Knights Magi (Book 4) (30 page)

Tyndal grinned broadly through the bars, his shaggy blond hair hanging out of the borrowed practice helmet like too much hay in a barn. 

“Hey, Ron!” he began to say.  “I saw—”

Rondal didn’t hesitate.  As Dolwyn, in front of him and on his left, pushed Tyndal’s cavalry shield slightly out of line, Rondal threw his elbow up as if he was feinting for a head strike.  Tyndal reflexively raised his shield . . . but did not cant it enough to avoid the hard snap Rondal’s increasingly strong wrist brought to bear when he pulled it back over the
shield.  There was a mighty thud of wood on steel, and Tyndal was reeling from the blow.

Rondal didn’t spare him another glance.  “KEEP MOVING!” he ordered, as the Scorpion’s Tail moved in behind.  That was a formation that put most of the spears in the rear, allowing them to rove to the left, right, or over the heads of the front shieldmen.  As they passed by the shattered line of defenders, the spears were able to strike swiftly at the disorganized defenders, keeping them from regrouping . . . or even rising.  Rondal heard another hard clunk behind him, and knew that Handol’s fake spear had smashed against Tyndal’s helmet, hard.

“To the practice field!” Rondal ordered.  “
Double time!
”

They re-formed into a better-dressed line and began to trot, a difficult thing to do with a full pack and arrayed for battle.  But the boys were no longer unused to such burdens, and the prospect of food and rest and sleep was too alluring for them to let weariness interfere.  Rax began to sing a particularly dirty marching song concerning the proclivities of the whores of Barrowbell that finished up just as the squad marched boldly into the practice field.

There were already some cadets there, and Rondal’s heart fell – he almost thought that they would be the first.  It was a foolish hope, but it had kept him going for a few miles. 

But then he realized that the boys milling around were there in singles and doubles – four was the most he saw standing together around their shredded banner, and it looked like it took all four of them to keep it aright.  But nothing close to a full squad. 

The Third Squad, Second Company was, as the Warbrother at the gate informed them, the first
complete
squadron to make it back.  The others had not been permitted to sound the great horn at the reviewing stand, not until the largest squad had been determined. 

“You mean . . . we won?” asked Jofard, in a girlish whisper.

“Indeed, by Duin’s grace,” chuckled the pleased warrior monk.  “You may sound the horn at will.”

“Let’s do this right,” Rondal said, like a man suddenly possessed.  “Form up, parade block, Yeatin on the banner, ready . . . MARCH.  Walven, call the cadence!” he grinned.

The bystanders broke into applause and shouts of praise.  Instead of tearing after the prize like they were attacking it, Rondal brought them in as a disciplined unit.  As the Racquiel Squad marched into the field and took up their parade position, it felt like every instructor, monk, and Ancient in Relan Cor had come out to watch.

“Squadron . . . HALT!” ordered Rondal.  His fellows obligingly came to a stop and rested their spears in one disciplined movement, as Ancient Feslyn approached, grinning.

“Third Squadron, Second Company, reporting as ordered, SIR!” Rondal said, saluting with his spear and shield after calling his squad to attention.

Their Ancient stood at attention and returned the salute, then formally bowed.  “Well done, Neophytes!” he boomed.  “
Racquiel Squad!  You just won me a beefsteak dinner!  Not that I’m complaining, but . . . how did you get back here so quickly?” he asked, amused but mystified.

“We took to the river and by-passed the road entirely, Sir!” Rondal called. 

“And the defenders at the gate?”

“The squadron conducted a surprise attack using distraction, concocted an ambush, and
kicked their asses
. . . SIR!” Rondal said, proudly.

“Then you have won,” he pronounced.  “Squadleader, please blow the horn of victory, and then dismiss your men.  You have three hours before your feast will be ready at the Warbrother’s Chapel,” he said, his wrinkled and scarred face breaking into a grin.  “I would recommend you spend at least
some
of that time productively in the bathhouse.”

“Squadron . . . DISMISSED!” Rondal called, and then the boys followed him over to the stand after stacking their arms neatly in place.  He took up the great ox horn, looked around at his excited fellows, and held it to his lips, blowing a mighty
blast.  It was a low, deep, rumbling sound that seemed to make his very bones vibrate.  He didn’t know why, but when he handed it to Walven he felt . . .
changed.

