Knights Magi (Book 4) (25 page)

“This is your squad banner!” the Captain of Neophytes announced as the Ancients handed out long poles with small green flags on the end of them to every tenth man.  “Each banner has an animal, your squad number, and your company number. “  Rondal stole a quick glance at theirs, clasped in Verd’s meaty fist.  It had a large 2, a smaller 3, and a racquiel embroidered upon it.   He’d never seen one of the nocturnal mammals himself, but the goofy nose and the big eyes didn’t seem particularly terror-inspiring.

“For a cadet squad to lose its banner is the supreme dishonor.  A squad without their banner at morning call is subject to restrictions and punishments.  A squad who loses their banner and does not recover it . . . does not pass the Mystery.  Protect and guard your banner.  And remember how great the honor is in capturing the banner of an enemy.”

He said nothing further on the subject, but the intent was clear.  Rondal immediately began to feel anxiety about the stupid pole.

“This morning, you learned how to walk in a straight line.  That’s the essence of the Left Foot, and you’ll master that this week.” There were loud groans.   That’s how the rest of the Week of the Left Foot went.  Just when they thought there could be no more nuance to the art, they learned even more about marching.

After a week, they were, indeed, masters of the art.  That’s when they learned about the Week of the Right Foot.

“Last week you learned how to walk a straight line,” their warbrother informed them.  “This week you will learn to walk in a straight line . . . carrying a spear.”  There were even louder groans.  “But since none of you can be trusted with proper weapons yet, we shall use these poles, instead,” he said, gesturing to two great piles of staves on either side of his horse.  Each one was far thicker than any spear shaft.

For the next seven hours, until long past twilight, they learned how to march bearing a spear, and then learned the rudiments of presenting and shouldering the weapons.   When Rondal could have sworn he’d marched his feet off, they were summoned into formation for the warbrother’s vespers and a sermon.  At last, when the moon was rising, they were dismissed, their overlarge spears over their shoulders, back to their camps to eat and sleep.

“Sweet Mother Trygg, are they trying to kill us?” complained Yeatin, his voice twisted into a torturous whine.  “This is just week two!  I can’t properly feel my legs anymore!”

“Oh, shut up!” growled Verd as he savagely tore into his ration of journeybread.  The soup was not hot yet, but some were gulping it down anyway, clumps and all.  “All you did today was bitch and moan and I’m sick of it!”

“If they would be reasonable—” Yeatin insisted, rubbing his aching, bone-thin calves.

“They don’t
have
to be reasonable,” Orphil said, philosophically.  “In fact, being reasonable doesn’t make good soldiers.  They’re just following the same book every other Imperially-trained infantry for the last thousand years has.  The original Mystery is said to have come from Perwyn, a gift of the primal god of war.   The Mystery has been completed by hundreds of thousands of soldiers.  It works.”

“It didn’t work against the Narasi,” argued Jofard, his mouth full.  “We rolled right over them!”

“I don’t believe you were there,” the Remeran, whose ancestors had fought against them shot back.  “And the Imperial Army was still better trained than your barbarian cavalry – you just had more.  But your ancestors never won an infantry engagement against the Magocracy.  On horseback, by surprise and stealth, your ancestors excelled.  On foot, they died in droves.  Kamalkavan conquered from horseback, but he could not rule until the infantry surrendered.”

“Why the hells are you
talking?
” moaned Handol, his head between his knees.  “Let’s pick a leader, post a guard, and go to sleep!  Do you know how
soon
dawn is?”

“Is that an order, petty-captain?” asked Dolwyn with a hint of sarcasm.

“Damn right it is.  Do it now.  My last order.”

Walven drew the burnt twig.  He set the watch, finished his stew and rolled into a
blanket.  Rondal followed suit, the cold, hard ground beckoning him like the softest feather bed.  He was asleep the moment his head touched the ground.

