Knights Magi (Book 4) (29 page)

“Of
children!”
snorted Rax.

“Of
young recruits
,” corrected Walven, evenly.  “Plenty of lads our age enter military service.  And with helmets on it’s hard to tell our ages.  Especially in the darkness, which we should soon have an abundance of.”

“So . . . we’re going to steal
someone’s food at the point of a wooden sword?”

“No,” Walven said, smiling.  “We’re going to convince them to
give
it to us.”

The village of Grynwyn was on the edge of its domain, the river acting as the border of the land.  There was no bridge there, but there was a decent ford, and the boys were able to drag their boats onto the bank without discovery. 

Under Walven’s guidance the squad formed up under their thin cloaks, spears in hand, and marched not toward a village inn, but toward the manor hall of Grynwyn.  It was a squat, one-story affair at least a century old, but there was a three-story tower there and no less than five grain silos.  Walven, who acted as leader by acclamation, pulled his helmet down over his eyes until they were barely visible, and encouraged the rest of them to as well.

They marched in good order to the gate of the manor where they rang the bell.  The gatekeeper came to see them, lifting a lantern high and peering into the shadows.  Everyone kept their shields up.  In the darkness it was hard to see the wooden points of the practice weapons they bore. 

“What is this?” demanded the rustic watchman. 

“We’ve come to arrest the lord of the manor,” Walven said, authoritatively.

“What? 
Sir Andras?
  Why?” the man cried in alarm.

“Because those are our orders!” Walven insisted.  “Open at once, or we wills storm the manor!”  To emphasize his point, the rest of the squad brandished their spears menacingly. 

“All right, all right!” agreed the man in panic, as he opened the latch.  “By whose authority are you—”

Rondal touched the man and whispered a word, and he fell instantly asleep.

“I like that!” Rax smiled, as they helped the guard to the ground.

“Spread out,” ordered Walven, gesturing.  “Secure the stable, the front door, and the side door.  Gurandor, you and Handol take the rear.”

The boys scattered out as commanded without questioning Walven’s orders.  They had learned the importance of obeying first.  In moments they had effective control of the manor.

“If I’d known conquest was this easy . . .” Jofard grinned.

“It helps when they don’t know you’re coming,” said Walven.  “But you fellows just back what I say, stand around and look menacing, and we’ll be fed before you know it.”

He led the rest of the squad to the door of the manor where he pounded until someone came.  As soon as the door opened, he pushed his way in.

“Where is Sir Andras?” he demanded of the confused old woman.

“What?  Trygg take you, the master is at board!” she insisted, angrily.  Walven put his hand dangerously on the hilt of his wooden sword. 

“Then lead us to him,” the boy said, his eyes narrow.  “We would have words with him.  And be sharp about it!” he insisted.  The woman wailed and led the cadets back to the great hall of the manor.  Three men and two women sat at a trestle table.

“Seize him!” Walven ordered.  Rondal was surprised, but marched forward to where the oldest man was sitting, and grabbed his left arm as Dolwyn grabbed his right.  They dragged the old man to Walven, who was looking at him appraisingly. 

“Sir Andras of Devas, you are hereby bound by law by the rightful—”

“Wait, wait!” the old man squealed.  “You have the wrong man!  You have the wrong man!”

“What?” Walven said, scornfully.  “I think not!  Sir Andras of Devas, you have—”

“But I’m not Sir Andras of Devas!” the old knight insisted, shaking the boys’ hands off.  “I’m Sir Andras of
Culwen!
  I’ve never even heard of Devas!”

“What?” Walven said, feigning surprise.

“I said, I’ve never even heard of Devas!  Ishi’s bum, I’ve never even left the county!”

“So . . . your
liege lord is not Arscot, Baron of Drune?” Walven asked, confused.

“No!  Never heard of the man!” the knight insisted.

“That’s just what a fugitive might say, Captain,” Rondal offered, helpfully.

“So it is,” Walven agreed, his eyes narrowing.  “Can you prove that you are not, indeed, Sir Andras of Devas?”

