Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “But the answer presumes that I have many horses,” Tyndal pointed out. “Without actually admitting that I have but the one. Horses represent wealth,” he reminded his fellow. “They’re expensive to keep and care for. To have one is to be a man of means. To have more than one . . . well, that’s enough for country maids, of course, but in the cities, like Castabriel and Barrowbell, a man’s position and presentation account for more. And his fame,” he reminded himself. “You saw how the ladies responded when we admitted we were in battle. When we dropped Master Minalan’s name—”

  “About that,” Rondal interrupted, “why didn’t you want them to know we were magi? I thought we were trying to impress them.”

  Tyndal scowled. “And get caught up in a magic show? I had more important business in mind. And we were already impressing them. As mere errants, we were attractive enough. And they were remote and lonely enough. Magic would have just complicated matters. When entertaining ladies, be a knight first, a mage second.”

  “Who made up that rule?” demanded Rondal.

  “I did. Just now,” Tyndal said, smugly.

  Tyndal felt good. It was a lovely day, he had just enjoyed an exciting and relaxing afternoon with a charming and skilled lady, quite sating the itch for feminine companionship he’d been nursing for some time. More importantly, despite his fellow’s misgivings about their dalliance, Rondal was clearly the better man for it. He rode more proudly, now, less like a sack of potatoes and more like a proper knight.

  It was amazing what the attentions of an eager young woman could do to fortify a young man, Tyndal reflected. He knew some fellows only felt the pull of their hearts (and other regions) infrequently, and could sate their needs quickly in the back room of a tavern for a few coins. That was not his preference, though he did not eschew it at need. He preferred the eternal dance of seduction, even with its dangers, to the cold certainty of a whore’s embrace.

  But he also knew its potential costs. The possibility of rejection, loss of reputation (or the earning of an unsavory one), the possibility of scandal, jealous lovers, cuckolded husbands, irate fathers, angry nuns, demanding mothers . . . and that didn’t even count the myriad of disasters that stalked a man when he courted a woman’s heart. There was always a chance a child could result. That was one fortune Tyndal had been spared, to his knowledge, but Trygg’s hands sometimes reaped what was sown by Ishi’s desires.

  There were some women who would cling to you as if they’d paid for you in the market, others who were passionate to the point of obsession, still others who sought no more than to use your seduction to further their own conspiracies. Many could confuse lusty indulgence for love, and tender hearts sometimes resulted.

  Tyndal disliked being in that position, but he had been, a few times now. A certain innkeeper’s daughter continued to dote on him, to the extent of paying for a letter to be sent to him upriver to Sevendor last summer, mentioning her lack of a proper husband no less than four times in two pages. He had penned a short but sympathetic response, citing the nature of his new duties were such that precluded, alas, any commitments of the heart, but how he looked forward fondly to visiting her magnificent inn the next time he was in the vicinity. He hoped he’d satisfied the maid’s honor even if he’d frustrated her designs.

  Then there had been that moon-eyed girl in Barrowbell, some courtier’s youngest daughter. Pila or Pilsa or something like that, she had followed Tyndal around from occasion to occasion, trying to attract his attention. After briefly flirting with the idea of a liaison after a few heated moments in a Barrowbell garden one night, Tyndal had tried to avoid her.

  While she was a fair enough maid, she was rather dim and unintelligent. Worse, she was uninteresting and annoying. She had mentioned marriage within two hours of meeting him, and had been so obsequiously adamant about her intrusion into his sphere that he had done his best to ensure he had other companionship when she was around.

  That hadn’t helped, in the end. Every pretty new coquette who vied for his attention only seemed to inflame her passion and make her more resolute. She started weeping when she saw him, which just made him dread her presence all the more. By the time he’d boarded the barge to Sevendor, he was thankful to leave the wretched girl behind.

  Still, the experience had been valuable. Had he been captivated by her allure – and her demonstrated willingness to dally – it would have been easy enough to wake up and find himself wedded, doomed to a long, unhappy marriage. Had she set her cap on Rondal, the poor boy would have been conquered in short order. That was one very good reason why he had to teach his fellow apprentice the rudiments of the Laws of Love. Else he’d find himself condemned to a lifetime of matrimony to a woman of low quality.

