The Sergeant’s Apprentice
(Schooled in Magic XI)
Christopher G. Nuttall
Twilight Times Books
Kingsport Tennessee
The Sergeant’s Apprentice
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Twilight Times Books
P O Box 3340
Kingsport TN 37664
http://twilighttimesbooks.com/
First Edition, January 2017
Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter
Published in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Prologue I
Prologue II
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Appendix: The Military in the Nameless World, a Very Brief Overview
Dedication
To the men and women who fight to defend us.
Prologue I
GWYNETH TOOK A DEEP BREATH AS she walked along the edge of her family’s farm, tasting death in the wind that blew across the fields. Her footsteps crunched on sand blown in from the desert, slowly strangling the life out of the farm. The field below her was already dying, the corn turning a sickly yellow as it struggled to survive. It wouldn’t be long, she knew — despite her father’s boundless optimism — before the farm died, before her family had to take flight and head west. If they were lucky, they would be able to find work on another farm; if they were unlucky ...
She gritted her teeth as she reached the boundary marker at the edge of their property. The sandstorm in the distance was blowing closer, but she could still make out the remains of an older farm. Her best friend had lived there only two years ago — now, the girl and her family were sharecroppers, slaves in all but name, on a farm further to the west. Gwyneth and her family might go the same way. The thought of giving up their freedom was appalling, but there was no other way to survive.
And I may be married off, she thought, numbly. Forced into someone’s bed to keep my family alive.
She felt a pang of bitter regret, mixed with sadness and grim understanding. Tom had come to pay court to her — she’d known him long enough to believe he would make a good husband — but his father had vetoed the match. Gwyneth’s family was on the brink, he’d said when Tom had asked for his blessing. He didn’t want to have to take them in, let alone feed and care for them ... and he would have been obligated to take care of them, if Gwyneth had become his daughter-in-law. Gwyneth wanted to hate him for forbidding the match, but she was a farm girl. She understood the logic all too well. Tom and his father couldn’t support an entire family, if — when — they were forced off their farm. The entire region was dying and no one gave a damn.
The wind picked up speed, just for a moment. She covered her eyes, cursing under her breath as grit pelted her face. Nothing, no matter what they did, seemed to be enough to keep the sand off their fields. She spent half of her days clearing the land, only to see the sand blow back time and time again. The water wells were drying up. It wouldn’t be long before they had to leave. Already, agents from further to the west were prowling around, looking to see what starving families might have to sell. And with dozens of families on the brink of total disaster, it was a buyer’s market.
She peered into the distance, her eyes seeking out her friend’s abandoned farmhouse. They’d stripped it bare, of course, once the farm had been surrendered, leaving only the shell of a building in the hopes that — one day — someone would return to the fields. But she knew that was futile. The fields had been strangled so quickly, once the farmers had left, that only endless sand remained. She’d once played in those fields as a little girl, back when the land had been green and wet. Now ...
Her father had forbidden her to walk into the desert. But he needn’t have bothered. There was something about the sand that scared her, something that chilled her to the bone, even though she couldn’t put it in words. No one went into the Desert of Death willingly, not even the bravest man in the village. There were too many strange stories of things lurking in the sand.
Something was moving within the sandstorm. Gwyneth stared, unsure if her eyes were playing tricks on her. There was nothing out there but abandoned buildings and dead fields. Animals shied from the desert, refusing to go near the sand. And yet, there was definitely something there. She watched shapes within the brown haze, strange figures that seemed to be coming closer. Surely, nothing could survive out there ...
The sandstorm receded, just for a second. Gwyneth froze in horror as she saw the men advancing towards the farm, towards her. They were men, but they weren’t men. Their faces were twisted and warped, their eyes bulging or their faces twisted and mutilated ... a handful had animalistic eyes or legs. And there were hundreds of them, an entire army advancing out of the storm, carrying swords and spears and weapons she didn’t recognize. Her family had no weapons. They weren’t allowed to carry anything more dangerous than a knife.
She turned to flee, too late. Strong arms caught her before she’d run more than a couple of meters, knocking her to the ground. Gwyneth was hardly weak — she’d been working on the farm almost from the moment she could walk — but it made no difference. In an instant, she was hanging over its shoulder, staring down at the rock-like skin of his back. For all the effort it cost him, he might have been picking up a bag of seeds. It was hard to see anything as the creatures swarmed onwards, but she saw enough to know they were storming the farmhouse and tearing the farm apart ... she heard, just for a second, a scream torn from a very familiar throat before it stopped abruptly. Her father was dead.
