Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

They elected to do a quick field of sigils, a variation of a simple spellmonger’s enchantment to keep stray dogs out of chicken coops. With the power of two witchstones at their command the effect was far more severe. When the squadron of gurvani cavalry loped around the corner of the hall, they ran into the field and their canine mounts immediately began whining and howling, not chasing their prey with eagerness.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Tyndal said. “It won’t take long for them to find a way around that.”

  They climbed through the breach, dispensing advice and encouragement to the half-starved prisoners until they had cleared the debris-filled moat in the wake of the beast. The worm was plodding across country now, moving slowly but irresistibly east across the barren fields, trailing a few screaming gurvani drovers who were desperately trying to bring their charge under control.

  The two young knights made good time, once they reached the road. Most of the prisoners had fanned out and taken off cross-country, now, so there was little to slow them down. Using warmagic to improve their endurance and speed, they had made it back to where their horses were hidden without incident . . . when the baying of the fell hounds sounded again.

  “Looks like the bad puppy spell wasn’t that effective,” Tyndal said, discouraged, as he mounted.

  “We’re here, aren’t we? And if it’s any consolation, I doubt they pooped in the area of effect. The spell was a complete success. It was just not the best spell for the job.”

  “Let’s not dally with experimentation today, all right?” asked Tyndal as they spurred their horses. “I used the last charge on my last wand attacking that beast, and I lost Slasher.”

  “Ouch!” Rondal winced. “That’s not going to please Master Min!”

  “Either would my corpse, I’m guessing. I picked up a sword on the way out from one of the collaborators,” he said, gesturing to the plain-hilted blade at his side. They wasted no more words as they sped toward where their friends were hidden, waiting for them.

  Unfortunately, before they could arrive there the first of their pursuers were after them. The large dogs that made up the gurvani cavalry were fast, and they moved in packs through terrain a horse would avoid. Each one had a small, vicious-looking goblin with a slashing spear or sword on its back, as well as being well armed with tooth and claw. As they raced with his courser he spared them quick glances to size up his foes.

  Tyndal noted with professional interest that they had a feral cunning in their small black eyes, unlike any dog or wolf he’d had ever seen. Their fur was thick and matted, black and gray and brown, and their faces were squatter than the hounds of Sevendor. Thick, sharp teeth protruded from their shaggy muzzles, fangs as cruel as daggers.

  And they were fast. Before they knew it, there was one dogging Rondal’s left stirrup, trying to slash at his mount’s legs with his spear. Rondal kicked him in the face with his boot and sent the goblin flying. The hound, however, kept up his pursuit until a quick thrust with his mageblade ended the chase. Another replaced him almost at once, weaving between them and going after Tyndal.

  Rondal tossed Tyndal a warwand and mentally told him the command word and mentioned it only had a single charge, and Tyndal blasted it and then threw the empty stick at the next mutt. There were a half-dozen canines keeping pace behind them, snarling and baying. For a terrified moment he was very sympathetic to the fox who was victim to the hunt.

  We’re not going to be able to keep this up forever, Rondal sent to Tyndal as they rode for their lives. Mind-to-mind communication was actually easier than shouting over the hoofbeats and pounding of his heart.

  That’s what they’re counting on, Tyndal realized. Horses can run a long way, but a dog pack can run in relays. You remember how the mountain wolves could chase a cow down . . .

  They must have bred wolves with those Minden’s farm dogs, Rondal suggested. They have the same bone structure and coloration. But those legs and tail, that’s all wolf.

  I hadn’t noticed, Tyndal said, dryly. If we don’t lose them soon, then the horses will lather. Then they’ll slow, and then . . .

  I know. We need to break their chase. Any ideas?

  Magic?

  Anything more specific? asked Rondal, patiently as he spurred his mount even faster.

  Magic that works against dogs?

  Well . . . don’t we know a few spells like that? Rondal pointed out.

  Tyndal realized that his commander was right. They had learned plenty of spells concerning canines . . . not at Relan Cor or even at Inarion Academy, but back in Boval Vale when they were both spellmongers’ apprentices.