He was watching with excitement as each of the squad, including frail Yeatin, who had borne every burden asked and had done so without complaint, blew a blast on the horn.  It was while the weakest member of his squad was celebrating that Tyndal approached, still wearing his yellow and black tabard.

“Ron!” he called as he crossed the field.  “Ron, that was
amazing!”

“What?” Rondal asked, confused.

“How you just plowed through us like that!” the senior apprentice laughed.  “We were ready to take you apart, and you just didn’t give us a chance!  Why didn’t you stick around to duel?” he asked, sounding a little . . . hurt?  “I wanted to see how good you’ve gotten.”

“That wasn’t part of our mission,” the junior apprentice said, coolly.  “Our mission was to get past you, not defeat you.”

Tyndal snorted.  “Like you could ever defeat me—”

Before Rondal could mount a defense, his squadmates beat him to it.  Walven was in Tyndal’s face instantly.

“You fight him, you fight the whole
fucking
squad,” the young man said in a serious voice.  “I don’t know what your problem with him is, but Striker is an outstanding soldier,” he continued, aggressively, “and he got us through this trial without a hiccup!  It was his idea to take the river!”

“Striker?
” asked Tyndal, confused.

“That’s his war name,” Verd insisted, the little bantam just as aggressive in Rondal’s defense.  “We just decided on the way up the causeway.  Striker . . . for how hard he struck you,” he added.

“Struck
me?
” he asked, confused. 

“Why don’t you just scamper back to the fortress with the rest of the knights?” Jofard asked, his hands on his hips.  “This field is for the Mysteries.  Neophytes only.  We need no interlopers here.”

Tyndal looked at Rondal thoughtfully, almost respectfully.  Rondal didn’t mind the change.  “Well, it looks like you have your own little band now, Ron,” he said, reluctantly.  “I guess you don’t need me keeping an eye on you.”

“I never did,” Rondal said, his jaw clenched.  “Now please excuse me . . . my squad and I have some celebrating to do.”  He watched as Tyndal left without another word.  And when he was gone, he felt as if yet-another burden had been suddenly lifted from him. 

He had felt as if he was in Tyndal’s shadow for the last few years, ever since he became Master Minalan’s apprentice by default.  It hadn’t mattered that he was a better mage than Tyndal; the younger boy was more like their master than he was by nature and temperament.

But now he found he didn’t care as much.  After Tyndal left, Rondal looked around at his celebrating squadmates and was glad that the other boy wasn’t involved in this victory.  It was something he had done on his own – earned on his own – without even
his witchstone
to rely on.

He slowly started to grin as he realized that.  He and his team had triumphed over everyone else not because he was a High Mage, or a Mage Knight, or a Magelord . . . apart from a few fires and a little scrying, he’d done precious little magic at all. 

What he saw around him was the result of his
own personal efforts.
  He hadn’t borrowed anything, hadn’t gotten any help from his master to win through the challenges of the Mysteries.  He had done this, he and his squad, on their own.  For no particular reason, Rondal suddenly felt at ease, peaceful in a way that had eluded him most of his life.

“Let’s get back to camp,” he ordered, when the squad’s enthusiasm had banked.  “A couple of hours of napping, a hot bath, and we can attack the banquet table.”

*                            *                            *

The feast was laid out in the Warbrother’s Chapel, a long tent that served as the commanders’ lounge during the day when it wasn’t being employed for instruction or services.  The feast itself was a simple affair, but included all the food they could eat.  Bread, fish, vegetables cooked in broth, and an entire goat was roasted for their meal, and another small barrel of ale was made available.  The ten boys were thoroughly elated, stuffing their faces after their grueling march like they were starving.

During the feast each one was called upon to tell his part in the trial to the three Warbrothers and two Ancients who attended.  As they were now twice victorious in their contests they were given a far more private rite than the mass of their fellow Neophytes, who were still trickling in.  The final rite could only be performed for the full squad, so many ended up waiting on stragglers, their whole squads paying for the individual soldier’s failure.

