Knights Magi (Book 4) (5 page)

“Do you really think Master Min is going to
share
that opinion?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow as he put down his mug.  The ale was terrible here.  Watery, like it was brewed in a mop bucket. He swallowed half of his mug in his first pull.

“No,” Rondal admitted.  “But I can—”

“Don’t,”
Tyndal said, sharply, setting down his mug with a thud.  “If I can’t do it, I
can’t do it.
  I don’t need you to make my excuses for me!”

“I wasn’t going to suggest I do,” Rondal said, indignantly.  “I was just going to try to explain that you hadn’t had the time to immerse yourself in the proper texts on Philosophy of Magic.  It’s First Form stuff.  Hells, the only reason I know so much about it is because Garky kept throwing
The Mirror Beckons
at me, instead of teaching me anything
useful.
  I’ve read that monstrosity
four
times,” he said, disgustedly.

“I haven’t even read it
once
,” Tyndal snapped. 

“There are three copies in the library,” Rondal suggested.  “It’s only about a hundred, a hundred and twenty pages.”

“That would take me
days!
” Tyndal said, frustrated.  “And I wouldn’t know half of the words in it!  It’s mostly in High Perwynese.  I can barely read Narasi.”

“Just relax and read it,” Rondal urged.  “It’s really not that hard.  I can help you with the—”

“I don’t need your help!”
Tyndal said, angrily.  “I will fail on my own, thank you!”

Rondal blinked.  “Ishi’s tits, Tyn. 
Calm down
.  I’m not trying to make you feel like an idiot.  I just want to help.”

“I don’t see what the point of all of this is, anyway,” he said, sourly, as he started in on the sausage.  “We’re High Magi – hells, we’re
Knights
Magi.  All of this remedial crap is just insulting, after what we’ve done!”

“It’s not about what we have done,” Rondal said, patiently, “it’s about what we
know
.  This isn’t a punishment, Tyn.  This is to help us get more out of our witchstones.  Make us more
useful
.  Think of it that way.” 

Rondal let Tyndal finish his meal in silence, as he went back to the book he was reading.  Tyndal noted with annoyance from the script that it was entirely in the flowing script of High Perwynese – a language he barely recognized, let alone could read fluently.

Unfortunately, most of the classic texts on magic that he was expected to know were in the ancient tongue of the Archmagi, not the barbaric, runic script of the Narasi he knew . . . sort of.   His frustration almost palpable, he finished his meal as quickly as possible and stood up.

Rondal’s eyes followed him.  “Where are you going?”

“To the one place here where I know what I’m doing,” Tyndal shot back.  “The practice yard.”

*
                            *                            *

Since the first time Tyndal had held a blade in earnest – his master’s long Farisi “knife,” a prize of war from the Farisian campaign he had given him the night the goblins had invaded – Tyndal had found a sense of power and control in swordplay that eluded him otherwise.  While he loved magic, the song of steel and footwork and sweat was what drew him when he needed to
think
.

He had taken every opportunity to practice with the blade.  From the long days during the siege of Boval Castle, to the few weeks spent at this very academy as a refugee, to the brutally active Battle of Timberwatch, where he had been able to spar with some of the finest blade masters he knew, he had learned all he could to become a better swordsman. 

He had even spent hours and hours with Sir Cei and Sir Forondo, back at Sevendor Castle, working on the finer points of his technique.  And of course his master had made a point of passing along all the wisdom of steel he possessed when he had begun training his apprentice as a warmage.

Inarion Academy was in a peaceful village, and its new Royal Charter affirming its rights and prerogatives under the new Kingdom ensured that it could not be attacked by its neighbors the way most feudal domains could be. 

But that didn’t mean that the school lacked guards.  A full guardhouse, with nine veterans enjoying the easy duty, stood at the entrance of the school.  Most students passed by without even noticing the burly men who guarded their peaceful studies.  Tyndal could not pass by with
out
watching.

