Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  Tyndal was in the hall and the evening meal was almost ready to be served. Rondal saw that Arsella had excused herself from cooking duty, as one of the drovers fancied himself an army cook, and was instead near to Tyndal’s elbow at a table when he came in.

  “Here’s the bacon you requested, milady,” Rondal said in a toneless voice as he flopped half a slab on the table in front of her. “Sir Tyndal, if you’ll meet with me in the castellan’s room, I’ll go over what we saw today.”

  Tyndal looked up at him, clearly not eager to leave cup and fire for military intelligence. But the knight mage knew his duty. He heaved a heavy sigh.

  “All right, all right. My arse was just starting to heal, after all that riding, but I suppose I can take a look.”

  Rondal led the way upstairs to the old castellan’s solar, stripping his armor off his body wearily as he did so.

  “So what’s the news? Any gurvani?”

  “No signs,” admitted Rondal. “But they’re out there. Both manors had been visited. Farune was abandoned and might make a good refuge. Ketral . . . Ketral tried to fight. No survivors.”

  “So much for my dreams of a native army to rally around me,” grumbled Tyndal good-naturedly as he sat in one of the chairs . . . the same spot Arsella had sat that first night they had kissed. “But no goblins . . . don’t you find that strange?”

  “In a relaxing, soothing sort of way, yes,” Rondal said, shrugging out of his hauberk. “But I take your meaning. Where are they, then?”

  “They didn’t head back to the Wilderlands,” Tyndal agreed. “In fact, I checked in with Terleman earlier, and he said that most of the traffic going north is human . . . in chains, but human.”

  “So where are they?” Rondal repeated, unrolling the parchment map he’d been using in addition to his magemaps. He drew a circle around Farune and put an X through Ketral. He paused. “Well, it only looks like there’s . . . nine more manors in a ten-mile radius to check?” he said, in disbelief. “Luin’s staff, that’s a lot of people in one place!”

  “It’s nothing like the Mindens,” agreed Tyndal, helping himself to some wine from the bottle on the table. “In the Wilderlands, you could go twenty miles between settlements. In most of the Riverlands you’d have three or four every ten miles or so. But Gilmora was densely settled, thanks to the fertile soil. Easy to plow, mostly flat, rivers everywhere . . . the climate is warm enough for three crops a year, in some places. And it takes a lot of people to produce cotton. Thank Huin you can feed a lot of people on beans, maize and potatoes.”

  “That’s a lot of people,” agreed Rondal, still staring at the map. “The villages we went through were big – bigger than those around Sevendor. In the Wilderlands we’d call them towns. But now it’s about empty. So where did they all go? Some fled south, or are castled, but the rest . . . how many went north into the Umbra?”

  “Tens of thousands, at least,” Tyndal said, taking a big sip of wine. “Maybe a hundred thousand?”

  “At least,” nodded Rondal, imagining the horror of the long lines of Gilmoran peasants being escorted along the trade roads into the perilous north. “I’d say closer to two. The problem is, we have no way of knowing how many were killed, how many fled, and how many were taken.”

  “Which is why they get brave, stupid young lads such as ourselves to go out and see,” nodded Tyndal.

  “But it does answer the question, ‘why Gilmora?’. It’s the largest, most densely populated part of the Duchies.”

  “The kingdom,” Tyndal reminded him.

  “If the Dead God is pushing the horizon of the Umbra through sacrifice, then he just took a bumper crop. Processing,” he said, wincing at the heartless term, “that many people is going to take time and organization to . . . process.”

  “You really have a sick way of thinking about things,” Tyndal said, admiringly.

  Rondal ignored him. It was getting easier. “That’s why they stopped their advance. Not because we were beating them. Not because we killed a dragon. They . . . they probably had already stopped by the time of the battle of Cambrian Castle. They stopped because they simply didn’t need to go on any longer. Their organizational structure was full.”

  “That’s probably why they’re using human confederates now, too,” agreed Tyndal. “Let’s face it: as impressive as Sharuel and his priests are, and as fierce as some of the gurvani are, they aren’t exactly masters of organization. They’re operating mostly from a tribal culture, and they just don’t think in those terms. Humans would. And we’re terribly corruptible.”

