Knights Magi (Book 4) (68 page)

After seeing their uncomfortable comrades to the grove Alwer had chosen, the two magi cautiously walked their horses up the road before turning aside and cutting across the open  fields.  Once they got to the creek, they tied the horses and scryed the area heavily.

“They’ve got it warded up tight,” Rondal said, warily. 

“You don’t think you can handle it?” Tyndal asked, part challenge and part question.

“Of course I can handle it,” Rondal snapped.  “The Magredal will slice right through them.”  The Magredal was the traditional countermeasure against wardings on the battlefield.   It wasn’t sophisticated, but it was effective.  Once employed, the wardings it targeted would be nullified.  Walking through them would not alert the shaman or priest who had strung them . . . theoretically.

“The Magredal?” asaked Tyndal, skeptically.  “Don’t you think they’ve found a counter by now?”

“So what do you suggest?” Rondal challenged.  You didn’t disagree with a command decision unless you had an alternative.

“I’d say . . . Rarwin’s Helm.”

“Rarwin’s . . . I don’t even know that one!”

“I do,” Tyndal said, smugly.  “Picked it up in Relan Cor, while you were off camping.”  That burned.

“And what, precisely, is Rarwin’s Helm?”

“You know how the Magredal and the other counterspells are designed to drop the wards or cancel them?  Rarwin’s Helm doesn’t disturb the wards, it just shields the mage from their effects.  You don’t register as a human being,” he emphasized.  “To the shamans, you’re just a squirrel or a bird or something.”

“How does it do that?”  Rondal asked, skeptically.

“It temporarily changes your Shroud,” he explained.  “That’s what most wardings are tuned to detect.  But most are also designed not to make you come running every time a robin builds a nest.  So . . . we look like birds,” he said, matter-of-factly. 

Rondal considered.  He’d heard of the spell.  And the thaumaturgy was sound.  But . . .

“Have you ever cast it before?”

“Me?  No!” snorted Tyndal.  “Haven’t had the need to.  Until now.”

“And you think a reconnaissance mission into a heavily armed and fortified enemy installation is the perfect time to do so?” asked Rondal patiently.

“If one has the courage,” challenged Tyndal.  Rondal stared at him.  That burned, too.

“All right,” conceded Rondal.  “Do it.”

“What?”

“Cast the spell.  On both of us,” he reminded.  “If you say it’s a better spell, I’ll yield to your judgment.”

“Why?” Tyndal asked, as if he was mystified by Rondal’s behavior.

“Because a good commander learns to trust the advice of his counselors,” explained Rondal.  “If you think it’s such a good spell . . . let’s stake both of our lives on it.”

“Ron?” Tyndal asked, cautiously, as he studied him.  “Are you . . . well?”

“Because I took one of your suggestions?” he asked, angrily.

“Well . . . yeah,” admitted the taller boy as he prepared to cast the spell.  “You hate taking my suggestions.”

“Sometimes they aren’t bad.  I’m not going to insist I have the only answer to a problem,” he declared.  “I’m here to get a job done.  If I let my personal feelings get in the way of that, I’ve left the path of wisdom.  And will probably get us both killed.”

“So . . . why is it such a problem to . . . to let your personal feelings get in the way?  Do you really hate me that much?”

Rondal was silent.  This was not the conversation he wanted to be having now.

“What did I ever do to you?” Tyndal asked. 

It was such a simple statement.  And it had been delivered in such a heartfelt way that Rondal knew there was no duplicity or cynicism behind the question.  It wasn’t an accusation, he realized.  It was an actual earnest question. 

Rondal looked at him, his jaw slack.  “You . . . you don’t
know?
”

“What?  Know what?”

“Well, since you essentially blamed me for Estasia’s death,” Rondal said, much more quietly than he intended, “I figured that we had an issue between us. “

“Blamed YOU for Estasia’s death?” Tyndal asked, amazed.  He stopped and faced Rondal, his mouth still open.  “You think I blamed
you
for her death?”

