Knights Magi (Book 4) (24 page)

His camp, like the others was  in a lobe of meadow, one of many off the main training field it, b a relatively dry patch of grass that was nearly surrounded by marshlands. t The camps on the northern side all faced stony patches and brier fields.  Only the vast green practice field between the sides seemed to offer any respite from the nasty terrain around the fortress. 

Even with the directions it still seemed to take forever for Rondal to find the right little alcove in the brush, but eventually he saw a tall pole of pine with a  stylized racquiel symbol matching his stone affixed to the top.  There were already a few boys there, and more were showing up every moment.  Rondal set about learning who his squadmates were while they waited as the warbrother had advised him.

They all seemed just as exhausted and emotionally challenged as Rondal, after the  previous night’s  purification ceremony.   There was the usual  cautious exchange of names , titles  and origins, they quickly lost all respect for such things.  No one cared if he was a warmage.  No on e cared if he was a knight.  No one seemed to care about anything but clearing their drug-fogged brains and sour stomachs.  But Rondal learned a fair amount about his new comrades while he waited.

There were ten of them in the squad.  Closest to his own rank, there were three young squires whose masters had felt they would benefit from some intensive training.     Jofard, Handol, and Verd, the squires, seemed overly eager, like young boys camping out overnight for the first time.   The did not seem to appreciate the gravity of the Mysteries., though they were clearly strong, healthy, and used to practicing with arms.

Two of the common men, Rax and Dolwyn, were both sons of professional men-at-arms whose fathers had not been able to secure a squirehood for them.  This was a far faster means to a career in arms than patiently holding a spear for years – a Relan Cor certificate would earn them a place as a petty officer at any mercenary outfit in the Duchies.  It was well worth the bounty their sires had paid.  Both boys seemed to take the Mysteries fairly seriously.

The other two commoners seemed worthy enough.   Orphil was the bastard son of someone of high rank who wanted to do right by the boy.  The other, Walven, was a sly-looking Imperial from Remere who kept his motivations and plans to himself.    He had a keen eye for everything around him, which Rondal appreciated, but he also had a bit of aloofness that made him a bit intimidating. 

There were also, to Rondal’s surprise, two other prospec
tive warmagi.   One, Gurandor, was a tall lad with a cock-eyed smile who had failed out of Alar Academy, but had passed his examinations anyway.  He sought a viable career as a warmage, and wanted to hear all about Rondal’s experience

The other, Yeatin, was e
ven more bookish than Rondal.  He was the smallest lad in the squad, and seemingly the weakest.  His arms and legs seemed like brittle sticks, and his shoulders hunched over in an almost debilitating way.  His lifeless shock of brown hair refused to leave his eyes, and his voice grated on everyone’s ears from the moment he opened his mouth.  Rondal could almost hear the thoughts in his squadmates’ heads as Yeatin introduced himself.    Just what was he doing here at the Mysteries?  He did not look up to being an infantryman.  In fact, he seemed completely unsuited to any profession where strength might play a role.

As the sun climbed the sky, their duty officer arrived with a wheelbarrow full of gear , Ancient Feslyn.  He was a large fellow, a veteran of several campaigns and  (as all of their instructors were) an initiate of the advanced third degree of the Mysteries.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” he greeted them.  Ron could not tell from his tone if he was being genuine or mocking, but Feslyn seemed enthusiastic about the Mysteries.   “In this kettle is enough grits and bacon to get you started, but we can have that after the rest of the gear is unloaded.  Get moving!” he barked.

Some of the boys were reluctant, and the three squires seemed to think such work was beneath them. Ancient Feslyn soon corrected that notion in a small but intense private conference.    After that they seemed quite willing to pitch in.

The supplies were scant, Rondal could see as they were unloaded.   They found one piece of sailcloth, ten blankets, a kettle, a clay urn of water, a knife, ten bowls, ten spoons, and a hamper of food.   Rondal started dressing as soon as he could.  The tunics they wore for  that day’s Opening Rite were long, undyed affairs over their trousers and camp-issued boots.  Compared to Rondal’s riding boots, purchased on a whim in Castabriel, the heavy infantry boots seemed to be made of lead. 