Her head swam as the creature carried her onwards, its comrades surging into the village and smashing through the buildings. There was hardly any resistance — how could there be? The villagers had no weapons either. She was dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the village square with a handful of other prisoners, as helpless and scared as herself. She knew some of them, worked and played with them. And now ... once she’d prayed to the
gods in the square; now; now she wondered if she would die there.
“Sit,” the creature grunted. “Stay.”
Gwyneth glared at its retreating back, then looked around in hopes of finding a way to escape. But there was nothing. An endless stream of creatures was making its way out of the desert and heading west. It wouldn’t be long before they reached the nearest town, then the nearest city ... the king would send soldiers, surely? But the soldiers might not be able to stop the creatures. All they seemed to be good for, these days, was bullying farmers and demanding tax. And more tax. And ...
She glanced at the other prisoners, feeling cold. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason — there were old men and young men, old women and young women — and it puzzled her, more than she cared to admit. Youngsters made good slaves, if the creatures wanted slaves; oldsters weren’t worth keeping alive, not now their village was gone. And yet ...
A man stalked past her, his eyes crawling over the prisoners as he silently counted them. He looked reassuringly normal, yet there was something in his eyes that terrified her. She lowered her eyes, but watched him as best as she could. Who was he? What was he doing with the creatures? What were they?
He reached into his pocket and produced a sheet of parchment and a pen, then wrote something down. Gwyneth frowned, trying to understand what he was doing. Was he a slaver, recording the useful prisoners? Or was he up to something else? She had no way to know. She’d never been taught how to read or write.
“On your feet,” the man ordered, returning the parchment to his pocket. He jabbed a finger westwards. “March.”
Gwyneth stood, then assisted one of the older women to stand. Maybe they had been enslaved after all. Or maybe ... gritting her teeth, she began to stumble west, helping the old woman to walk. There was no way to escape, not yet. They were surrounded by an entire army of monsters. All she could do was follow orders ...
... And pray, desperately, for a chance to escape.
Prologue II
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”
“No, Grandmaster,” Sergeant Miles said. “I believe there is no other choice.”
Grandmaster Gordian didn’t look happy. Miles wasn’t surprised, not really. Gordian might be a stiff-minded bureaucrat, powerful magician or not, but he took his responsibilities seriously. And with his school in disarray, following the near-collapse of the pocket dimensions, the Grandmaster had too many other things on his plate. They’d barely escaped certain death only two days ago — and everyone was screaming for answers the Grandmaster couldn’t provide.
“You intend to take a fifth-year student to the war,” Gordian said. His voice was deceptively even. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Miles said. It spoke well of Gordian, Miles supposed, that the Grandmaster wasn’t prepared to just let Emily go. He didn’t like her — he’d made that clear — but he wasn’t willing to send her into danger. “She is no ordinary student.”
Gordian’s face darkened. To him, Emily would always be a dangerous student. Miles understood, but life was dangerous. No one, not even a Lone Power, could guarantee their own safety. And Whitehall, on the front lines between the Allied Lands and the Blighted Lands, was far from safe. Miles knew, deep inside, just how close the school had come to utter disaster four years ago. Emily had saved them all from a fate worse than death.
“Politics,” Gordian said, finally. He looked up. “I know better than to think this was your idea.”
“General Pollack requested her specifically,” Miles said.
“And it would be politic to grant his request,” Gordian said. “He is her future father-in-law, is he not?”
“If the courtship comes to a successful conclusion,” Miles said. Formal courtships were relatively rare. He was surprised, more surprised than he cared to admit, that Caleb had opened one with Emily. He’d met Caleb’s mother, years ago. She hadn’t struck him as a strict traditionalist. “But I believe he wants the Necromancer’s Bane.”
Gordian’s face darkened. “Does he?”
“Yes, sir,” Miles said. “And he has called in a number of political favors.”
“Of course he has,” Gordian said, dryly.
He leaned back in his chair. “You do realize this will harm her education? She may have to repeat fifth year just to make up for it?”
And you don’t want Emily hanging around for another three years, Miles thought, sardonically. Gordian had tried — hard — to find grounds for expelling Emily, rather than allow her to return to Whitehall after his predecessor had died. The quicker she graduates and leaves, the better.
“I will offer her private tuition over the summer, if she needs it,” Miles said. “And I believe Lady Barb will do the same. If worse comes to worst, she can sit the remedial exams before sixth year begins. It isn’t an ideal solution, but it will have to do.”