  And as annoying as Rondal, himself was, there was no way he would wish such a fate even on an annoying acquaintance. A man who settled for such deserved the miserable result, in Tyndal’s estimation. While he was ruminating on the subject, Rondal spoke again.

  “I just wonder the fairness and propriety of pursuing such pleasures so casually,” confessed Rondal. “It seems like a lot of work for such a tenuous reward.”

  Tyndal smirked. “Then perhaps you’re doing it incorrectly.”

  “I assure you, I am not!” Rondal snorted. “I enjoy such interludes. I like girls. They’re just . . .” he said, trailing off wordlessly.

  “Aren’t they, though?” agreed Tyndal, dreamily. “I like girls, too. So why not study how they like to be liked? If it makes you feel better, understand that while every girl has the potential to grant you Ishi’s Blessing, not every girl wants to drag you before a bridesister’s altar. They’re all looking for a good match as much as you are.”

  “And if we are not a good match?”

  “Many are willing to explore an unpromising line of interest in the name of experience. As long as you understand what a maid desires – really – and not what is likely to fall out of her mouth in her banter, honing your own experience with one maid prepares you for when those skills will matter most to you.”

  “Would not a maid be troubled to know that a lad she fancies has ‘honed’ himself with several other girls?” Rondal countered.

  “Quite the contrary,” Tyndal explained, “in my experience – and according to the noble sages of the Crimson Arts of Heart Castle – the more a lad is known to keep the company of women, the more women desire to keep his company.”

  “Yet would not a woman who did likewise—“ Rondal began. Tyndal stopped him He knew where this line of inquiry led.

  “Nay, rather say a woman who was known to have done likewise,” he amended “Reputation is vitally important to both men and women. Discretion is an essential part of successful dalliance. There are many – many – wives and women of high station who enjoy a pristine reputation, but who discreetly are as randy as a dockside whore. When one becomes conversant with the codes and ciphers of desire, one can discern the subtle hints and clues that tell such women out from those who merely seek a good match. Or no match at all.

  “But for a lad, the more maids who take your company, the more maids will desire to take your company. Simple as that. They seem to desire what the others have, simply because it is desired. Jewelry, estates, or men, women seem particularly intrigued with what each other possesses,” he said, thoughtfully.

  Rondal considered. “Not everyone. Lady Pentandra.”

  “Oh, she pays attention,” Tyndal said, with especial knowledge. “She’s just very subtle about it. And she doesn’t feel as if she’s in the same domain as most women, so she doesn’t heed the allure of coveting that which she doesn’t have. She measures herself arcanely, and finds most women wanting. But she is a special case,” he admitted.

  “Do you think she pines for Master Min?” asked Rondal, hesitantly.

  “No,” Tyndal said, after considering the matter for a moment. “Not really. I think she’s got the part of him she really wants, and has no issue sharing the remainder with Lady Alya.”<
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  “I wonder if Lady Alya feels the same way,” Rondal said, quietly.

  “You ask her,” dismissed Tyndal. “That’s not the sort of question that you’re going to get an answer to. Not a useful one.”

  “I’d rather not,” agreed his companion. “I hope our next call is not so fraught with excitement. Please tell me that Lufhorn Manor doesn’t have any nubile young maidens lurking to spring on a poor fellow.”

  Tyndal chuckled. “I don’t think you have to worry. Lord Dewine of Lufhorn is a well-known devotee to Andrus, according to Lady Kresdine. He has taken the Oath of Andrus never to enjoy the Blessing of Ishi. Indeed, he has established a small cloister of his cult’s order in Lufhorn, where he has gathered a congregation of his coreligionists. ”

  “Oh . . .” Rondal said, quietly. Andrus was a minor but colorful Imperial deity of music, poetry, and discourse who had survived the Narasi Conquest relatively intact. His followers were ascetics, of a sort, but not like the humble monks of Ludris or the wandering priests of Herus. Andrus’ devotees were exclusively male, and all forswore enjoying the touch of a woman. By denying themselves Ishi’s Blessing, their sect taught, their suffering and unfulfilled longing honored the god and fueled their devotion.