“Well, that’s the meaning that matches the words that fell out of your mouth,” Rondal reasoned, angrily, “so yes, I was under that impression!”

“And all this time . . . you thought I . . .
meant
that?”

“You seemed pretty serious about it at the time!”

“Duin’s hairy sack, Ron!  I just watched the girl
die!
  And then killed the man who did it!” he said, angrily.  “After losing my stone and getting reamed in my exams!  I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly!”

“You didn’t exactly apologize!”

“You didn’t exactly stick around long enough for me to!”

“What in nine hells was I supposed to do?” Ron demanded in a harsh whisper.  “Beg your forgiveness?  Wait for you to remove your head from your arse long enough to discuss it?  Or did you  mope and stomp around like . . . like . . .”

“Oh, forget it!” Tyndal said, in a hoarse whisper.  “I can’t believe you . . . all this time . . . Listen,” he said, staring into Rondal’s eye with such intensity that it made him uncomfortable.  “I know full well that there are only two people to blame for Estasia’s death, and neither one of them are us!  I put one in the ground,” he said, viciously, “and I am conspiring to do the same to Pratt!  If anything, I owe you a debt for all you did to recover my stone.  I don’t blame you for her death at all.”

“Really?” Rondal asked.  It was as if a great weight was lifted from his chest.  “You don’t?”

“Hells, no!  It was an accident.  Well, it wasn’t, but it certainly wasn’t your fault.  Who could have thought that Galdan was in league with Pratt?  That took me utterly by surprise.  Alas, it did poor Estasia, as well.  If I said I blamed you . . . I’m sorry!  Damn, I’m sorry!  Ishi’s tits, that’s what’s been bothering you this whole time?” he repeated in disbelief.

“It was a pretty serious accusation,” Rondal said, simply.

“Why didn’t you . . .”

“Just . . . drop it, now,” Rondal ordered.  “Right before we sneak up on a bunch of sleepy goblins is not the time for a heartfelt discussion.”

Once Tyndal finished casting the spell, Rondal followed with a spell of silence and another one of un-noticeability.  He slung his shield on his back and drew his bow.  Tyndal did likewise.  They traveled in silence for two hundred yards, following the creek upstream towards the castle.

As castles went, it was modest, from a distance.  Only the tallest of the towers along the wall could be seen over the trees as they approached.  As they came closer, they saw that the walls were manned – or goblined, as the case was.  Squint-eyed sentries peered uncomfortably into the sun-filled daylight, repeatedly shading their eyes and staving off yawns. 

Their spells held, Rondal was happy to note, as none of the sentries on the walls noticed them, though some he felt had looked right at them.  They finally climbed down the embankment and waded through the center of the creek until they came to within a bowshot of the wall, where a rickety bridge crossed the creek.

There was no sentry on the bridge, they were happy to see, but they also noted that the bridge itself was heavily warded.  Had they crossed over it, instead of under it, they would have quickly alerted their foe if they hadn’t been protected.  Instead of lingering near the bridge they went another fifty feet and then crawled up the other bank, using the side of the ditch as cover as they tried to peer inside.

Do you think we could scry inside the walls? 
Tyndal asked, mind-to-mind.

Not one bit.  They have it protected.  Besides, I want to put eyes on whatever it is they don’t want seen.

The gatehouse to the fortified manor - technically a castle, Rondal decided - was occupied by a band of gurvani, decked out in captured Gilmoran finery and gilded armor more suited to jousting than guarding.  Most of them were asleep, sprawled out all over the cool stones of the gatehouse.  Two actually leaned on spears, and one almost seemed awake.

Gafney Castle is under new management.  So, do we just come up to them and tell them we’re collecting for Trygg’s temple houses for crippled children and ask for a donation?