“She won’t like that,” Gordian predicted.
Miles nodded. Emily was one of the most studious students in Whitehall, yet even she wouldn’t want to spend her entire summer trying to catch up with the rest of the class. It wasn’t uncommon for students to retake entire years, if they failed their exams, but it was humiliating. And with Emily’s rather ... odd ... status, retaking a year would probably reflect badly on her.
Gordian tapped the desk, meaningfully. “You may ask her,” he said, flatly. “No tricks, no games ... just a simple request. If she chooses not to go, you are not to force her. And I suggest you clear it with her father first.”
Miles nodded, feeling a flicker of grudging respect. The temptation to just order Emily to go to Tarsier had to be overpowering. It would have gotten her out of the school, with no blame attached to the Grandmaster. And if Emily happened to get herself killed ... somehow, he doubted Gordian would spend overlong mourning her. A student like Emily was always a mixed blessing at best.
He pushed the thought out of his mind. “I will ask her,” he said. He had no intention of trying to manipulate the girl. Barb would cut off his unmentionables if he tried. “And I will ... attempt ... to communicate with Void.”
“Very good,” Gordian said. “Ask him first. She is still under his authority.”
Miles shrugged. Only a handful of people knew Emily’s real origins, and Gordian wasn’t one of them. Void ... had played along when people had started to conclude that Void was Emily’s father. It would hardly be out of character for Void to hide the existence of a daughter, then send her to school as soon as she turned sixteen. And he’d even sent her on a dragon ...
And he is her legal guardian, he thought. He rather doubted that Emily understood all the implications, but it wasn’t his place to discuss such matters with her. She does need his permission to go.
“She will be my apprentice, if she chooses to come,” Miles said. He had no illusions. It was not going to be a comfortable experience. “She will be under my protection.”
Gordian looked displeased, but he said nothing. Miles didn’t blame him. It was unusual for anyone to take on an apprenticeship before completing their sixth year, although some students occasionally managed to jump ahead. And yet, having Emily listed as an apprentice, if only for a few months, would make life easier. He would have grounds to teach her spells and tricks that weren’t normally discussed with students.
But then, Emily was no ordinary student.
“Take care of her,” Gordian said. He shrugged, dismissively. “And good luck.”
Miles nodded curtly, although he knew that they would need more than mere luck. The reports were grim. This was no raid, no attempt to capture prisoners the necromancers could sacrifice for power ... this was an all-out invasion. The necromancers had been quiet since Shadye’s death, but few had believed it would last. And now the frozen war had finally come to an end. If Tarsier fell, the Allied Lands would face attacks on three fronts ...
And if the necromancers have finally managed to learn to cooperate, he thought as he headed for the door, it could be the beginning of the
end.
Chapter One
EMILY SNAPPED AWAKE.
Her mind raced. She’d been enspelled ... she’d let herself be enspelled. And then ... her head felt hazy, her memories slightly jumbled. It wasn’t uncommon, if magic was used to stun an unwilling victim, but ... she pushed the thought aside as she tried to move and discovered she couldn’t. Her hands were tied — tightly — behind her back.
She forced herself to concentrate, silently assessing the situation. Her hands and ankles were tied so tightly they were starting to go numb, while ... something ... covered her head. It felt more like a piece of sackcloth than a blindfold, she thought ... she stuck out her tongue and felt rough sacking, far too close to her skin for comfort. Someone hadn’t just tied her up, she realized as she tested her bonds, they’d made escape practically impossible without magic.
There were gaps in her mind, something plucking at her thoughts. She tried to focus on what was wrong, but her mind kept jumping away from it. She didn’t know how she’d got there or how she could escape, or even if she should escape. The only thing she was sure of, lying in the darkness, was that she shouldn’t use magic. And yet she wasn’t sure why. Her magic was there, thrumming below her skin, but she couldn’t use it. She was sure of that when she was certain of very little else.
She gritted her teeth as she rubbed her head against the hard wooden floor. The room was warm, alarmingly warm. Sweat trickled down her back as she tried to remove the sackcloth, just so she could see, but it was tied snugly around her neck. Panic bubbled at the back of her mind as the room started to grow warmer ... where was she? Somewhere in Whitehall or Blackhall? She sniffed the air and shuddered, helplessly, as she tasted smoke. Was the entire building on fire? She listened, carefully, but heard nothing beyond the beating of her own heart. A spell could easily make the air smell of smoke ...
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