  While that seemed like an innocuous enough religion, to Tyndal’s mind, in practice most of the followers of Andrus seemed little inclined to ever seek the comfort of a woman’s touch to begin with. Her seamstress, perhaps, but not her touch. While the Oath of Andrus prohibited sexual contact with women, it tacitly endorsed initiates seeking comfort in the arms of their fellow devotees. Or passing knights errant. Or handsome farm boys. The priests of Andrus were not always particular.

  “You aren’t concerned with your virtue amongst such men?” asked Tyndal, amused, but surprised by his companion’s agreeability.

  “After dealing with those two . . . ladies,” Rondal said, carefully, “I think I can manage dodging a lusty, drunken Andrusine better than I could another randy noblewoman.”

  “It would be more straightforward,” Tyndal admitted. “I have heard tales of their inner rites. They are reputed to be quite . . . lurid.” Whispers of orgies and other outlandish behavior were frequently associated with some of the Andrusines. The order did little to dispel their reputation.

  “So have I,” nodded Rondal, warily. “Which explains what they do with that much honey . . .”

  “Oh . . . yes, I suppose it does,” Tyndal said, his mind swimming. He wished Rondal hadn’t mentioned that.

  “Besides,” added Rondal, mildly, “with your pretty face and muscular buttocks around to distract them, I doubt I’ll have much trouble.”

  Tyndal winced – but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. He’d had adherents of Andrus – both formal and informal – admire him, sometimes in ways that made him quite uncomfortable. But he did find the attention flattering, he had to admit. So far his own virtue in such matters had been secure, but he was wary about strong drink in such circumstances.

  He was about to deliver a classy retort when he felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact.

  Tyndal, are you busy? asked the no-nonsense tones of Master Minalin’s mental voice.

  We’re on the road at the moment. What service can I do for you?

  You can cut short your itinerary and return to Sevendor at your soonest convenience.

  Master? Why?

  Because Commander Terleman has finally come up with an important assignment for you two, he answered. He’s got a mission that he thinks would benefit from the attention of a High Mage. Or a Knight Mage. Or two.

  May I ask the nature of the mission, Master?

  You may, but I don’t have many details yet. Just that it’s highly dangerous, behind enemy lines, and somewhere in Gilmora.

  And the Lord Commander wants both of us, Master?

  He wants someone, and I’m sending both of you. You won’t be alone. But you are going to have to suspend your errantry for a while. Duty calls. Don’t delay. I won’t have much time to brief you before you go, and soon I’ll have less. Alya is in labor, and she’ll bear the child before you arrive. His master was trying to sound business-like, but Tyndal could tell how excited he was.

  That’s wonderful news, Master!

  Yes, but the Alka Alon are buzzing like bees, for some reason, and it has a lot of us concerned. There have been . . . well, we’ll have time to talk later. For now, wrap up your business and get back here as fast as your horses can bear you.

  I’ll tell Rondal, Tyndal responded with a heavy sigh. Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted.

  Do that, agreed Master Minalan. In truth, I almost wish you weren’t going. I could use your help. I’m going to have my hands full with the new baby, the Alon embassy, giant eagles, stumbling apprentices, a moody wife, sneaky queens, weird happenings in the forest, riotous River Folk, and stubborn Karshak. Just wait until you see who won the Spellmonger’s Trial this year, too. But once you get back from Gilmora – assuming for the moment that you will come back from Gilmora – then we’ll sit down and discuss your progress. Both of your progress. And your future in Sevendor.

  That . . . that sounds ominous, Master, Tyndal observed.

  It was meant to, growled Master Minalan. Don’t think that just because you’ve managed to get through your basic training that you’ve progressed beyond my criticism.

  Tyndal swallowed. Never, Master!

  Good to hear it. Now finish up what you were doing and make haste for Sevendor. You depart from here in five days. You should be back in Barrowbell within two weeks. From there on you’re Terleman’s problem.

  Master Minalan ended the discussion and Tyndal opened his eyes. Rondal hadn’t even realized he’d been communicating.