Rondal wasn’t paying attention to the guards, not really.  He wanted to avoid the guards, asleep or not.  He could tell his fellow wanted to fight, but that’s not what this mission was about.    Instead he scanned the walls.  There were sentries there, but they seemed more concerned with looking inside, not outside.

And there was one section of the castle that seemed abandoned.  On the far east side, Rondal observed, an outrigger square tower, part of an older section of the castle, had been unoccupied due to its ruined condition.  The top of the tower was missing and the side gaped open, the result of some calamity.

Tyndal, wouldn’t you say that was a Lord’s Refuge?
He asked, mind-to-mind.

That?  An old one, maybe, he conceded.  Back when this place was really about defense and not topiary.  Why?

One important feature of a Lord’s Refuge is usually the escape route it provides the lord’s family,
explained Rondal.
  The point was you could escape to it from several points in the castle.  Or escape from it to several points in the castle.  Usually by an underground tunnel.

Don’t you think the gurvani know about that sort of thing?

No, not really.  They’ve only been around our fortifications for a year or two.  I’m guessing if you weren’t aware of that, after attending Relan Cor, most of them might be ignorant as well.

You really can be an ass sometimes,
Tyndal complained.  Rondal smiled as he moved quietly toward the ruined tower.  He considered it a compliment, coming from someone in the profession.

The tower had apparently been abandoned long before the goblins took residence, from the empty state of its interior.  But the section of wall that connected it to the rest of the castle was still intact.  A few boards were nailed over the big wooden door to keep anyone from wandering inside.  No doubt the door at the other end was likewise secured, if not bricked over entirely.

Tyndal began doing a simple scanning of the stone floor of the tower without being asked, and they soon found a stairwell down to the basement.  Once used for storing a little bit of everything, the litter and debris of a century of castle life had been scattered haphazardly around. 

“Here!” Tyndal whispered harshly, outlining a section of stone wall under the staircase.  “The stones all around this section aren’t really mortared in.  It’s just for show.”

“How do we open it?”

“I thought you were the expert with stone?”

Sighing, Rondal took a thoughtful look at the possible doorway and had to agree.  There was a passageway concealed there.  Sending his consciousness through the rock he could detect the great iron hinge that hung the heavy door.  In a few moments  the great piece of iron had rusted away to nothing under his spellwork.  The door fell into the passageway behind it by six inches.  With both of their shoulders on it, they were able to force it open enough to admit them into the stale-smelling tunnel.

“Magelight?” Tyndal asked.

“Cat’s Eye,” ordered Rondal, and both of them cast the spell that allowed them to see in the dark.  A magelight might shine through and reveal them somehow.    They slung their bows and drew their swords, Rondal and his shield in front as they went single file down the ancient tunnel.

Along the way they came to a chamber off to the side – not much, but enough of a space to harbor a sheaf of spears and a few iron helms.  Just beyond it was a heavy and defendable door which, luckily, stood open.  They moved carefully through and continued up a narrow flight of stairs.  At the top, the passageway led right, left, and forward.

Which way?

Straight,
Rondal decided.  No particular reason why.

As luck would have it, the passageway Rondal had chosen led into the base of one of the towers that ringed the inner bailey of the structure, and into a hidden chamber.  There were three separate doors, each concealed from the other side.

These Gilmoran lords dearly love their hidden passageways,
Rondal chuckled.

They’re for all the whores and mistresses,
remarked Tyndal. 
Hey, can you see out of that one?

The door that led to the bailey did, indeed, have a gap next to it that allowed them to see out.  Whatever decorative feature on the other side was so deeply cut that it could not be discerned as a fissure.  As a result, they could see a great deal of what was going on inside the castle.

The sight was horrific.

Clustered in groups of a score were human slaves, bound neck and hands together, men, women and children.  Almost all lacked shoes, and many had only a few scraps of clothing left.  Everyone was sporting wicked-looking whip scars on their backs, arms, and faces.  Among them toiled a few who brought water around to them, giving each but a few sips before they continued to the next.