Knights Magi (Book 4) (28 page)

Rondal realized that he had just discovered a powerful insight into Tyndal’s character – the boy just wasn’t really afraid of much.  That might be a factor of his stupidity but it also accounted for his boldness.  And his success.

Of all of his demons, Rondal had the hardest time leaving his feelings for Tyndal on the road.  The maddening fellow apprentice had inadvertently humiliated Rondal too many times.  It would have been a different thing entirely had he done it on purpose, but mostly Tyndal blundered into his insults and humiliations accidentally.  It was hard to be angry at that.

But it also made it harder to forgive and forget.

As his chest heaved like a bellows and his knees threatened to give out with every step, he followed the boy in front of him, whose helm and hair he had memorized down to the finest fiber and scratch, up that laborious hill.  Every step felt as if he was stepping angrily on Tyndal’s face.  Every bit of pain was worth the feeling of satisfaction he got from it.

By the time his part of the column crested the summit, Rondal’s steps had lightened.  He no longer cared if he was grinding his senior apprentice’s face with his boot; indeed, it seemed like a silly pursuit.  He took a deep breath and felt the weight of his pack ease and even his shield felt lighter.   His achingly numb legs continued to carry him onward, but the burden he’d been bearing until then seemed gone, or at least forgotten.

When he stumbled to a halt late that evening, after nearly fourteen hours of marching, he wasn’t as tired as he’d thought he’d be.  In fact, he lingered before sleep, volunteering for the first watch.  As he sat around the fire between patrols the bull-hided Warbrother who’d encouraged him on the march wandered by, apparently in search of him.

“I was hoping I’d run into you, Soldier,” he said, gently.  “At ease.  I wanted to see how you fared, after today.”

“It was . . . I’m all right, Warbrother,” he decided.  “I just had a lot of thoughts to work out.”

“Marching away your cares is a fine old army tradition,” the monk said, approvingly.  “We’ve been watching you.  You’ve shown a lot of poise in the field.  And a lot of fortitude.  A lot more than we’d expected.”

“A lot more than I expected, too, if you want the truth,” Rondal admitted.  “I don’t feel like I’m the same person who started this march.”

“Ah!  Then it’s working,” the Warbrother said, smiling indulgently.  “That’s the point of The Mystery, son.  It must be experienced, it cannot be taught.  And it changes you . . . irrevocably.”

“My legs, if nothing else,” he quipped.

“Far more than your legs,” the monk said, pulling a flask from his mantle and offering it to Rondal.  “When you lose your identity in the uniformity of the unit, you gain the opportunity to remake yourself.  Your legs, of course, and the rest of your body are being remade; your instincts and reflexes are remade, and your understanding of honor and obedience are being remade.  But most of all,” he said, solemnly, as Rondal sipped the fiery liquor, “you remake your soul.  When you learn the rites of the soldier, and feel them in your bones with every step you take, you open yourself to new reserves of power, fortitude, endurance . . . you find you can achieve things you never thought possible, as a civilian.  Even as a warrior-monk,” he smiled.

“Or a Knight Mage,” Rondal chuckled.  “I’ve learned how to study, Warbrother.  I’ve learned how learn.  I’ve even learned how to fight.  But soldiering . . . that’s an art to itself.”

“Any idiot can pick up a sword and learn to swing it hard enough to kill,” the monk agreed.  “Any tribe can train its men to be warriors – fierce warriors.  But the difference between a warrior and a soldier is the difference between honor and duty.  And with duty comes obedience.  Learning to subject yourself to the orders of those above and contribute to the battle to the best of your ability, that is the art of the soldier.”

“I never wanted to be a soldier,” Rondal warned the monk.  “I only vaguely
wanted to be a mage.”

“What did you want to be?” the old monk asked.

Rondal considered the question.   No one had ever really asked him before.  “Wise,” he finally said.  “I guess I wanted to be the one who knew everything all the time.”