  One of the mainstays of the rural spellmonger were enchantments to keep various types of livestock safely in their enclosures and pastures and not wandering off to get eaten or poached or impounded by the stockwarden. Among the arsenal of common spells every spellmonger knew were plenty to keep dogs from barking, keep them in their yards and lots, keep them from harassing the chickens or horses or goats, spells to keep them alert at night, spells to keep them pooping in convenient places, spells to make their noses better in the hunt . . . and spells to ward against strays, trespassers and feral dogs.

  In fact, Tyndal realized, he had learned more about battling canines in his first six months as a mage than he’d learned in the two years since. And dog spells were relatively simple, because dogs were relatively simple. But which one to cast . . .

  He settled on a nameless spell used to distract and misdirect dogs away from areas they weren’t allowed. Its mechanism involved convincing the dog in question that they were seeing something far more interesting elsewhere. Tyndal liked it because it was a nice blend of Blue and Brown magic, and elegant in its simplicity. Using a phantom rabbit to lure their pursuers from their trail seemed deliciously poetic for some reason.

  He summoned the power from his stone while he rode, which was simple, and then projected the symbols he needed to focus and tune the energy. An irresistible squirrel, it would seem to the dogs, just to the side of the pursuit. With a devilish grin Tyndal glanced over his shoulder, targeted the largest of the hounds to focus the center of his spell upon, and then he activated the illusion.

  The effect was almost instantaneous. Suddenly the three dogs on their heels, their riders preparing to slash at their mounts’ legs, veered crazily to the east, almost ninety degrees from the road. The gurvani squealed in protest, but the hounds were relentless. They abandoned the pursuit of the horses in favor of the juiciest rodent their minds could conceive of.

  How’s that? Tyndal asked with a grin.

  I’m impressed, Rondal grudgingly admitted. How long do you think it will take for them to regain control?

  Not long, agreed Tyndal, reluctantly. I wouldn’t slow down the horses just yet.

  Good idea, agreed Rondal, looking over his shoulder at the misdirected dogs.

  They continued galloping for another five minutes, covering a lot of road. They didn’t slow until they came to a small bridge, unguarded, just before the turn toward the crossroad where they had left Belsi and Alwer. Tyndal hurriedly cast some protective spells to foul their pursuit while Rondal watered the horses.

  “Not much longer now,” he observed when he led both steeds back to the bank.

  “Until we die a gruesome death?” Tyndal remarked. “Probably. But we still have half a day’s ride over hostile country before we get back to Maramor. If, that is, we’ve kept them off our trail.”

  “Let’s go overland,” suggested Rondal. “If we take the horses across and then skirt the other bank a few hundred yards, we should keep them guessing. We can cut through the fields and get to the crossroads without leaving much of a trail.”

  They moved quickly, jumping the horses over ditches and the low stone walls that seperated the fields here. They came to the road just a few hundred feet from the crossroads. The burned-out hovel that may have once been an inn was familiar, but there was no sign of their companions. When they got to the crossroad Rondal dismounted a
nd began scrying to locate them.

  “They were going to hide in that grove,” Tyndal reminded him, helpfully.

  “I know,” Rondal said, sullenly. “Only they aren’t there now.”

  “What?”

  “Scry for yourself,” shrugged Rondal. “They aren’t there.”

  “Then where are they?” Tyndal asked, anxiously. “They were supposed to be at the grove!”

  “I don’t know!” snapped Rondal. “Let me . . . oh. All right, I think they moved further up the road. Maybe a hundred, two hundred yards.”

  “Why?” demanded Tyndal.

  “Maybe the area got too crowded?” Rondal suggested, as he knelt in the dust of the crossroad. “I’m a lousy tracker, but these . . . these are fresh.” He suddenly stood, his eyes wide in alarm as he searched the brush and ruins surrounding the crossroad. If he recalled correctly there was fresh litter strewn about the place, and the dusty in the road did look freshly trod. He suddenly felt dozens of eyes on the back of his neck.

  “Ron . . .” Tyndal began, nervously, his hand moving to the hilt of his captured blade.