The rite was solemn, with Warbrother Arthus lighting the torches that called Duin’s attention and giving to them the instruction in the Mystery:

“For twenty generations men have performed the Mysteries,” he said, quietly, “to be initiated into a career of arms.  The skills taught in the Mysteries are valuable,” he said, looking around at each of them in the light of the few tapers inside the tent, “but it is not the skills that elevate a man from being a mere soldier to being an Initiate.  The skills can be taught to anyone – even women, aye, in the defense of their homes, at pressing need.

“But the men who complete the Mysteries are bound together by bonds of sweat and blood.  Less than a moon ago you were competitors and strangers.  You bore the names of your fathers or your homelands and looked forward to a life with a sword in your hand.  Now,” he said, enthusiastically, “now you are brothers, your bonds forged from the toil and effort you have put into the Mysteries.

“Are they difficult?  Aye.  Unfair?  Aye.  Brutal?  Of necessity.
A boy doesn’t become a man over a cozy cup of tea.
  It takes fire, sweat, blood, effort, two hands, two feet, a head and a heart, and that must be heated and beaten in the Mysteries, overseen by older men and initiates.  Else the blade that results will be weak when it most needs to be strong. 

“But Duin grants to all who complete his Mysteries an especial boon.  Each squadron who completes the Mysteries stands together in the sight of Duin, after death, for the Mysteries stay with the soul long after the body has grown cold.  In the sight of Duin your comrades will answer for you, sing of your deeds, testify to your valor, and share in Duin’s judgment with you. 

“For that is one of the Mysteries: for he who picks up a sword in accordance with sacred law, to defend their homes or to attack another in conquest, he is blessed by the Red God.  A man who is willing to lay down his life for his family, his people, his nation, that man is blessed, and his death shall be a time of great mourning and celebration.  Be it for gold or for honor or for duty, the man who dies an initiate never dies alone.  For each of you is now obligated to attend the funeral of your fellow initiates, speak words over their grave, and help pray their souls to the halls of Duin the Destroyer.”

Rondal looked up at the warrior-monk, a new appreciation for what he had been
doing coming to him.  He looked around the low table they were gathered around. 

From Rax, who would complain the gold you gave him was too shiny, to Jofard, who could inspire with his presence yet took orders with soldierly grace, to Walven, whose scheming mind and keen insight had allowed them to out-think their challenges, each of them had given something of themselves on this journey.  He could have less stalwart squadmates, he decided. He had been fortunate.   As rough as they had been coming into the Mysteries, now they knew how to work as a unit.

“Duin’s Gift is death in battle,” the Warbrother continued.  “While the priestesses of Ishi and Trygg and Briga champion the force of Life, as they should, the gifts of the goddesses are for times of peace, and are there to bring comfort and growth.  They are given to women, first and foremost, for women bear the future of Man. 

“Duin’s Gift is granted to menfolk, and his Mysteries reserved for us, for while we can serve the force of Life, as Huin does, the ability to slay and conquer is the responsibility of men alone.  When invaders pour over the frontier, and women and children are safely within stone walls, it is the men of the domain who take up arms and give their lives to defend them.  On women, the gift of life is bestowed, and they are reminded of this in blood every month.  On men is the gift of death bestowed.  We are reminded of this by the blood that stains your blade.”

They were all silent for a few moments as they reflected on this.  Rondal knew women fought – during the siege of Boval, plenty had taken up arms or supported the militia manning the walls.  And he knew there were some militant orders of priestesses, even warsisters. 

But he also knew that it was men who were the first in battle, and men who died first when invaders came.  It was a heavy burden, knowing that to be a man meant dicing with death every time he picked up a sword.

“But you all have been called to the Mysteries.  You are learning the brotherhood of arms, the rites of war, the secret, sacred Mysteries of attack, defense, obedience, and duty.  For when you all fight together, united in purpose, giving up your autonomy as warriors in exchange for the glory of a unified purpose.  The honor of service to your fellow soldiers.  Valor, my sons, is its own reward.  Beyond domains and lands, titles and riches, to take up a sword and shield with stout comrades at your side . . . that, my sons, that is Duin’s true gift to men!”

