing at Rondal, barely breathing heavy.

  Rondal nodded grimly and pulled the practice helmet over his face. Rondal’s practice blade was slightly shorter, and he had a tendency to use it one-handed more than Tyndal did. Tyndal expected Sire Cei to make short work of him.

  To Tyndal’s surprise, Rondal took a defensive position and waited for Cei to engage. As a result he was able to block two blows from the greatsword before pushing back, dropping his two-handed grip to use his arm to counterbalance. Not as hard as he could, but enough to push Cei slightly out of line. His wooden blade tapped the older knight lightly on his unprotected forehead.

  “Strike!” Cei said, surprised and impressed. “First blood! Well done, Sir Rondal!”

  Tyndal’s mouth was open. He had laid into Cei with as serious an attack as he was able to muster without magic, and the man had defended nearly every one. Then this bookworm gets in the ring and scores a point in moments. Despite his effort to control himself, he sucked in air through his teeth.

  Rondal spent ten minutes showing off the skills he’d developed at Relan Cor, and while he lacked the sophistication of Tyndal or even Sire Cei, even Tyndal had to admit that his footwork was solid, his positioning was well-formed, and his strikes were clear and hard.

  They took a water break and discussed their performance before Sire Cei instructed them both to attack him at the same time.

  “Uh, Sire Cei, do you really think that’s fair?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

  “Probably not,” the knight conceded. “But I’ll take it easy on you.” He lowered his visor.

  Tyndal looked at Rondal, who shrugged. Tyndal sighed and pulled his own helm back on.

  Rondal was on his left, so Tyndal moved quickly to Cei’s right side. He threw a quick blow at his thighs, which Cei side-stepped without deigning to watch, and then pivoted and threw another blow across his shoulders. To his dismay, his blade got entangled with Rondal’s. Enough so that he heard the dull thunk of wood on steel a moment before he heard it much louder – and much more painfully.

  When the ringing in his ears stopped, he heard Cei chuckling wickedly. “That, gentlemen, is what happens when you don’t work together. Again.”

  They continued trying to defeat Cei for another twenty minutes, stopping here and there to discuss the fighting. In the last bout of the day, they both tried much harder, but to no avail. The faster and harder they attacked, the faster Sire Cei seemed to defend . . . although Tyndal was gratified to see the older knight start to get rushed.

  Just when he thought they had worn the man down and could start beating on his helmet like a drum, Cei grunted, twisted, and sent his sword singing across Tyndal’s chest. Too late they all realized that there was magic involved. As the blade hit Tyndal’s armor, Cei’s talent unexpectedly engaged. The wooden sword shattered. Tyndal was thrown back twenty feet across the yard, to land on his back, looking up at the treetops.

  “Owwwww,” he groaned, his chest throbbing.

  “Ishi’s tits!” Rondal said. “Are you dead?”

  “Sir Tyndal!” Cei said, throwing his helmet off and rushing to the boy’s side anxiously. “Pray the gods you are all right!”

  “Owwww,” Tyndal reprised. He felt like he had been kicked by a charger. With both hooves. “I don’t think . . . I broke . . . anything.” He pulled himself slowly to a seated position with their help. “Duin’s . . . axe, Sire Cei . . . I hope I didn’t get you riled!”

  “Apparently you did,” Rondal said, thoughtfully. “It looks like his W
ild Talent activated. Magical force transformed to concussive force at the point of impact. There are similar effects from spells in the libraries at Relan Cor. They take a lot of power,” he added.

  “I remember,” Tyndal said, rubbing his chest where the wooden sword had struck. “I read them too. I just never thought I’d be on the other end of one.”

  “My apologies, Sir Tyndal,” Sire Cei said, helping him to his feet. “I cannot always control this . . . ‘talent’, Perhaps it would be best if we called the end of practice.”

  “I would hesitate to argue with that,” Rondal agreed. “Does that happen often, Sire Cei?”

  “Only when I get roused,” he admitted. “If I hold my temper and control myself, I can keep it from happening.” He sounded anxious about it.

  “Of all the gifts you could have gotten from the gods, there are many far worse,” Tyndal pointed out, still gasping for air. “For a knight to be able to deliver such a blow . . . “

  “In battle, yes,” Sire Cei said, helping Tyndal strip off his armor. “But on the practice field . . . well, I would hesitate to send home only half of the apprentices the Magelord entrusted to me. It wouldn’t reflect well.”

  That afternoon they studied the lineages of the great houses, particularly the ducal houses and powerful counts and other dynasties. Tyndal was in the middle of reciting perfectly all of the dukes of Remere in order when he got the tingle of sensation that indicated a request for mind-to-mind communication.

  Tyndal, how is your tutoring going? asked his Master.

  Fine, Master. I now know more about the ducal houses than I ever wanted to know.

  Bunch of inbred buggers aren’t they? Look, I’ve got a problem. I need your help.

  How may I be of service, Master? Tyndal asked, using his best court manners. Sire Cei had required them to use such formal address as much as possible.

  Impressive.

  Thank you , Master! Tyndal said, pleased.

  Not you, Sire Cei. I didn’t think he could teach you and Rondal manners. The Westwoodmen brought a report to me today. It seems one of their hunters was ranging south west of Sevendor and came across something troubling. Someone in the next domain over seems to be secretly mining snowstone.