  “I can feel it,” Rondal confirmed, “probably an infantry patrol with a shaman covering for—”

  He was interrupted by the twang of a bowstring and the woosh of a black-fletched arrow with a jagged iron point whizzing within inches of his ear. Both knights turned to face their attackers, drawing their blades as they did so. More arrows flew, but thankfully in the light of day most goblins were poor shots with their short bows and their shafts fell short.

  The gurvani were starting to charge out of the brush next to the road, a half-dozen with spears and bows – an infantry patrol, as Rondal had guessed. But there was indeed a shaman – one of the lowlier types – in the back, waving his hands and conspiring to do them harm. Tyndal spurred his horse to ride the gurvan down as Rondal invoked his combat magic and began slicing goblins apart.

  The moment his awareness stretched to take in the entire scene, he understood just how much trouble they were facing. Not just the shaman, but more than two dozen goblins were springing from their hidden positions and rushing at them.

  He slashed adeptly through the throats of the first two who charged him, their spears lowered to skewer, then spun with enough force to bisect the spine of the third. Before his body hit the ground the point of Rondal’s mageblade was buried in the chest of a fourth . . . but there were more coming.

  He looked frantically around for his mount, which was beginning to shy away from the attack demonstrating good sense. Rondal sprang back with an augmented leap and clambered into the saddle just as Tyndal was ceremoniously leaping from his own saddle to tackle the shaman, sword in hand.

  Of course the idiot was oblivious of the six or seven other goblins rapidly closing in behind him. His horse was kicking at them, but defensively, not aggressively, and they were ignoring it in favor of the foolhardy knight. If Rondal didn’t do something, the lad would be overwhelmed. While he briefly considered hanging back and watching how his fellow responded to the challenge, he also knew that would not be good leadership. This was a fight, not a sparring match, and Tyndal was his rival, not his enemy.

  His stock of hung spells was dangerously low, but there were a few left. He recalled one from Relan Cor that might break the foe’s momentum, one developed for use in dispersing crowds during riots or peasant uprisings: an obnoxiously loud and sudden blast of sound, pressure, light, and magic that caused disorientation and loss of balance temporarily. It was called the Castigatix and it didn’t take much power, preparation time, or focus to release. He called the spell’s mnemonic, targeted the knot of knight and goblins in his mind, and spoke the command word.

  The effect was startling. The sudden noise and wave of chaotic sensory data caused all affected to spin around drunkenly as they lost their balance and flinched. Tyndal was in the thick of it, but was spared the brunt by the bodies of his foes. Still, he careened crazily as he slashed at the body of the shaman with his sword, something clutched in his fist.

  Rondal rode quickly to where his fellow was and started taking apart disoriented gurvani skulls with meticulous precision while Tyndal struggled to get his boot in the stirrup. Rondal finally had to tuck his sword under his arm and steady his companion as he tried to right himself.

  “What in the name of Ishi’s twat was that?” demanded Tyndal. “Castigatix?”

  “First time I’ve used it,” Rondal said as he kicked at a goblin that was vomiting profusely on the corpse of his shaman. Castigatix was a nasty spell. “I like it.”

  “Try being on the other side!” Tyndal complained. It looked like his eyes were having a hard time focusing. “Let’s go, they’re regrouping!”

  “Why did you tackle him like that?” Rondal asked, a note of criticism in his voice.

  “The glass,” Tyndal grinned, holding up a bloody green stone between the fingertips of his riding gloves. “One more High Mage for our side!”

  “If we get back alive and intact,” conceded Rondal gruffly. He had to admit that acquiring irionite was worth the risk. Every warmage and knight mage they could put on the field was a victory. He looked back at a few gurvani archers preparing to fire. “Can you gallop?”

  “No, but my horse can,” Tyndal said, lamely, as he blinked his eyes. “Just go, and he’ll follow you!”

  They spurred their mounts and outpaced the feeble bowshots that tracked them, moving so fast they almost missed the copse of trees that Alwer and Belsi had taken refuge in. The two stumbled out after the knights had passed them, calling for them to wait.

  The reunion was brief – neither commoner had killed the other while they were gone.

  “We had to move, my lord,” Alwer explained to him, as they continued down the road. “The land is filled with those damned dogs of theirs, and they can smell a trail as well as any bloodhound. We shot two or three and escaped.”