“Fetch my patent!  Roquilly, fetch my patent of nobility!” he shouted, apparently to his maidservant.  “Quickly!” he insisted, terrified.

“This is highly irregular, Captain,” Rondal pointed out to Walven, playing the part of the officious clerk.

“If he’s not Sir Andras of Devas,” Walven said, just loudly enough for the man to overhear, “then what will we do?  This is most embarrassing!”

“Slaughter them all, Captain?” Rondal suggested, evilly.

“We’ll see,” shrugged the cadet.

The fat little maid brought a sheaf of parchment bearing many seals attesting that the man was, indeed, Sir Andras of Culwen, not the miscreant Sir Andras of Devas. 

Walven appeared reluctant to accept his story, and even ordered his men to prepare to burn the manor down, when Andras finally broke down and pleaded for his life and livelihood.

“Well, I hate to report a failure,” murmured Walven.  “And I was ordered to arrest Sir Andras, and I don’t think my commander really cares which Sir Andras is supplied . . . yet . . .”

“Sir,” Rondal said, respectfully.  “Perhaps if the men were fed and rested while we sort this out?  It might keep them from getting . . . anxious.”

“Yes, yes, by all means, Captain!” Sir Andras said, his eyes wide.  “Have a seat, let us feed you – you must be weary!”

“Well,” Walven said, appearing to waver.  “If this is the wrong manor . . . and you are the wrong Sir Andras . . .”

“I am, I am!” he insisted.  “Let’s talk about this like reasonable gentlemen!”

The entire squad ate well that night, raiding the manor’s pantry for food and drink, and then stuffing their pockets with more, all at the urging of the frightened manor staff.  When Walven was satisfied, he finally agreed to leave without further attempts to arrest Sir Andras.

“And that, gentlemen,” the squad leader said as he led them back to the boat in darkness, “is how you rob a manor house.”

“I’ve done it before,” Rondal dismissed.  “But we didn’t even use magic on this one.  Impressive,” he admitted.

“I’m happy with the results,” agreed Rax, picking his teeth.  “Now let’s see just how far downstream we can make it tonight.

The boys almost missed their landing the next morning, as they made better time than they expected.  But Rondal, alert with his magemap, got them to stop and haul their boats ashore just before the bridge closest to Relan Cor.

“Six miles?” scoffed
Verd, as they began to march.  “That’s nothing!”

They moved quietly through the countryside, along the road to Relan Cor, and were nearly there . . . when they ran into a knot of yellow-and-red-clad warriors bearing wooden swords.

“There’s
seven
of them!” moaned Rax, as they peered up the road from cover.

“There are ten of us,” Yeatin pointed out.

“Nine,” corrected Dolwyn scornfully.  “Look at the size of them!”

“Regardless, we outnumber them,” Yeatin said.  “And we need not engage them.  We can always go around.”

“That doesn’t look practical,” Walven suggested.  “Not unless we want to backtrack up river and try to go through the swamps.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Let’s attack,” Rondal decided.  He was elected leader again the night before, after the successful raid on the manor.  They’d slept only four or five hours before they got under way again.  “I’m tired of skulking around.  And we don’t have to kill them,” he reminded, “we just have to get past them.”

“Attack?” asked Walven, curious.  “I didn’t think you were the aggressive type.  Why not use some spell?”

“I’ve had occasion to learn,” Rondal said, dryly.  “And while I’m sure there’s some clever magical device I could use to achieve our goal, the truth is I’m sick and tired of skulking about.  Our camp is right over there, and I need a hot meal and a warm blanket more than the breath of life itself.  There are only seven of them.  And how many times have we been told that a sudden, all-out attack with no regard for our personal safety was often the best tactic to take in an engagement?”

“I thought that was just bluster!” Yeatin whined.

“It was good advice,” Orphil agreed.  “But I still don’t want to get creamed the moment we stick our heads out there.”

“We won’t,” Rondal assured.  “Remember, we only have to get past them, we don’t have to defeat them.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

Rondal looked around.  “Someone needs to steal some rope.”