He wasn’t entirely alone in his interest.  Most of the students at the Academy were from noble families, and until the emergence of their
rajira
, their Talent for magic, they had trained to be knights and warriors.  To those who found an affinity with arms, the prospect of a life of books instead of steel was as appalling as Tyndal found them.  Every day one or two of the students would sneak down to the practice yard out behind the guardhouse and work out with the guardsmen.

Tyndal had acquaintance of them since the first time he had come to Inarion – through the magical portal of the
molopor
from Boval, a refugee fleeing an invasion.  The weeks he had spent here while the authorities sorted out what to do with the
four thousand
Bovali suddenly appearing in the courtyard had introduced the apprentice to the guard captain, Ancient Galdan, a grizzled old mercenary with a limp and a strange accent. 

Galdan had been in dozens of campaigns and hundreds of fights, but age and weariness had convinced him to apply for an easy position guarding snotty magical students.

He’d liked Tyndal from the first, partially because he
wasn’t
a student, and partially because Galdan was Wilderlands-born himself, he said, from just south of Vorone, and he liked Tyndal’s enthusiastic approach to swordplay.  He’d started working with the lad back then, in his off time, right up until Tyndal  departed for Tudry-on-Burine with his master’s pregnant intended bride.  Now that he was back, a year older and a few campaigns more experienced, the old soldier enjoyed working with him even more.

Unfortunately, Galdan wasn’t alone in the yard today.  Apart from the two guardsmen who were working on shield technique, there were two noble students Tyndal had gotten to know in the week he’d been here.  Stanal of Arcwyn and Kaffin of Gyre.

They had been hanging around watching him for a few days now, and Tyndal had learned a little about them without actually speaking to them.

Stanal was a beefy boy Tyndal’s age, and would have been knighted by now with his own domain to rule if his Talent hadn’t emerged.  Under the old Bans of Magic, he couldn’t own property or be ennobled if he had Talent.  Under Master Minalan’s new system, he could now inherit from his father’s estate, and even keep his noble title.

Unfortunately his bulk did not deter his intelligence, which was canny, or his arrogance, which he had in abundance.  His father was Baron Sargal of the southern Riverlands region of Arcwyn Dales.  He was Sargal’s third son, and not a favorite, from what Tyndal had learned.  The Baron had apparently been more than happy to ship the brutish-looking, arrogant boy off to a cloister of magi, rather than deal with his powers at home.

Kaffin of Gyre was also of noble stock, but was the second son of a knight from the coastland domain of Gyre Shore.  The Sea Knights of Gyre, as Tyndal had learned six times in the two weeks he’d been here, were descended from Farisian pirates who’d sworn fealty to the Dukes of Castal, in return for keeping
their brethren at bay . . . and engaging in a little lucrative piracy against Merwyn and Alshar themselves. 

Kaffin reveled in his family legacy of honorable cutthroats and their skill with the blade.  Becoming Talented was, from Tyndal could see, a crushing blow to the enthusiastic heir of the Sea Knights of Gyre.  He did not let that stop him from learning how to use the slightly-curved blade his family preferred.

“Where’s Ancient Galdan?” he asked the corporal on duty.  “I was going to see if he was up to sparring for a bit.”

“He’s gone to town with the manciple to collect a debt,” answered the corporal.  “But have at it,
Sir
Tyndal,” he said with a smile.

Tyndal
really
wished he hadn’t said that – as one of the few knights magi to have been created, he was one of the very few amongst the largely-aristocratic population of Academy students to actually be ennobled . . . and that was a sore point among many of them, who had been forced to give up their titles when they entered the trade.  Under the Bans that was law.  Now, many of them would be appealing their status, but until it was confirmed by the Crown they remained . . .
common.

Except for him.  The horse-shit-on-his-boots ignorant Wilderlands apprentice was
a knight
.  They had been respectful about it, but he could tell they resented it.  And him.  Tyndal sighed and chose a wooden sword from the rack and began to warm up.  Without Galdan here, it seemed pointless, but . . .