  “That’s a good point,” admitted Rondal thoughtfully. “And just think of the looting possibilities. You’ve seen how wealthy these Gilmoran aristocrats are. Goblins don’t appreciate the really valuable stuff that’s just sitting around unguarded, now.”

  “Oh, I’ve been thinking about it,” nodded Tyndal with a grin. “As I said, we’re terribly corruptible.”

  It niggled at Rondal’s nascent sense of honor that such looting was morally wrong, at some level. But he had also learned in the Mysteries that the fortunes of war were ephemeral, and a smart soldier knew when to take clear advantage. Looting might not be, strictly speaking, chivalrous, but it was part of the military economy. And most considered such gains as a sign of Duin’s Favor.

  Besides, he’d proven he wasn’t above doing a little looting himself at Birchroot.

  “So we understand their strategy, now that we know their goals: the efficient processing of sacrificial victims. Disrupt that and we disrupt the pursuit of their goal.”

  “Reasoned like a general,” nodded Tyndal. “And we also know what they’ll be after in the next phase of the campaign. There’s probably half a million extra people crammed into southern and eastern Gilmora, and that’s before you get to the heart of the Riverlands. Now that they’ve set up their . . . organization, they’ll be able to process them a lot faster.”

  “But they’re protected,” countered Rondal. “I admit, most of the castles in this part of Gilmora are built to impress, not to resist. But there are some tough ones in the south. That was the border between Castal and Alshar for awhile, remember. Those are big castles, and the fortified towns down there are nothing to yawn about.”

  “And they attract dragons,” Rondal said.

  “Which are terribly hard to control and difficult to deploy,” Tyndal pointed out, finishing his cup. “Not to mention hard on the very thing they want to collect: people. If you want to . . . harvest people, then why dash them to bits and scatter them when you have them all contained?”

  “Because you don’t have adequate supply train for siege work,” Rondal said.

  “You’re thinking about this like a human,” Tyndal said, frowning.

  “It’s one of my strong points,” Rondal shot back.

  “My point is, you’re thinking in terms of human warfare. But humans don’t use dragons. Or trolls to rip the gates off of castles. They built siege towers at Boval, but they were crude, crude enough so that a couple of spellmongers could knock them apart.”

  “And they have magic,” Rondal admitted. “That adds an unpredictable element.”

  “Thank the gods,” nodded Tyndal.

  “But that still doesn’t mean they can invest a castle successfully. Not one that is well-defended and provisioned. Even with trolls, it would take a whole lot of them put together to take down a walled-town.”

  “So it remains an interesting question,” dismissed Tyndal, “but it doesn’t answer the one we asked. Where to next?”

  Rondal studied the map. “I’m thinking . . . a little three-day expedition up through Randure. It borders the Cotton Road. Hefany Castle is supposed to be a big one, and it’s connected to seven other domains by road. If I were a goblin bureaucrat, that’s where I’d put my . . . depot.”

  “Three days,” nodded Tyndal. “A dozen men. The rangers, a squad of cavalry—”

  “Take Walven,” Rondal recommended. Tyndal shrugged. He had an amb
ivalent relationship with Rondal’s former squadmate.

  “So who is leading?” Tyndal asked. “You or me?”

  “I figured since I went out this morning, you could take this one,” suggested Rondal. It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. It was also, he knew in the back of his mind, a perfect way to get Tyndal out of the manor and away from Arsella for a few days. “You can keep contact mind-to-mind, and if anything goes amiss, we can come rescue you.”

  Tyndal snorted, as if that wasn’t a realistic possibility. “I think I’ll hit these three manors along the way,” he said, tapping the map in a way that told Rondal he was committing it to a magemap. “Lorwyn, Asgal, and Heem. If possible, I’ll scrounge a cache of provisions along the way to cover a potentially hasty retreat.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Rondal decided. “While you’re gone I’ll continue to survey the local country and fortify this place. And I’m going to send a small party south along this road to find a good place where we can hide another cache, in case we have to retreat from here in a hurry, too. I like knowing which way is the best way out.”