Eventually the time came to choose their War Names, an important part of the
Mysteries.  Now that they had been in – mock – battle together, the rite required that their comrades grant them the name they would someday face the War God with. 

Warbrother Arthus oversaw the ritual, and called out the War Name when it was presented to him with a loud “Thus shall Duin greet thee as . . .”

Rondal became
Striker,
by unanimous acclamation.

Jofard became
Giant
, even though he wasn’t exactly a giant.

Handol became
Hardhead
, for how poorly he picked up on advice.  And for how well he could take a blow to the head.

Verd was called
Fleet
, because of his lightness and speed.

Rax was to be known as
Bloody
, after the practice skirmish in which his helmet had torn his scalp and he’d had to fight the rest of the day with a gruesome, bloody visage.

Dolwyn became known as
Fixer,
for his facility with trading and arranging deals with other units.

Orphil was called
Crusher
, for his fondness of the overhead stroke and preference for mass weapons.

Walven was given the name
Ace,
for his ability to lay out an opponent with one quick shot.

Gurandor was called
Snake,
for how stealthy he could be at need.

And Yeatin, whom none suspected would persevere this far, or even live through the Mysteries, was given the name of
Shatter
. . . mostly because he looked like he could shatter any time someone hit him.  The scrawny mage grinned proudly when it was bestowed to him, though.  “Shatter” had a lot more style than “Yeatin”, Rondal had to agree.

The Warbrother solemnly officiated the giving of names, and allowed each cadet the opportunity to speak a few words about his experience.  When the last name had been given, he gave Duin’s Blessing to them all, led them in a few hymns to the War God, and drank a cup of strong red wine with each of them  before dismissing them for the night. 

They walked back to camp slowly, thinking about the warrior-monk’s sermon and its meaning.  As most of the cadets had yet to return from their mission, the camp was quiet for once.  Rondal called a final formation, in which he thanked them all for their service and valor, and called them each by their War Name.  Then he oversaw the election of the next day’s leader, and crawled gratefully into his blanket.

For two days the Third Squad had light duty as one by one the other squads wandered in.  By the time the rest day dawned, almost all of the cadets had returned.  Warbrothers rode through the countryside looking for a few stragglers, but the rest of the cadets were back at work.  Thankfully, most of that work was mere instruction.

They learned the laws and rites devoted to siege warfare.  They learned how a mercenary who was hired for garrison duty could not be used to fight in a conquest, without his leave.  They learned the structure of rank in the new Royal Army and in various mercenary armies.  They learned a soldier’s duty to a civilian, a noncombatant, and an insurgent.  They learned the penalties for insubordination and disobedience, for being drunk on duty and for falling asleep on guard.  They learned the rites and hymns sung at a brother’s funeral, the proper greetings and salutations for a fellow initiate, and the law regarding prisoners, razing, pillaging, looting and rape.

It was a lot to remember.  The laws handed down by Duin the Destroyer so long ago covered many elements of warfare, and the Imperial war gods, Gobarba and the others, were just as particular about how they were served. 

When training commenced the following day, they put their new knowledge of siege warfare to work as they were instructed on how to build a field redoubt.  Then, after every squad’s efforts were judged, for the next two days they learned how to attack a field redoubt.  Then they learned how to dig a ditch, and spent two days doing nothing but digging a trench around a redoubt.

Then they learned the art of the ambush.  Then how to move quietly through the swamps, responding to their squadleader’s hand gestures as they had been instructed.  They learned how to scout, how to report, and how to interrogate a prisoner.

All week they practiced.  A few different types of artillery were assembled at one end of the field, and the redoubts the cadets had so painstakingly built were smashed to bits as the boys learned how to run a siege engine.  The rubble that resulted was made into a huge bonfire.

For the last two days of the Mysteries, they focused on unarmed combat: wrestling, punching, and maneuvers to use against an armed opponent.  Rondal,
who had always considered himself somewhat weak and puny, surprised himself by toppling Jofard the Giant within moments, using some clever leverage. 

