Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “Oh, I have eyes, milord,” the ranger chuckled. “You had her favor until Sir Tyndal arrived, and then she only had eyes for him.”

  “That’s . . . not . . . untrue,” he said, quietly choking out the words from between clenched teeth.

  “Don’t let it worry you none,” Fursar dismissed. “A doe like that is bound to follow after the biggest carrot in the sack, if you take my meaning, milord.”

  “I’m used to Sir Tyndal getting attention,” he explained, some tension in his voice . . . but also some resignation. “If she would prefer to keep his company that is her business. I’m here on a military mission, not to pay court to some country knight’s daughter!”

  “Aye, milord,” Fursar grunted. “I am utterly convinced. And acting like you don’t care about her now is sure to drive her mad, or at least that has been my experience. We’re only a few miles away from the manor, now . . . perhaps you’d want to scout the village ahead?” he asked, expectantly.

  “You know, I think I would,” Rondal said as he blushed. He suddenly found that he did want solitude. He nudged his mount ahead and was musing darkly on the mysteries of femininity when something caught his attention. He drew a warwand and rode forward, cautiously scanning every corner of the darkened and abandoned village as he prepared to scry it more thoroughly.

  He was just bringing the spell into play when his eyes caught something moving – and moving with deliberate purpose.

  He didn’t hesitate. He let his arm follow his eye as he screamed the command word, and a powerful bolt of magical plasma shot forth from the wand on a path of his desire. The shot was true, sending a furry black shape cartwheeling into the road, its limbs aflame.

  Even as the goblin shrieked in pain and rolled across the road, the hum of a bowstring jerked Rondal’s head around and kept him from having his nose pierced by a vicious-looking black dart. He pointed the wand again without looking, waiting for his eye to catch up, his mouth ready with the mnemonic. When he saw the gurvani archer clearly, the wand spat again at his command and the beastly little warrior squealed and burst into flame as it caught the bolt in the chest.

  “Gurvani!” he shouted over his shoulder, finally getting around to completing his scrying spell. As his vision grew to encompass the region in his mind he saw a third form appear. Gurvani were distinctive from humans when scrying in combat, and the little bugger shone like a candle in a darkened temple. There was one . . .

  “Over there!” he directed as Fursar’s horse skidded to a halt nearby. Quick as lighting the man turned, nocked an arrow and his bowstring snapped. A second arrow followed the first, and both hit home. A squeal and a moan told the tale.

  “Is that all, milord?” asked the ranger anxiously.

  “At the moment,” Rondal assured him, nervously, as he re-scryed to be certain. “But if they were scouts, you can wager there are more around. Get everyone moving toward that manor, fast!” he ordered as he looked around, scanning the rest of the horizon. The shouts went down the line, and the rumble of the carts picked up in pitch as they increased their speed.

  “I told you leaving and entering was the best place to get ambushed,” Rondal said, as Arsella passed by him. “Keep your eyes open, I might have missed one!” She looked appalled at the smoldering corpse her horse stepped around, and then looked afraid, trying to look at everywhere at once.

  Farune Hall was just as they had left it, Rondal was gratified to see. After dismantling the spellbinding on the gate, the carts went through, and he re-sealed it behind them. The laborious process of loading them began, as the men spread out and began systematically foraging. Rondal threw some cursory wards up to alert him of any further goblins and posted one man as lookout before helping the others load the grain and other foodstuffs.

  Arsella made a point to draw water from the well and drink it thirstily and noisily, shooting him dark looks between draughts. Rondal rolled his eyes. “Find an empty water bottle for the way back,” he advised. She glared at him even more.

  As the men made a more careful exploration of the abandoned manor, they discovered two other storerooms with provisions that had been overlooked. That was as good as a supply convoy arriving, in Rondal’s estimation. He was in charge of feeding everyone, now, and finding a smokehouse full of hams and bacon was like finding gold. And the twenty sacks of wheat flour they discovered could feed them for months.