Once again Ancient Feslyn awakened them before dawn for calisthenics, and thence to their mastery of the Right Foot.  That day they learned not only how to march with a spear, but how to move a spear while marching.  After a long morning marching, another run up to the gate and a surprise additional ration of bitter bread, they fell in for a surprise inspection.

Rondal swung his over-sized spear haft as deftly as possible, but nothing seemed to please Ancient Feslyn.  He hurled insults at him, berating him for a coward and the son of a whore.  Rondal took it in stride – he’d accused Dolwyn of abusing sheep.

When he came to Yeatin, however, the Ancient was really harsh.  He virtually devoured the lad, who quivered uncontrollably with fear as the iron-jawed Ancient bellowed out his deficiencies in colorful terms.  It didn’t help his cause that Yeatin could barely handle the three-inch thick pole, as the Ancient proved by knocking it out of his hand repeatedly.

Disgusted, Ancient Feslyn ordered the entire squad punished.  Their poles were replaced by five-inch poles, almost unbearably heavy.  Then they practiced marching in formation again until the evening stars rose.

And so it went, and even the beginning of the Left Hand Week was starting to be anticipated – anything had to be better than marching with a pole.  While everyone was furious at Yeatin, they had not the strength to even bully him much once they slumped back to camp.  They half-heartedly drew lots, ate a few mouthfuls, drank, and passed out.  Rondal had been assigned the first watch, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

The next week, the Left Hand, went much the same, only to their burden was added a twenty-five pound wooden shield.  The strap was cumbersome and fit unevenly.  The weight and made their shoulders ache within the first hour.  By the end of the week they were exhausted, ready to collapse into dust every night . . . that’s when they were forced on a scenic march through the bog to the south of the fortress.  They went to sleep that week often unable to even prepare a proper meal.

The next week was the Right Hand.  They were finally issued heavy wooden swords, portraying short infantrymans’ blades.  They did not use them to practice fighting . . . they simply marched with them.  On and on they marched.  That first Right Hand afternoon they received backpacks, each containing a few extra rations and a bottle of water.  It also contained three heavy sticks of firewood.  They marched to the gate and back again.  Rondal was starting to hate the sight of the gate.

The bruises and blisters on his feet were nearly unbearable.  He and the other magi used what spells they could to tend the squad’s wounds at night, but none were medically-gifted.  Only with his witchstone could he have summoned the power needed to do a proper job.  At most he stopped the pain enough to allow them to sleep.  Most hadn’t even stripped off their packs, falling asleep the moment they returned to camp, their poles and shields cast aside.

That was the night of the first raid.  One of the other squads had exhausted their food supply, and decided the Third’s squads could make up for it.  Luckily, their watchman had better sight than the racquiel that was their totem – Gurandor had employed a Cat’s Eye spell during his watch, and was able to rouse his mates quietly just before the first of them entered the camp.

What ensued was a confused melee with wooden swords and poles, where friend could only barely discern friend in the darkness.  Rondal roused himself quickly enough – he’d learned that trick back in Boval, during the siege.  Wooden sword in hand he faced his opponent, his magesight coming to him automatically.  Despite days of exhausting toil, little food and little sleep, he didn’t feel his muscles ache or his bones protest as he gave a savage cry and defended his territory.

He was surprised how quickly he responded, and how viscerally.  He wasn’t the only one.  The racquiel squad responded with a punishing defense.  It only took a few hard strokes to speed the other cadets on their way.  He faced two different boys and bested them both in their contests.  Most of his fellows were victorious, as well, with only a few nursing bruises.

Rondal screamed triumphantly over the victory.  Someone stirred the fire to life and they spent a few moments ensuring neither the flag nor dwindling food supply had been touched.  They crawled back into their blankets sore and tired, but feeling victorious.

Two more days they marched and marched and marched, until the Mystery mandated two days of rest and instruction.  Rondal had stopped being able to feel his feet days before and his back only ached miserably, not intolerably now.   He was shocked, as he sat at morning prayer, that his legs
felt
like marching now.  He marveled at the sadistic whim of the war god in the irony of that.