“Well, now you’ve learned the Mysteries of Duin, the art of the soldier,” reasoned the monk, taking a sip from the flask.  “And in learning that art, you’ve already harvested one of the main benefits The Mystery has to offer the initiate.”

“What’s that?” Rondal asked, curious.

“Pride,” the monk grunted.  “You have learned pride in yourself.  You came here a boy, and while that boy was unmade in the struggle to survive, you found the pride in yourself you needed to succeed – to thrive, even.  As I said, we’ve been watching you.  You’ve done better than expected.  And that shall please your master immensely.”

That pleased Rondal immensely.  After the monk left he basked in the afterglow of the praise, reflecting on his time at Relan Cor.  He really had cultivated some pride in himself, he realized.  He had learned the craft of sword and shield, of command and order, of attack and defense.  Just as thousands upon thousands before him had.  When he had completed the Mysteries, he would be as fit as any soldier in the Duchies.

Regardless of what else he was –mage, knight, lord, scholar – he would always have this.  The skills and knowledge of a soldier.  The training and understanding of soldiery.  The pride of that accomplishment.  No one gave that to him, he had earned it with his sweat and blood and pain.  It hadn’t been his magical talent, his sophisticated brain, or his title that had gotten him through the Mysteries – it had been he, and he alone.

He slept fitfully that night, and the next morning awoke emotionally and physically refreshed, almost eager to begin the day.

He was in the minority.  Most of his squadmates were exhausted.

*                            *                            *

“Today we’re going to head back to Relan Cor,” Warfather Dorith, the high priest who had led the march announced to everyone at dawn formation.  “But we’re not going in one large column.  Starting every fifteen minutes after this assembly, one squad will be sent back . . .
overland.
  The Ancients and Warbrothers will be patrolling the road – you may cross it, but do not travel upon it.  Often a unit gets broken off from its supply and has to forage on its own.  It is a test of any Neophyte’s temper, and any squad’s effectiveness.  Today you need to find your way back to the fortress without our help.”

There was a loud groan at the news, but it perked up a lot of the young men.  Moving in small groups had to be better than marching in formation.

“To make things interesting,” the commandant added, over the cadets’ murmur, “we have seven teams of ‘foes’ betwixt here and Relan Cor.  They will be wearing yellow and red tabards with the arms of the fortress upon them.  They will be armed with wooden swords.  And they eager to keep each of you away from your camp as long as possible.  Engage or evade them as you see fit, but if they capture you, your role in the competition is over.

“Oh, yes . . . there is a feast awaiting the first full squadron who returns,” the Warfather grinned.

The Third Squad, Second Company did not depart until midmorning, with a young, Warbrother, Brother Thurgar, accompanying them for the first half-day to ensure they did not blunder too far off of the path.  But he got less and less helpful as they went, until he had gone completely silent.  It was up to them, he indicated, to find their way.

“If we just keep heading south, we’re bound to run into the road eventually,” reasoned Rax.

“And run into the foe as well,” Walven pointed out.  “Not to mention every other squad who can’t think of a better plan than that.”  Brother Thugar smirked.

“South, then bear east for a while,” suggested Gurandor.  “We can range wide of the opposition and then head south.”

“That would take too long,” complained Handol.  “We’ve been marching for two days with little to eat – I don’t want to march three or four more with less!”

“Then use your heads before you use your feet!” counseled the Warbrother.  “The solution is there.”

Something dawned on Rondal.  “Why use our feet at all?” he asked.

The others looked at him strangely.  “You have a spell that can fly us all the way back, Sparky?” asked Walven.  Rondal ignored the jibe.  Walven didn’t mean anything by it.

“No,” Rondal admitted.  “But we might be able to
float
back.”  He recalled the map of the region he had committed to magical memory, in his days leading up to the opening of the Mysteries at Relan Cor.  He thought it might be useful, and it was.  He took a few moments to sketch it out in the dirt.  “According to the map,” he said, slowly, “we’re in this forest here.  So if we bear east and north we can come to the Partoline River.  That flows south and west – remember that great bridge we crossed?  And it comes within six miles of Relan Cor.”