  Even after packing three carts full there was still an abundance left. Rondal had the carts leave with two-horse escorts, one after the other, rather than go in a large group and risk all of them not making it back to Maramor. Arsella did not like that plan, but he did not bother to answer her objections. He detailed himself out to leave with the last cart . . . and ordered Arsella to do likewise.

  He gave her some credit – after complaining for the first few minutes, she pitched in and helped carry and sort and stack the supplies despite her noble lineage and generally irritable demeanor. She knew how to work, at least. Rondal knew plenty of common girls who had a hard time with that.

  He was loading up the last few sundries by late afternoon when he got the call.

  Ron! Tyndal called to him mind-to-mind. The tone was frantic.

  What is it?

  We’re under attack! he said, excitedly. We got too close to one of their encampments and one of the sentries got wind of us. After . . . well, let’s just say we’re riding for our lives and we have about a hundred goblins pursuing us!

  That’s not good, Rondal said, uneasily. Tyndal, what the hells have you done?

  We’re heading down the south road toward Danharp, but I don’t know what’s there. I don’t want to lead them back to Maramor, but we have to go somewhere!

  I understand, Rondal said. Bide.

  He sounded calm, but his mind was racing. This was his responsibility. He was in charge of Tyndal and the other men in his command. A hundred goblins was nothing to take lightly, either. And Tyndal was right. They didn’t need to lead them back to Maramor. A company of goblins was more than their feeble defenses could manage.

  That was the nature of the problem. Separating Tyndal and his insurgent allies from the goblins and then making the goblins go away. Rondal had precious little at his disposal in terms of resources, though, and what he did have was vulnerable.

  But then he remembered a War College lecture on the importance geography in battle, and realized that he had, perhaps, more resources than he’d thought.

  Tell me where you are, exactly, he began, when he resumed contact.

  I’m in the saddle dodging – dodging arrows! Ishi’s tits, that was close!

  How are they keeping up? Rondal asked, mystified.

  You know those dog cart chariots they used last summer? Well, the puppies grew up big enough to allow a small goblin to ride it. And while they are terrible shots while mounted, they seem to have grasped the basic idea of cavalry.

  Dog cavalry?

  Calling them dogs is a kindness, Tyndal assured him. These things may have started out as dogs, but they aren’t the typical hound any more. Dread hounds, is more like. Fell hounds, maybe. They – hey! Sorry. They nip at the horses’ heels and chase us in bursts. I’ve killed three or four myself, but there’s a whole howling pack on our tail.

  When I asked where you were, Rondal said, patiently, I meant where were you located?

  Huh? Oh. We’re getting close to that big crossroads.

  You are? Good. Instead of continuing south, go west. Then go south on the next major crossroad, it will be a half-mile down the road.

  Why?

  Because that will lead you toward me, he explained, and I can get ready for them.

  With what? You don’t have but a few men with you. You’re on a supply mission, remember?

  I have what I need, Rondal assured him. You just stay alive, stay ahead of them, and be prepared to do what I tell you.

  You’re the commander, Tyndal conceded. Just get us out of here!

  I’m working on it,
Rondal said, and cut contact.

  “Milord?” asked the ranger when he opened his eyes.

  “Change in plans,” Rondal said, abruptly. “Tell the last cart to push fast and catch up with the second cart, because we’ll need the guards. I want them in that tower,” he said, waving toward their refuge. “Tell them to get inside and close it up. You and I will be taking a little trip down the road.”

  “Aye, milord,” he agreed, and bustled off to give orders.

  “What about me?” asked Arsella in an almost demanding tone.

  “You stay here in the tower,” he ordered. “We’ll be back soon enough.”

  “I most certainly will not!” she bristled. “Escort me back to Maramor, at once!”

  “I don’t have time to argue,” Rondal said, almost to himself. “As far as I am concerned you’re a combatant, now. Find some more quarrels, climb up those stairs to the top of the tower, and make yourself cozy. If you see a goblin, shoot it. Other than that, stay out of our way.”

  “Sir Rondal!” she almost shrieked when he turned to prepare his mission, “I insist you take me back to Maramor!”