  “You did well,” agreed Rondal. He glanced at Belsi, who looked pale and frightened, her crossbow cocked and loaded. “You are unhurt?” She nodded, but didn’t say anything else. She was trembling.

  Rondal’s heart lurched for a moment, when she would not meet his eye, but he pushed the feeling away. He had a mission to accomplish. “Back to Farune. I don’t want to lead them back to Maramor.”

  “Farune?” Belsi asked, her eyes wide with concern. “Then . . .?”

  “One godsdamned thing at a time!” Rondal burst. She finally met his eye . . . but only when it was her fate in jeopardy, he noted. He hardened his heart a bit, part of him disgusted at her self-interest. They may not be alive by dusk, and she was wondering about her inheritance? Or even her charges?

  The foursome spurred their horses as fast as they could, pounding down the road until they had to slow to rest them. Alwer related a more detailed version of their fight and retreat, and Rondal assured him that he had done well. Tyndal was right: the man was a good irregular fighter.

  Dusk fell as they neared Farune, and Rondal was beginning to feel hopeful that they might elude pursuit. Those hopes were dashed the moment he scryed the area. There were clearly several goblins about, moving quickly. More quickly than a gurvan on foot. Fell hound cavalry, it had to be. They must want the boys awfully bad, after what they had done to Kefany Castle.

  “Back on the horses,” he ordered, only moments after they stopped. “We have pursuit . . . the closest is less than a quarter-mile away, to the southwest. We need to get going and we do not stop moving until—”

  One of the tinny-sounding horns the gurvani used as an alarm sounded to the south, and another answered from the west.

  “Oh, three bloody hells!” Tyndal said, his face almost looking normal now. He drew his captured sword again. “That was close!”

  “Ride!” Rondal yelled, as he jumped back in the saddle, slapping Belsi’s mount on the hock as he did to encourage it along. The baying of the fell hounds could be heard echoing across the land. They continued to ride as fast as they could make
the horses, already tired.

  They found new inspiration when another group of goblin cavalry spilled out onto the road only a hundred yards behind them and began tearing after them. Arrows and javelin whizzed past them. Most were wild shots fired in haste, but no less deadly if they found their mark.

  I’ve got an idea, Tyndal sent to him as he brought up the rear, if they can chase us in relays, we can defend in relays!

  What? What do you mean? Rondal replied, his hands holding the reins tightly.

  I’ll ride forward and prepare a defense, you ride past me while I hold them off, just throw them a bit, and give you a chance to ride ahead and prepare the next defense while the others ride past.

  That’s . . . that’s a decent plan, Rondal agreed. Go ahead, I’ll tell the others.

  Rondal watched as Tyndal stood in the saddle, another goblin arrow passing harmlessly overhead, and urge his horse into an even faster gait. He spared a glance backwards, seeing the lead hound only thirty feet behind, and three more just behind him. Their vicious little riders were continuing to lob missiles at the horses, but they hadn’t closed enough to employ their nasty blades.

  He really hoped this would work. He didn’t think their mounts could handle much more of this pace before one of them faltered. He said as much to Alwer and Belsi, as he watched Tyndal pull his reins and wheel his courser around, his hands instantly moving to draw forth a spell.

  As he passed by he could feel the spell his comrade had built release – something sharp seemed to cut the air. A blast of sound exploded at his back, making his ears ring and his head hurt. He could only imagine what it did to the sensitive ears of the hounds.

  Oh, well cast! he sent to Tyndal, without thinking about it.

  Thanks! Tyndal said, a note of surprise in his voice. I figured that dogs don’t like squeaky wagons and other high-pitched noises. They probably wouldn’t like a soundstrike spell.

  How did they react?

  It bought us another hundred feet, Tyndal said, but those bastards are still back there. I did my bit – your turn!

  Rondal sighed and spurred his horse on with determination – determination not to look bad in front of Tyndal. As his horse out-paced the others, he began thinking furiously about what he could do that would be effective against a pack of dogs. Sound, of course, as Tyndal had pointed out . . . but what other weaknesses did canines have?