“And you’re going to turn our shields into dainty little sailboats, I expect?” asked Dolwyn with a smirk.

“We’ll deal with that when we get to the river,” decided Verd, the chosen leader for the day.  “We can steal a boat or make a raft, but that sounds like a better course than marching again.”

The warbrother did not comment, but Rondal could tell he seemed pleased.

“There is one more thing,” Brother Thurgar said, as they prepared to depart, “at the end of this journey your unit will chose your War Name for you.  That name you will keep with you for the rest of your life, and will be known to your brothers as such.  Try not to make it one you’re embarrassed to carry.  Good luck, and may Duin guide your path!” he said, adding a blessing before he headed back toward the road.

“Herus would be a better guide,” grumbled Rax.

“And the Goblin King better company,” griped Yeatin.  “Let’s make for the river,” Verd ordered.  “The faster we get there, the faster we can decide what a horrible mistake we’ve made.”

They made it through the woods surprisingly fast and crossed the few miles of fields and pastures until they got to the sluggish Partoline.  It wasn’t particularly wide, the magi told their mates, after a little scrying, but it was deep.  They found a small punt nearby, large enough for only one man, and sent Yeatin (who claimed some familiarity with boats) upriver in it to scout while the rest of them stood around and speculated just how quickly the weak mage would get himself drowned.  Surprisingly, he returned with a small rowboat boat in tow.  A similar journey downriver secured two more small craft, and before long a flotilla of stolen boats made their way down the deep stream.

“This is much better than marching!” Rax sighed, pleasantly, as he paddled along.

“So far,” agreed Walven.  “But don’t get complacent.  And don’t be lazy on the paddle.  If we get back first . . .”

They hadn’t discussed that prospect, but the idea of a feast was alluring.  So much so that the three magi, after consultation began enchanting their journey.

Only in small ways – Rondal lacked the power to conjure a proper water elemental – but they did reduce the friction of the boats somewhat.   The banks slipped past them at a goodly pace for miles as they skipped the long, painful road full of fake “enemies” who would beat them up.

Along the way they discussed everything from girls to their futures to girls to their hopes and plans after graduation to girls.  Twice they saw fellow cadets on the banks as they floated by, fellows who had figured out the expediency of river travel late, but the Racquiel Squad passed them in good order without challenge.

They found themselves at one point facing a bridge toll, and had to convince the bridgekeeper to let them pass without paying.  That took a fair amount of intimidation from the boys, but eventually the man relented, and opened the river gate to let their craft through while Dolwyn stood menacingly behind him.  Then their journey continued.

“I’m getting hungry,” complained Rax, late in the afternoon.

“I’ve been hungry for days,” agreed Dolwyn.  “What are we going to do about that?”

“We could steal food?” Handol suggested, anxiously.

“We could buy it, if we had money,” agreed Orphil, dejectedly.  “But I seem to have forgotten my coinpurse.  My belly is dancing with my backbone!”

“Why can’t one of you idiots fish?” demanded Yeatin from his punt.

“It would take too long to stop and cook it,” Walven decided.  “Sparky, you’ve got that magical map in your head.  What is the next village we come to?”

“Uh . . . Grynwyn.  Domain of Clairberry,” Rondal supplied.  He really hoped his new War Name was not going to be “Sparky”.  It was a common term for warmagi, the way you could always call the camp cook “cookie”, or the company medic as “doc”, but still . . .

“They have an inn there?”

“The map I studied didn’t specify,” Rondal said, dryly.  “And we have no money, besides.”

“My father,” Dolwyn said, slowly, “always said that gold might not get you good swords, but good swords will always get you gold.”

“Our swords are wooden,” Rax pointed out, unhelpfully.  “Does that get us wood?  I’ve got enough wood already,” he joked.

No one laughed.  The novelty of penis jokes had faded weeks ago.  “No one else knows our swords are wooden,” Walven pointed out.  “In fact, apart from that we look like any mercenary troop.”