  “And I insist you stop acting like a spoiled child,” he said, evenly. “We are in the middle of a warzone and you are imperiling our mission. You can try to catch up with the cart on your own or you can stay here, shut up, and be a good soldier. Which is it?”

  She grimaced. “I’ll stay,” she said, finally.

  “I’m enchanted,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Now leave me alone. I have work to do.”

  * * *

  Farune Hall was a defensible place to run to. But that’s why Rondal wanted to lead the gurvani party away from it. The tower was secure, but without hope of reinforcement a prolonged siege would inevitably fall in the goblin’s favor.

  But Farune Hall wasn’t the only manor in the area. He and Fursar galloped a few miles down the road to the ruined Ketral Manor. As it was already ruined, he didn’t mind messing it up a bit more. That made it the perfect place to set an ambush for the goblins.

  He studied the grounds for almost five minutes before he did anything, but when he did move, he moved quickly. He sketched out what he wanted done to the ranger and then set to work on his spellcraft.

  He used the power of the irionite liberally, and utilized spells he’d learned in War College and thought he’d never had the chance to try. Mindful of the foe’s new mounts, he cast some spells aimed specifically at canines and set them in sigils across the yard of the manor. He entrapped doors and windows and enchanted various items around the yard as quickly as he could. Then he prepared a potent suite of offensive spells for himself, before finally reclining behind a bale of cotton with the tired ranger and calling Tyndal again.

  How goes the pursuit? He asked, when contact was finally established.

  They seem to be doing splendidly, growled Tyndal. We’ve lost two of our insurgents, damn them! We just made that turn you told us to make. Now what?

  Rondal explained the plan to him, including a few contingencies. He tried to keep it as short as possible.

  You think this will work?

  We can at least thin them down a bit, reasoned Rondal. Being chased by fifty goblins seems a lot more manageable than being chased by a hundred.

  More like eighty, now, Tyndal corrected. We’ve been busy.

  Even better. Just let me know when you’re ready . . .

  It only took an hour before the sound of hoofbeats rumbled through the ground . . . followed by the high peal of barking dogs. But the howls, whines and barks did not sound like those of dogs Rondal was used to, like the Westwoodmen’s hounds that his master was so fond of. These canines were . . . different, somehow, and not in a friendly puppy sort of way.

  Ron . . . Tyndal said, mind-to-mind, I hope you’re ready. We’re ready to drop. If we don’t rest the horses soon –

  I know! Relax, just stick to the plan. Remember to go around anything marked with a tuft of cotton. Those are the bad spells. Just ride into the yard, circle around the manor house, and return to the front of the yard. I’ll be there waiting, and hopefully we can settle this then.

  Here we come! Tyndal shouted in his mind, just as the first of five horsemen thundered through the gate. The horses were visibly lathered, flecks of foam on their lips. Their riders were not much better. Two carried wounds from the pursuit, the darts still protruding from their bodies.

  Care to announce us? Tyndal cracked, mind-to-mind.

  It would be my pleasure, Rondal agreed, and activated the first of his spells as soon as the first fell hound appeared, a screaming goblin clinging to its back. The gurvan bore a long, thin blade he waved clumsily as his mount sped through the gate. Rondal grinned to himself and whispered the mnemonic.

  As the horses ran around the building to the north, the first pack of goblin cavalry bounded past . . . and directly into the thickest field of sigils, each one marked with a small tuft of white cotton on the ground. Whenever they passed, they bore the brunt of his spell, which usually threw down rider or hound or both. Fursar the ranger was gleefully shooting at those who missed the field of combat magic, and his deft archery landed more often than missed.

  When Tyndal indicated that he was directly behind the building, Rondal activated his next spell . . . and the bulk of the pack that howled into the gate was caught in a sudden firestorm that appeared out of nowhere, engulfing the yard in flame and setting alight the fur of rider and mount alike. Dozens of fell hounds writhed in the dirt and gurvani screamed and rolled to stop the flames.