And they each got one stick of firewood.  That was it.

“Where’s the flint?” asked Jofard, annoyed at the lack.  “How are we supposed to lay a fire without flint?”

“That’s
your
problem, Soldier,” Ancient Feslyn, said as he came by to check on them.  “The first of many.  That hamper that seems so full is the only food you will be issued for this week.  Use it wisely.  That water jar is the only one you will be issued.  As are all of the other pieces of equipment.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Jofard complained.

“Did someone tell you Duin valued fairness?”  the Ancient chuckled.   “Because they lied to you.  War is not about fairness.   It’s about survival under adversity.  I’m certain you’ll think of something.  Or you’re going to have a very cold night.

“And that goes for the rest of you!” he called to the rest of the squad as they struggled into their new fatigues.  “This is not a fair contest.  It is not a contest at
all.  This is not some pretty tournament.  It is a sacred mystery with no less end than turning you into a  real soldier.   - or kill you trying.  And if you are not careful, it will kill you.  In fact, it can kill you in a hundred different ways if you are not cautious and careful . . . and even then it can still kill you. “

“Surely one of you churls can manage a fire,” Verd called out, a bit contemptuously.

“I would be more cautious of treating your squadmates like that, Verd,” Feslyn admonished.  “Because if they can, they have very little reason to share that skill with a squadmate who calls them such things.  There are no churls here, no commoners, no nobles.  There are only your fellow Neophytes.  Piss them off, and the Mysteries can get pretty rough.  Work together, and you might just survive. “

“Well how
are
we supposed to start a fire?” demanded Verd, who didn’t seem particularly bright. 

“Any way you like,” the Ancient said, unhelpfully.  “If you want additional fuel, you may
scavenge the swamps around you at your leisure.  But I wouldn’t recommend leaving your camp unguarded.  Keep in mind that all of the other squads are likewise provisioned.   And if they run short . . . well, it isn’t unheard of for raiding to occur.”

“Raiding?” asked Yeatin, his eyes wide.  His voice came out like a braying donkey.

“It can get vicious,” admitted the veteran soldier.  “Not usually the first few nights . . . but toward the end of the first week, when the hamper starts to run empty . . .”

“So we had better set a watch,” suggested Walven.  “A good watch, too.  I don’t aim to go hungry this week.”

“You will have a full week’s worth of work ahead of you whether you eat or not.   But protecting your supplies is your responsibility.  Tomorrow you’ll be issued your squad banner.  Your banner is the symbol of your troop.  To let it fall into someone else’s hands is highly dishonorable.  It should be protected as if it were your sister’s virtue. “

“You haven’t met my sister,” remarked Gurandor.

“Opening ceremonies in an hour, Gentlemen,” Feslyn grinned.  “I would really encourage you not to be late.”

“Well, I still don’t see how that’s going to get a fire lit,” snorted Verd.

“You have
magi
with you,” he reminded the boy.  “Try rubbing a few together and you might get sparks.”

“What did he mean by that?” demanded the boy, after the Ancient left.

“Watch,” Rondal said, with a sigh, as he bent to lay the fire properly.  When he had tinder and kindling, gathered from twigs in the brush, he whispered a mnemonic and summoned a very little bit of power . .  and the fire ignited.

“That was handy!” said Handol, grinning. 

“That was
easy,
” boasted Yeatin. 

“It is,” Rondal admitted.  “If you know how.”

The boys sat around the small fire and tried to make plans about how to contend with the sudden threat to their sustenance.

“We should divide the food evenly now,” suggested Gurandor.  “Make each man responsible for his own portion.”

“And see each man lose and prove a drain on his squad mates,” dismissed Rax.  “No, we eat as a squad, we fight as a squad.”

“Still, I see the benefit of hiding at least a portion of it,” Handol proposed.  “Maybe in two separate caches.  We can keep a third out at a time.”

