Knights Magi (Book 4) (23 page)

Rondal imposed on the Head Master to release him early from his courses, and after making the proper arrangements he  headed upriver a week early.  He didn’t speed, didn’t offer to assist the barge with a water elemental, he just sat curled up next to a bag of potatoes and a barrel of tar and immersed himself in gloom.

By the time he’d arrived at Relan Cor, he was inconsolable.  Whatever hell awaited him there he welcomed.   The fortress looked like the kind of place fit for tortured souls.

Relan Cor once had been the greatest fortress in the western world.  A relic of the Magocracy, it was the last, largest permanent Imperial presence before the frontier.  Relan Cor wasn’t a castle, it was a nine-story quadrangle of granite and limestone put together by the best Imperial warmagi at the height of the Later Magocracy.  Magi with witchstones and a centuries-old tradition of magically-augmented defensive architecture.  Relan Cor was as strong as a mountain.

It was perched atop a low, flat hill that overlooked the original Castali Riverlands, in the middle of a mage-made lake a hundred yards across.  It was surrounded by rough territory, swamps and brambles and dark forests, briar-filled meads and marshy wetlands.  When the first Dukes of Castal arrived to take possession of their new fief, they resided and ruled from Relan Cor for fifty years, before relocating to their new castle at the capital city, Castabriel. 

Rondal could see why they relocated.  Relan Cor was
miserable.

Designed for defense, not comfort, the fortress was a work of efficiency and Imperial thoroughness.  Six thousand men could live in Relan Cor, and had, at the height of its use as an Imperil outpost.  But they had done so living four to a room in dark little cells not much better than a dungeon, eating and sleeping in tightly-controlled shifts. The fortress had less than a quarter of that number living there, now, but it must have been a sight to see during the Magocracy, Rondal decided.

When the great keep at Castabriel was built, Relan Cor became an expensive unnecessary fortress guarding a frontier that had shifted hundreds of leagues west. Yet its might and impregnability was too great to ignore.  The Dukes had made it the official residence of the Warlord of Castal, for a century or so, the seat of the kernel of the Ducal Army.  After the Warlord’s residence was transferred to the capital, it became the Castali War College.

Rondal remembered reading about it in Forard’s
Histories of Castal And Remere
.  The vision to create an institution specifically for the purpose of teaching skills of warfare was not new – but it was foreign to the Narasi horsemen, who dealt with such matters by squiring.  The ancestors of the modern Castali had usually ignored infantry in favor of cavalry, but after the Conquest it became clear that, especially for the Western Duchies, infantry was an important consideration. 

Conscripting large numbers of peasants to throw at each other was an adequate, if wasteful strategy.  That worked for dynastic wars, and inter-domain disputes, but against an organized force such troops, untrained and untutored, were mere walking corpses.

But the Dukes of Castal had seen the wisdom of more advanced training, even if it meant arming their nobles with military wisdom that could threaten their own possessions.  Regardless of who was on the throne, the idea was, the Duchy needed soldiers who knew what they were doing to protect it.  They created the War College for that purpose, that and to conserve the mighty library of ancient works on warfare that Relan Cor boasted.

Now it was the multipurpose home of hundreds of experts on the art of destruction and death.  The Dukes hired experts in every aspect of warfare, from siege engines to field fortifications to basic infantry training to warmagic, and it at Relan Cor.  It was the main staging area for the army that had invaded Farise, and since then it had collected plenty of veterans eager to pass on the wisdom of their bloody  trade.

He showed his credentials at the gate and was quickly directed inside by a steely-eyed sentry.  Others were arriving, too, he saw, as he passed three or four worried-looking boys on the way into the imposing main fortress.  The commandant, Marshal Lagoran, welcomed him stiffly in his office, his one good eye peering at him appraisingly.  The other hid under a silken band.  He moved like a man who was more scar tissue than muscle.  He quickly wrote down Sir Rondal’s name on a scroll.

“Someone kill your dog, soldier?”