  Rondal didn’t pause to watch the carnage he’d wrought; he had plenty of other goblins to contend with. He launched spell after spell from his nest behind the cotton bales. Each was targeted on a different section of the yard, which was already dotted with individual goblins or dogs who had blundered into his static spells. Now he unleashed the powerful assault spells he’d recently learned.

  The first was a pain-causing sheet of magic that did little real damage, but left its victims with about five minutes of uncontrolled, unbearable agony that could prove quite distracting. He followed it quickly with a second, a cone of force that blasted a dozen goblins clean off of their mounts and sent their dogs spinning into disarray.

  The final spell was three well-placed piles of the sharpest rocks he could find, which concealed spells that caused them to explode, sending shrapnel shredding everything around it. Rondal liked that one. There was even a portable version he wanted to experiment with. After the three quick bangs there was as much blood as there was fur and smoke.

  We’re coming around the building, Tyndal advised him. I hope you got them ready!

  Go straight for the gate, Rondal ordered. We’ll be right behind you.

  He drew his mageblade and encouraged the ranger to draw his own sword. As soon as Tyndal and his band rode out, swords flashing, they sprinted into the chaos of the yard, slashing at everything in their way.

  What a difference a year makes, Rondal reflected as he triggered his warmagic augmentations and began plying his mageblade. At last year’s battle at Cambrian Castle he’d been terrified and unsure of himself. Now he surveyed the battlefield of Ketral Manor with a more experienced and learned eye.

  He saw the majority of the foe still clumped toward the north where they had halted pursuit after the first magical attack. Most were not paying any attention to him or his comrades. The gurvani and dogs between him and the gate were scattered. As imposing as they appeared to be, his now well-trained eye understood the battlefield as zoned of threat, each step forward changing the gradient of peril and offering him options in response.

  That goblin, there, with his back turned – a flick of his wrist and his mageblade sliced through his arm at the elbow. It wouldn’t kill him, but he wouldn’t be fighting for a while, and that was sufficient. His boots trod on.

  The canine on his right four steps beyond that was turning to face him, albeit slowly, with a rider on his back. If he charged, he would interce
pt Rondal in his path. The warwand in his left hand blasted the goblin cavalryman and his dog with a concussive wave strong enough to snap the dog’s neck and throw the goblin into the air. It was the big brother to the stunning wands they’d practiced with at Relan Cor, and it packed a punch.

  Five steps beyond that two gurvani had dismounted – smoldering – and had drawn blades. He plunged his mageblade through the chest of one, then shifted his position to put the skewered goblin in the path of his fellow before yanking the blade free and decapitating him as he spun back around.

  A third was leaping toward him, a dagger in each hand and a wicked grimace on its fanged face, when an arrow blossomed in his throat – Fursar the ranger had gotten off a shot before using his bow to knock a few goblins off of their feet. He considered stopping long enough to slit their throats or otherwise finish them off, but he stopped himself. The goal, he reminded himself, was not to kill the enemy. It was to escape. He could have turned and given battle and slain a dozen or more, but that wasn’t the plan. And a good commander stuck with his plan unless there was a compelling reason to change it.

  They made the gate in good order, leaving a trail of dead and wounded gurvani behind them, and as the ranger ran past him Rondal turned and magically pulled as much debris as he could into the wooden doorway before sealing it with a spellbinding. It wouldn’t last long, under concentrated attack, but it should slow down their pursuers enough for them to get away.

  Their horses were tied off fifty feet off the main road, behind the ruins of a peasant’s cot. The two of them made it to their mounts without incident, and caught up with Tyndal and his men before they got to the ruined village.

  “Ron, damn it’s good to see you!” Tyndal said, gratefully, as he gulped water and walked his lathered horse. “That was great work! Are they preoccupied?”

  “We have at least ten minutes’ head start,” Rondal agreed. “Plenty of time. We can obscure the crossroads and they’ll not know which way we left.”

  “That was some impressively destructive spellcraft,” Tyndal repeated, admirably. Rondal blushed – he wasn’t used to getting compliments from his rival. “Looked nasty as nine hells, coming around the corner like that. How many do you think we left behind us?”