  “Whereas I like to know which way is the best way in,” conceded Tyndal. “See? We can work well together.”

  “If you mean you get into trouble, and I get you out, I cannot disagree,” Rondal said, flatly.

  Tyndal ignored the jab, and instead he clapped his fellow apprentice on the shoulder. “I’ll save you some choice loot, too,” he assured him.

  Rondal was about to rebuke him for his arrogance . . . but then he realized that he would be turning his nose up at Duin’s Blessing. That was asking for bad luck, at best.

  “I trust your judgement,” Rondal said, unconvincingly.

  * * *

  Tyndal announced the expedition at supper that evening, a roasted goat that had wandered too close to the range of the gatekeeper’s arbalest. He announced the roster, gave orders, and outlined the itinerary for the mission. Rondal watched carefully as he delivered the orders. The men were unconcerned about it – they were just orders. But the look on Lady Arsella’s face satisfied him. She looked stricken, when she realized that Tyndal would be leaving Maramor. As soon as dinner was over, he watched her approach his rival and began speaking in urgent tones. Rondal was considering casting a Long Ears spell when she suddenly left, mounting the stairs toward her chambers, looking back over her shoulder once before she hurried upstairs.

  Tyndal glanced over at Rondal, and caught his eye.

  Relax, he told him, mind-to-mind, she just wanted to be sure we took enough bandages and such. She’s just trying to be helpful.

  I didn’t say anything, Rondal returned, sullenly.

  Your face did. Like I said, relax. You’ve got three days with her. Cozy.

  Rondal didn’t reply. Instead he went to his own room after checking the guards and warding the manor for the night. There was just enough wine left to give him a taste for more. That was something he could request the expedition scavenge.. The local vineyards produced a gods-awful sweet-sour vintage, he recalled from his time in Barrowbell, but the Cotton Lords were wealthy enough to keep good cellars from far-off lands. He reached out to Tyndal mind-to-mind.

  Wine, he said, as he made contact.

  What?!

  Wine, Rondal repeated. While you’re out skulking. Find some damn decent wine. He paused. What are you doing? You sound distracted.

  Oh. Nothing. From his mental tone, he sounded guilty. Wine. I got it.

  What’s the problem? Rondal demanded.

  Uh . . . Arsella came to say goodbye to me. Sorry. I’ll send her away.

  Rondal’s heart sank. No, don’t bother, he said after a few moments of anguish. She’s the lady of the manor. She’s entitled to demonstrate her affections toward anyone she likes. And that’s you, apparently.

  I’m sorry, Tyndal repeated. He truly did sound sorry. That made it worse, somehow.

  Don’t be. I’m getting used to it, Rondal said, doing his best to cloak his emotion.

  You know, it’s not like I ask for it, Tyndal said defensively. Sometimes it’s a real pain in the arse.

  Yes, you sound like you’re suffering.

  She’s just . . . kissing me a little, Tyndal defended. It’s almost sisterly.

  No, it’s really not, Rondal replied, disgusted. You enjoy yourself. I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me in the morning, I’m tired. And . . . forget about the wine.

  Really? Are you sure?

  Yeah. Bring me back some spirits, instead.

  That’s the commander’s prerogative, chuckled Tyndal.

  Rondal went to sleep eventually. But it was no respite from his cares. His dreams were filled with a nauseating combination of the horrors he’d witnessed and the women he had been interested in. At various points wise-cracking goblins and sadistic Ancients got involved, and when he awoke at mid-morning he was covered in a sheen of sweat.

  It was still hot enough in the steamy cotton lands even in autumn, but his sweat wasn’t due to the heat. Blearily he bathed his face in the basin and stumbled down stairs to the great hall, where two of his men were finishing their porridge. When he asked, he found out that Tyndal had departed at dawn, on schedule and in good order.

  The place was almost quiet without the extra men around. Rondal spent the day inspecting the walls and the stores, figuring out how long their supplies would last and how much more they would need. It was good, productive work. At mid-day he sent two troopers out to scout the roads and villages along the southern road to ensure that they were not leaving a foe behind them. Lady Arsella was nowhere to be seen.