The day of rest included little actual rest.  Instead it involved instruction in rudimentary swordplay and a whole
new
regimen of calisthenics designed to strengthen the muscles of the infantry swordsman.  They learned the Rite of the Sword, the ancient basis for all swordplay, according to legend.  They practiced with their wooden blades for hours, not sparring, just exercising against each other in predetermined patterns.  There were sacred chants associated with each exercise to help time them.

To his horror, Rondal realized what the purpose of the rite was –
he was learning swordplay
, learning it at a fundamental level, at his bones.  He’d always swung his sword inelegantly before, but the rhythms and the pattern of strikes against his partner’s blade were teaching his body and his mind to respond as one.  He even caught himself humming the cadence of some of the rites to himself, and imagining his positioning as he did so.

Rondal wasn’t a natural swordsman.  His swordmaster repeated every criticism Sire Cei had ever had of his swordplay, but without the restraint of propriety.  But for the first time he recognized swordplay as a subject to be studied, not just a reflex.  He began to see it as expressions of leverage and force, not pointless exercise.  It was like lining up all of the proper sigils in the correct positions in a spell, he discovered, you first had to learn the fundamentals. With every dull impact on his wooden blade, his body and his mind began cooperating a little more, instead of working at odds.

And much to his surprise, he got better.

Not much, at first, but he began avoiding mistakes he had been making for months, so that when the first few real sparring matches came along during the Feast of the Crown, he was able to hold his own against his opponents.  Most of his squadmates were likewise acquiring proficiency.

Yeatin, on the other hand, was hopeless.  He couldn’t push his lanky frame into the proper position, so his blade was always at the wrong place at the wrong time.  His arms and legs and ribs were striped with bruises that night.  He persisted in moaning his pain until one of his squadmates offered to knock him unconscious.

The second day to their surprise, they were actually allowed to rest.  They slept until the sun was in the sky, their bodies grateful.  That morning they were given a bonus ration of sweetened oatmeal with nuts and raisins and half a mug of ale.  It was the most delicious ale Rondal ever tasted.

Then the Warbrothers began their rites.  There were sermons on Life and Death and Duty and Honor, the four blessings of the war god, no matter his name.  The power to defend and to attack.  The power to destroy and obey.  Unity in purpose led to the greater honor and glory.  The solemn lectures went on and on.  Only the fact that he wasn’t marching kept Rondal from squirming out of boredom half of the time.

Rondal paid attention mostly because there was nothing better to do.  It was even kind of interesting.  The nature of the soul was discussed.  The legality and moral propriety of taking life in battle was discussed.   The warrior monks elicited them each to testify of their own experiences in battle.  There were few who had any experience, and most of what was spoken of were skirmishes between feuding families or, in one case, a raid on a farmstead during a boundary dispute.

When the warbrother called him out, unexpectedly, as a veteran of battle and invited him to speak, Rondal surprised himself by discussing the worst moments of the Boval siege in front of everyone.

While his squadmates and rivals alike listened, he told them about the sudden attack, the unexpected siege, the abject fear he’d felt from the first time he faced a threat that wanted to kill him.  He spoke of how he was given a blade and a wand and a witchstone and not much else and had to fight for his life.  He spoke of the first time he had faced a screaming, fanatical goblin face to face and had stuck his sword into his throat.  He spoke of the dozens he’d killed since, and the other horrors he’d faced – trolls, hobgoblins, and even the dragon at Cambrian Castle.

That last admission brought a newfound respect from his squadmates.  He downplayed his role in the contests as desperate affairs.  He’d followed orders, he fought as hard as he could, but he dismissed his deeds as minor, compared to the others who’d fought with him in the war.

There were other tales, some no doubt embellished.  But Rondal’s testimony captivated them all.  There were plenty of un
-blooded warriors among them who immediately wanted more details, eager for that kind of glory.  Rondal envied their innocence – if he’d had his preference, he would have stayed at Inarion Academy until he’d read every book and mastered every spell his Talent could bear.