Rondal looked confused.  “I’m not—”

“As of this moment, you are,” the old veteran said, grinning grimly.  “From the moment your name was written on the parchment, you’ve become a Neophyte of the Sacred Mysteries of Duin.  That makes you a soldier even if you’ve never marched a mile.  And Sir Rondal -- sorry, you temporarily lost your title when you were inducted - but  I’ve got
special
orders for you . . . report to the Warmagic Master Valwyn.  You still have a few days before the beginning of training, but he wants to work with you some on your own, see what you’re made of.”

Rondal let the opportunity for a witty retort pass.  He knew what he was made of.  He wasn’t fond of it, at the moment.  Indeed, he desperately wanted to become something else – someone else. 

“Where can I find Master . . . ?”

“Master Valwyn,” the commandant supplied.  “Third floor, south side, all the way to the back.  And whatever pains you at the moment,
soldier, realize that the Mysteries sand all that away from your soul.  In seven weeks, you won’t even remember what it was that disturbs you now.”

Rondal was surprisingly open to that possibility.  If there was as way to destroy the boy he was, and put something . . . better in its place, he had to try.  Magic or Mystery, Warfare or Scholarship, he desperately wanted to drown the pain of Inarion.

It took Rondal almost an hour to wind his way through the narrow corridors and staircases that led him back to the Office of the Warmagic Master.  The man who worked within was older than the Commandant, though less scarred, and had the confident bearing of one who is a master of his craft.  He was known widely  by reputation. Rondal had sought out some insight on the man, when he’d queried other magi mind-to-mind.  He had yet to hear anything but praise.

Rondal introduced himself to the warmagic master and learned that Master Minalan had, indeed, set forth very specific instructions for him, regarding his inclusion  the Mysteries.’  The idea seemed to amuse the Warmagic master, too.

The man bade him to sit in the single uncomfortable chair that was the signature of any military office, and Master Valwyn produced a pipe and a pouch, offering it to the young recruit.  Rondal declined.

“You are to be initiated into the Sacred Mysteries of the Imperial Infantry,” he revealed, as if Rondal had won a prize.  “Or the Mysteries of Duin, as they are called now, though the Destroyer had little to do with their crafting.  We hold them three times a year, spring, summer, and autumn, according to the rites, and I will not deny, they are brutal.  Many neophytes have died before completion - although, if it is any solace, Duin is supposed to reserve a special place in the afterlife for those whose hearts were valiant enough to undertake the Mysteries, but whose bodies or fortunes were, alas, not strong enough to meet the challenge.”

“Is this really necessary for warmagic training?” Rondal asked, confused. 

“Initiates come out far stronger candidates for more warmagic training,” agreed
Valwyn, stroking his bears.  “Not to mention far more effective on the battlefield, since they understand the perspective of the grunt, and not just the spark.  But more importantly, they make you what you need to be - a soldier - before you add in magic.  It makes a difference,” he insisted.  “If we hadn’t done that with the Farisian conscripts, we would have lost to Oriil Pratt no matter how many troops we threw at him. 

Rondal quickly tried to change the subject from Orril Pratt.  That was a name he did not want to hear.

“I’m already schooled in some Warmagic, Master,” Rondal pointed out.  Valwyn chuckled. 

“You just think you are, son.  And I hope you do know some - it is not forbidden to use warmagic in the Mysteries.  Indeed, there are dozens of bright young warmagi gathering for their initiation.

“But Master Minalan did not want you to have undue advantage.”

“What?”

“He was very specific about this, too: you are to secure your witchstone in my office for the duration of the Mysteries and rely on whatever native skills and abilities you might have, un-augmented by irionite.  Yes, I’m aware of the recent difficulties,” he said, understandingly, when Rondal’s face went pale.  “I realize what I’m asking of you.  Master Minalan suggested you contact him directly, if you had any questions.”

That sounded like his master.  “I . . . I can see the wisdom in that,” he conceded.  “But there is the matter of security . . . “

“Of which you are naturally concerned.  I assure you, it will be concealed and spellbound; no one will know where it is but you and me, and I’m in line for my own stone, soon enough,” he said.  “I won’t so much as touch it, I swear by Duin, Luin and Huin.”