It took almost half an hour for the boys to round up what they needed, under Rondal’s direction, and if they were skeptical about the plan, they couldn’t conceive of a better one. 

It began with the smallest of the squad, Verd, apparently blundering out into the road in front of the guards without his helm, shield, or sword.  He looked for all the world like a cadet who got separated from his unit.  The yellow-clad guards grinned and gave chase, most of them, leaving only two guarding the entry to Relan Cor.

While Verd led his heavily-armored pursuers on a merry chase through the village, the other boys surprised the remaining guards.  To keep from getting bogged down in a protracted engagement, Rondal had the largest two boys pick up the small punt and rush the defenders with it, using it as a giant shield against their blows.  Immediately behind it ran four more boys, who sprung out against the bowled-over guards and bashed their helmets with their wooden swords while the others passed by. 

Meanwhile, Verd rounded a corner of the road and ducked into an alley between two hovels, and nimbly leapt over the rope they’d stretched between.  In their cumbersome helmets, their attention on Verd, the warriors didn’t see the rope until it was too late.  By the time they untangled themselves from it, Verd had sprinted away to follow his mates.

“All right!” Rondal bellowed, as the  gate of Relan Cor came into sight.  “Let’s form up, marching formation!  Banner-bearer to the front!”

“We did it!” Rax chortled in delight.  “I can’t believe that worked!”

“We’re not there yet,” Rondal said, grimly.  “Somehow I don’t think that will be the last obstacle in our path.  Not a good time to get complacent.”

As if he was prophesying, five more knights in yellow and black tabards sprang
out from the brush beside the causeway and challenged the squad on its way back to camp.  Much to Rondal’s surprise, he recognized one of the men.

“Tyndal!”
he spat, angrily, for no real reason.  He hadn’t seen his fellow apprentice in almost a full moon, and apart from some general resentment over what happened at Inarion, he hadn’t spared him much thought.  But the sight of his grinning face under the visor of the helmet enraged him for some reason.  He had originally planned on trying to skirt the causeway, but as soon as he saw Tyndal he changed his plan.

“Ishi’s tits!  All right,” he called out, “Shields to the front, spears behind, wedge formation with Rax and Verd on rearguard, Scorpion’s Tail team,  Yeatin keep the banner in the center, right behind Jofard.  We hit them hard and keep going.  Watch for magic, that one on the end is a warmage, and I’ll take care of him.  The rest of you
barrel on through and don’t stop until you’re on the practice field.  We’ve got to be at least fourth or fifth place, at this point.”

“
Maybe
fifth,” Gurandor said, dejectedly.

“It doesn’t matter if we’re last, we go in there like we’re the
first
.  Take your positions, make ready to charge . . . he shouted, as the boys quickly re-formed according to his direction.  He took a deep breath, surveying the backs of the helmets of his squad.  He didn’t care if they got the snot beat out of them. They were going through that causeway.   “. . . And . . . STRIKE!”

They marched along at quick order, without calling a cadence.  It only took moments for the defenders to recognize an attack and arm themselves - but Rondal didn’t care.  They set up a defensive shield wall, but it was ragged and undisciplined.  When they arrived within twenty feet of the most forward-positioned defender, Rondal ordered the charge.

The front two squadmates, Jofard and Orphil, kept their shields locked together as they appeared in force and used their big shields to bully their way through the first two defenders, both armed with wooden greatswords.  The spearmen behind them growled and entangled the defenders’ blades just long enough to allow the boys on either side to beat their helmets soundly as they passed. 

“DEAD!” Jofard bellowed with each resounding slap of wood against metal. 

Walven lept out and assailed two defenders on their flanks, armed with wooden cavalry swords and shields.  Gurandor slipped in behind him to support his ferocious assault, and between the two the left flank was secure.  Rondal kept to the right flank, and when the front shields pushed passed the others, he found himself shield-to-shield with his fellow apprentice.  He felt Walven float quietly behind him, spear ready to support his attack.  Tyndal couldn’t see that, but . . .