  That afternoon, while he was staring at the map in his room again, Tyndal checked in.

  Well, scratch Lorwyn off the list. Burned to the ground, along with the village and the mill. Caught a goblin scout, too. Shot him before he could get away.

  I’ll inform the minstrels of your victory, Rondal replied, dryly.

  We also found the first survivors. A couple of peasants hiding in the bush. They told us about some resistance further up the road. Might be promising.

  Send them back our way, suggested Rondal, assuming you think they’re uncorrupted.

  They’re starving and scared. But I used a truthtell spell on them just to be sure. It’s not impossible to lie under such a strong magical compulsion, but it would took great skill and effort.

  Then send them back. We can put spears in their hands for a few days, get them fed, and prepare to send them south.

  That night, just as the cook was serving the last of the leftover goat, Rondal got another message.

  Remember that resistance the refugees were speaking of? We met them. It’s more like a real insurgency.

  Insurgents? Really? How? How many? Where?

  We came across a large goblin patrol encamped in a village. About twenty. So of course we had to attack. Just as we began, they got attacked from the other side by a band of irregulars. Turns out they’re holed up in Asgal Hall with some others. That’s where we are, now. We’re the first sign of help they’ve seen in six weeks. They’ve escaped two slaving expeditions so far, attacked a couple of patrols when the opportunity was right, and they even freed a column they found lightly guarded. But they’ve been talking about moving locations because they’re starting to get noticed. I suggested they go to Maramor Manor to await a convoy south.

  We don’t have a convoy going south.

  We will if we get a few dozen refugees together, reasoned Tyndal. But they’ve been a wealth of information about local activities. We might get a few of them to stay on as scouts, perhaps.

  Are they armed?

  Decently. Bows and spears and a few swords. Not much armor, but then they’re insurgents, not infantry.

  We’ll get them outfitted, those who want to enlist. Any luck on those spirits? he asked, casually.

  Around this lot? Not bloody likely. They look half-starved. They drank the place dry long ago. But they told me which way to approach Heem Manor, and wher
e the next-closes goblin cantonment is. And apparently Sire Rath of Heem had a reputation as a drinking man, so that’s encouraging.

  Rondal finally saw Lady Arsella when she came down to dinner later. She was wearing a somber green gown that didn’t quite fit her anymore, and a stoic expression that put Rondal on his guard. She spoke rarely, and seemed subdued and withdrawn. Rondal was almost ready to go speak to her, when she caught his eye and looked away guiltily.

  She knew. She knew he had feelings for her, he realized, and she’d chosen Tyndal over him. A surge of rage flirted with Rondal’s mind, but he pushed it down, embracing a cool, logical approach to the problem instead. When your emotions raged out of control, Sire Cei had told them often enough, taking refuge in the cool, safe confines of duty and custom could spare you the poor consequences of rash action. And no initiate of the Mysteries respected a commander who could not control his temper. That kind of man invited disaster in the field.

  So Rondal inquired from his men the state of the manor’s defenses and their supply, although he knew the tallies well by now, and he took a report from the two riders who’d returned at dusk from their errand. The roads had been empty, they said, and the villages deserted, but their scavenging had brought in a few sacks of oats overlooked in a barn. Lady Arsella retreated to her room the moment dinner was over.

  The next morning the two refugees Tyndal had sent along arrived at the gates of Maramor. Rondal welcomed them cautiously, and after giving the men as much as they could eat he listened to their tale. They were from a village in the north that had been among the first to be raided. They escaped and had traveled from one hamlet to another, avoiding goblin patrols and slaver crews and hiding. They’d fought, they’d admitted, but they’d never had proper training. It wasn’t encouraged in Gilmora, where peasant rebellions were uncommon but typically bloody.

  The time for such distinctions was over. Rondal ordered the two to report for elementary training on the morrow, then went to fill in the information he got from them on the abandoned manors and towns they’d been in. They looked frightened at the prospect, but as this was the first sign of organized human activity the two had seen in weeks, they agreed to do their part.