Of course Rondal was concerned – he was loath to let his stone leave his possession.  But a quick conversation with Master Minalan, mind-to-mind, convinced him of the necessity.  When his master insisted, he had little choice.  Master Valwyn provided a small stone box in which he could secure it - one alarmingly similar to the one in which Tyndal’s witchstone had been hidden.  The moment the insulating lid was shut, he felt his contact with the precious glass fade.

“Now we both spellbind it,” Valwyn instructed.  “That way it can’t be opened until we both release it.”

When they were done, Rondal felt naked.  It was tortuous.  Yet it suited his mood.  He wanted to feel something,
anything
, but relentless remorse and guilt.

He’d gotten his wish.  Suddenly, he just felt
weak.

“Just relax, son,” Valwyn soothed him, as he tucked the box in a chest under a shelf of books and scrolls.  “It won’t go anywhere.  You need to learn Warmagic the hard way.  Once you pick it up again,” he promised, “you’ll be a different person entirely.”

“I find myself anticipating the prospect, Master,” Rondal said, formally.

“Good,” nodded the warmage.  “I’ll assign you quarters for the next few days.  You’ll have the run of the commissary, practice yard and library until the Mysteries begin.”

“Um, is it prohibited for me to ask what to expect, Master?”

“You’d be an idiot not to.  There are three days of ritual purification and cleansing and examination by the Warbrothers of Duin, as well as a few other war gods, in the shrine encampment in the main field.  Once you are deemed a sound neophyte, then you’ll be assigned to a troop and squad, and for the next six weeks after that, you’ll find out what hell looks like: Army life.”

*                            *                            *

The introduction to the routine at Elementary Training Camp was an initiation as brutal as promised.

He had passed the purification rituals - a series of fasts and vigils, interrogations and spiritual explorations, anointings and cleansings, until on the third day Rondal barely remembered his own name, so confused was he by the whirlwind of procedure.  On the third day, he and every other Neophyte gathered (and there were slightly over three hundred) were given a rich honeycake, the kind baked for funerals, and a full glass of robust, blood-like red wine.  The wine was drugged, and he and his nameless companions felt a sense of intoxication and anticipation as they were driven to dance by bonfire light, to the vocal encouragement of the Warbrothers.

Then he collapsed.  And slept.  And when he awoke, cold and wet with spring dew, his neophyte shift providing no protection, he struggled awake.  When he was noticed, a tall Warbrother with a horned headdress came by and examined
his eyes. 

“Duin has accepted you,” he confirmed, with a smile.  “Get up, go to the far end of the field, and there you will find a warbrother with a large cauldron.  Take no more than a swallow of the brew, and reach into the bag and draw forth your token.  You will understand from there.

Rondal stumbled groggily to comply, stepping around sleeping young men as far as the eye could see.  There were seven or eight Warbrothers surveying the field, and apparently the quickness with which one recovered was propitious in their rites, somehow.  Rondal took a sip of the sour-tasting, lukewarm brew and almost gagged.  But he kept it down.

“Good lad,” the scar-faced Warbrother grinned, displaying broken teeth.  “Just reach in here and see where you’re bunking, now . . .”

He made a point of shuffling around the tokens within the sack, praying absently to Ifnia to guide his hand.  He pulled out a black stone with a stylized picture of a mammal on it.

“Ah, the
racquiel,” nodded the Warbrother.  “Night fighters, they are.  Nocturnal.  Vicious, too, when cornered.  And clever!”

Rondal had never seen one - they were not native to his Mindens home, nor Sevendor.  But he had to admit the toothy-looking predator had some style. 

“Now find your way to your squad.  That’s a stone, not a slate, tile, or chip, so you’re in Second Company, on the right.  You’ll see your encampment soon enough, it has a pole with that device on it.  Your duty officer, and the warbrother assigned to your company will be there shortly to provide you further instruction.  Use the time until then to get to know your squadmates --  you’re going to have to depend on them, and if you’re smart you’ll figure out which ones are dependable.    And that’s going to be important, once you get to the Right Foot.  Good luck, and may Duin’s Blessing go with you, Soldier!”