That’s when Rondal realized that his long labor at the Mysteries had taken his puny body away and replaced it with a wiry, well-muscled one.  When he drew back and pummeled the boy from First Squad, he was amazed at just how much power his shoulder and arms gave him.  The boy from First Squad had to be led away to the warbrothers for tending his shattered nose.

Then one day dawned without them being awoken before the sun rose.  Instead they were called from their blankets by a simple horn call for assembly.  The units struggled into formation and were finally addressed by the swaggering commandant.

“Well, Neophytes, you have truly impressed all of us,” he smiled.  “Only four deaths this time, which makes this one of the more peaceful Mysteries.  But those brothers will be granted Duin’s grace and be considered initiates. 

“As for the rest of you . . .” he said, grinning.  “When you came here, you were children.  Now you are men.  When you complete this rite, I will be glad to hail you as my brother in arms.  Regardless of what side we fight on, we have all labored through the Mystery, and taken from it the blessings of strength.”

The final ritual involved marching in formation through the gates of Relan Cor, parading past a throng of well-wishers from the citadel, and trading their wooden swords for the plain steel leaf-shaped infantry swords and steel bracelets that symbolized their completion of the Mystery.

Then they marched back to the practice ground for the last time, solemnly turned in their banners, and then each of them solemnly drank with wine to the health of them all from ewers borne by congratulatory warbrothers.

Then there was more drinking, of a far less religious nature.

“Ishi’s tits, I never thought we’d make it through!” Rax said, his voice full of relief as he dipped his cup back into the ewer.  “If I never see the sun rise again, I’ll count myself fortunate!”

“What are you going to do now?” asked Handol, looking relaxed for the first time in six weeks.

“Back home, to finish up my squirehood,” Rax admitted.  “But I might secure a place among the Baron’s guard, with a Relan Cor certificate in my kit!”

“I’m for home, too,” Jofard agreed with a smile.  “If I take just a little too long
getting upriver, I might just miss out on the end of plowing season.”

“You plow?” asked Walven, surprised. 

“He’s big enough to pull one!” Dolwyn remarked.

“I don’t plow,” Jofard said, indignantly.  “But my father makes me follow the reeves around to make them nervous.  It’s supposed to teach me how to run the estate.   How about you, Ace?”

“I’m staying on to take advance classes,” the Remeran informed them.  “Siege warfare, in particular.  I’ve already paid my tuition,” he said, proudly.

“Siege warfare?” asked Dolwyn, surprised.  “Isn’t that hideously boring?”

“No more boring than garrison duty,” Walven said.  “Siege engineers are always in demand.  But that’s just my next lesson.  I plan on getting plenty more after that.  I’m for the Free Companies,” he said, the closest thing to a boast that Rondal had heard from the boy. 

“I am, too . . . just a little more directly,” Orphil said, chuckling.  “If I passed the Mysteries, I have a billet with the Bloody River Company.  In Gilmora,” he added, with a certain amount of relish.

“You’re going to fight goblins!” Dolwyn said, enthusiastically.  Last year’s goblin invasion of the rich agricultural country had attracted mercenaries from all over, fighting at the king’s expense.  “I’m for the Free Companies, too, but I have no billet yet.”

“I’m to go home and train the peasants,” Rax said, discouraged.  “All this beautiful lore about warfare, and I’m going to be making a bunch of clodfoots try to fight!”

“What about you sparks?” asked Walven, curious.  “Where are you heading, Sir Striker?”

“I’m staying on,” Rondal said.  “For a while, at least.  All three of us are.  Warmage training.  It’s supposed to take another four weeks.  Or more.”

“Aw!” Orphil complained.  “I was hoping you would come with me to the Bloody River.”

“I’ve been to Gilmora,” Rondal reminded him.  “And I’ve seen enough goblins to last a bloody lifetime.  But I expect I’ll be back there before long.  Uh, watch yourself.  Those gurvani are nasty fighters.”

“They won’t be so bad,” Orphil dismissed.  “The Bloody River is three-thousand strong infantry and cavalry.” 

“You’ve never faced the goblins before,” Rondal said to his squadmate, simply.

“I’ll be fine.  Hells, after the Mysteries, I feel like I could take on the Goblin King himself!”