“You want a bout . . .
Sir
Tyndal?” smirked Kaffin, arrogantly.  “I’ve been fencing since I was six,” bragged the son of a seaknight.  “I’ve had three swordsmasters . . . before my Talent emerged.  I’d like to think I’ve kept it up since then,” he sniffed.

“Ever . . .
kill
a man?” Tyndal asked, casually, as he selected his wooden sword from the rack.  That took the young aristocrat aback.

“I haven’t had the need to,” the boy replied.  “Have you?”

“I
have
had the need to,” Tyndal admitted.  “You first, or the big guy?”

“The ‘big guy’ is Stanal of Arcwyn,’ and his ears are way up here at the top,” the larger boy said, snidely.  “I’ll get what’s left of you after Kaf has warmed you up.”

“Suit yourself,” Tyndal shrugged, giving his blade a few more practice swings.  He didn’t care who he fought when, really, he just wanted to sweat.  And hit something.  “Ready?” he asked Kaffin.  When the man nodded, Stanal signaled for the bout to begin.  And Tyndal immediately relaxed, feeling at home for the first time in two weeks.

This was Tyndal’s element: a single opponent, a single sword in front of him, a single sword in his hand.  He noted both of the other boys had chosen long cavalry-length wooden swords, no doubt due to their knightly instruction. 

Tyndal had chosen a somewhat shorter sword.  Not as short as an infantryman’s, but the approximate length of his mageblade, Slasher.  It was the sword he was most used to, and the mock blade was close enough in length and balance to make him confident in its use. 

Kaffin began by circling him to the left, which Tyndal expected, and countered with a quick step-and-reverse pivot that put him on the boy’s other side within moments.  Footwork, Sir Cei had always drilled into him, was the key to swordplay.  He was borne out when Tyndal reached out and tapped Kaffin’s unprotected shoulder just hard enough to sting.

“Hey!” protested the student, whirling and striking back.  Three fairly-standard blows at head, arm, and neck.  Tyndal parried all three easily, and then crouched well-below the usual position one expects from a dueler.

“Come on,” Tyndal encouraged.  “That was almost
good.
”

Kaffin grunted before flinging a flurry of blows that proved to drive Tyndal back two steps before he pivoted once again and re-directed the fight elsewhere.  They crossed the sand pit quickly, forcing the other combatants to get out of the way.  Tyndal grinned when he realized that Kaffin had failed to control his momentum . . . so he side-stepped and tripped the boy.  When he fell to the ground Tyndal’s wooden blade was on the back of his neck.

“I yield!” groaned the young scion of pirates, weakly. 

“Your turn, Big Guy,” Tyndal said, encouraging Stanal to attack.  The larger boy snorted derisively as he watched his friend crawl to his feet, then hefted his greatsword-sized wooden blade in a mock salute and advanced.

Tyndal actually enjoyed fighting Stanal more than Kaffin, for the simple reason that Stanal was indeed a bigger opponent.  That gave him far more area to target, and the big guy was by nature slower than the wiry former stableboy.  While Stanal was wise enough not to charge headlong into him, he did swing with exaggerated arcs, and his balance was atrocious.  Sire Cei would have scolded him into the Void for that kind of sloppiness, no matter his size.

Another pivot, and a backhand strike at the student’s thigh, giving a satisfyingly meaty thwack.

“
Duin’s dong!
” he swore.  “Don’t hit so hard!  It’s
sparring!
”

“My apologies,” Tyndal said with a bow.  “I’ll try to be gentler in the future.”

“Asshole,” spat Stanal, who lunged at him again.

Tyndal saw his way through the big sword was through using Stanal’s bulk against him.  Even a sword that big could only be in one place at a time.  Tyndal took two pivots and a side-step, and laid his
faux
mageblade across Stanal’s shoulders.

“You cheated!”

“I
won
,” Tyndal corrected.  “I’ll win again next time, too, if you keep lumbering around the ring like an ox.”