“That seems awfully complicated,” grunted Verd, poking at the fire with a stick. 

“It’s a sensible precaution,” argued Handol.

“So is setting a watch – who is first?” asked Walven.

That’s when the arguing began, and it became clear that something needed to be done.  Part of the squad wanted the boys to each take a short shift, while the other part wanted half the boys to take longer shifts on alternating nights.  The merits of both were discussed, and neither party wanted to yield to the other. 

“We’ve wasted an hour debating,” said Walven, sourly.  “One thing is clear: we need a leader.”

“And that should be you, should it?” asked Verd, suspiciously.

“I offer myself as a candidate,” said Yeatin, officiously.  Everyone ignored him.  Almost.

“He’s got as much right as any,” pointed out Handol.

“So who do we want to lead us?” asked Gurandor, the first time the mage had spoken.  “I say we leave it to the gods to decide.  Whoever gets the burnt twig leads until this time tomorrow, then we’ll pick again.”

No reasonable argument could be made against the plan, so it was adopted, and soon Handol was chosen as the leader of the squad.  He set the watch on alternating shifts, giving half of them at least one full night of rest every other day.  Rondal was satisfied with the plan and even volunteered to take one of the mid-night shifts.

Then the horn rang for their assembly.  Opening Ceremonies, the beginning of their long, dark journey toward the realization of the Mystery.

*
                            *                            *

No one disturbed them that night, as the other camps were as excited and eager as theirs to train.   The next morning, an hour before dawn, they were less eager.  The chill had been more than the thin blankets we made for.  The Ancients and warbrothers began rousing the squads while the stars were still in the sky, using drums and trumpets and
whatever else they cared to make noise with.

Ancient Feslyn’s grinning face informed them that this was the Week of the Left Foot, in which they were to learn the intricacies of a formal unit formation.  He taught them how to stand, how to walk, and how to march within short order and soon the cold was forgotten as they marched to their place on the Practice Field.

That’s where the real fun began.  As the sun was just lightening the eastern sky, the sweaty boys were taught the basic exercises of Imperial Infantry calisthenics, an essential part of the Mysteries.  At first Rondal found the exercise a pointless waste of time.  Then he found them boring.  But soon, as his muscles began to ache and the Ancients screamed at everyone indiscriminately, the vigorous, repetitive movements became a challenge.   Rondal was no weakling, but he quickly learned just how untrained and weak he was.  And if he chanced to forget, Ancient Feslyn made certain to remind him in excruciating and voluminous detail.

Every moment Rondal expected them to end the exercise, certain that they’d pushed them all to their limits.  But them more exercises came.  His chest began heaving with exertion, his rough tunic became soaked with sweat, and his arms and legs began to quiver under the strain.  A few boys dropped out early . . . and were subjected to such brutal humiliations as a result that the rest resolved to move faster.  Rondal merely kept his body doing what it was supposed to, as long as he physically could . . . and then some.

Finally, collapsed in a heap, the cadets were allowed to rest for a few moments while a warbrother read morning prayers.  Then they were forced to get up and run the three long miles up to the gates of Relan Cor, proper, and then back.  They arrived just as the light was bright enough for Rondal to see Yeatin’s acne.  They would have collapsed in a heap had Ancient Feslyn not told them they had but twenty minutes until the first bell of the day to prepare and eat breakfast.

They spent the morning learning how to march.  Rondal always thought such a thing was pretty straightforward – after all, it was just walking.  But it didn’t take long for Rondal to discover the painful difference between walking and marching.  All morning long they marched, from one end of the field to the other and back again.  Nothing more complicated – and nothing he had ever done seemed harder, after the first three hours.

When the horn called for lunch, they sprinted back to their camp to gobble down a few morsels, drink some water and tend to their personal needs.  All too soon the drum summoning them to parade sounded.  Rondal made it back in time, still chewing a brutally hard piece of journeybread, but not everyone was so lucky.  Yeatin and Orphil were both late to formation.  After he saw what they went through as a result, Rondal vowed never to be late for formation.