  “It looks like your virtue is spared a challenge from Andrus,” he said, “Master Minalan just recalled us to Sevendor.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re being deployed. To Gilmora. So I hope you enjoyed Lady Thena’s charms, because somehow I think it will be awhile before you get the opportunity again.”

  What was worse, Tyndal realized, was that now that they were deployed, they were unlikely to be around Ramoth’s Wood come the equinox. It was unlikely that he’d be able to collect on Lady Kresdine’s debt. Well . . . perhaps he’d visit her on his return.

  If not, he realized, there were hundreds of castles and thousands of manors across the Kingdom stuffed with ladies as fair or fairer than those of Ramoth’s Wood. It would be a shame not to investigate such places, he reasoned. Errantry truly was its own reward, as Sire Cei had told him. And Tyndal planned on getting as much reward as he could.

  PART IV:

  MISSION

  Gilmora, early Autumn

  Year II of Rard II’s Reign

  Rondal

  “The gurvani have stopped advancing from last year’s positions,” Commander Terleman said as he displayed the magemap of the region in front of them. “After the Dragonfall, they went into cantonments scattered across northern and western Gilmora. Captured castles and manors, mostly, but some caves and woods, as well. We thought they were resting up for a fresh push this spring, but . . . well, instead they’ve looted bare what they’ve captured.”

  “And sent raiders against the surrounding settlements,” added Marshal Brendal, the new military commander of the campaign. He was a local man, a baron whose lands lay in the eastern part of the war zone. Count Salgo had appointed him and he seemed an able commander. Of course, anyone could seem an able commander in a tent, Rondal thought. “We didn’t think anything of it at the time. Just stirring up trouble, picking off some easy rations. But they weren’t just stealing chickens. Those scrugs were taking inventory.”

  “As soon as the ground thawed this spring,” Terleman continued, “the expected offensive south didn’t come. Instead they began to systematically loot the country bare. Horses, cows, sheep, even some grain, but . . . mostly they came for people. Wherever there was a large settlement, they attacked in for
ce. And then forced a surrender. One of their dark priests, or one of their human lackeys—”

  “They’re using humans as messengers now?” asked Tyndal, surprised.

  “They’re using humans in the field, now,” Brendal said, darkly. “Light cavalry, mostly. But they’re also using them to process the slaves, as they come in. A whole . . . evil syndicate.”

  “The Soulless,” sneered Tyndal.

  “Not all,” countered Brendal. “The Goblin King’s banner attracts those with evil in their hearts. Not all of his servants have survived the sacrifice pits. Some seek power or wealth or release of their debts. Who knows what such folk find alluring? But they coffle their fellow men together like cattle and lead them up the Timber Road. The Murder Road, they call it, now,” the Marshal said, grimly.

  “And some warmagi among them,” agreed Terleman. “There are those who are impatient for how the Arcane Orders distribute witchstones. The rangers of the Iron Ring have discovered several such in the Penumbra, seeking to slay a shaman. Or willing to offer themselves in service directly. Thankfully we’ve seen only a few of them in Gilmora. But the Dead God’s priests cast spells on whole villages, then capture them without slaying them. They fall asleep and awaken in chains.

  “Or they are surrounded and offered a bargain,” Terleman said, shaking his head. “An emissary will approach under a flag of truce and proposes that half of the people will be allowed to flee if the other half are surrendered to them.”

  “Of course the second half rarely sees freedom, nor should they,” Brendal said, nastily. He thought ill of such victims, seeing them as traitors to their race. “But thanks to their games most of northern Gilmora is depopulated. The fields lie fallow, the castles empty or occupied. A few remote locations still stand, but only at the goblins’ sufferance.”

  “Probably securing the most prosperous estates for later, “ Rondal observed.

  “That’s what we figure,” agreed Terleman. “In the Penumbra the survivors are put under some token human lord, usually Soulless, with a garrison of gurvani to keep everyone peaceful. Some very well-run estates, from what I understand. But the sheer number of people they’ve . . . harvested is appalling. Our estimates are in the tens of thousands.”