It
never strays, never balks in the face of an enemy. A trained war horse does
whatever is asked of it, without question. What more could you ask of
something?”
-- Brig Grae Barragns, Wolf
Company, Maulden
Lojen’s Eye glowered high and hot
above Grae’s squad as they set off toward Tyftin. The Brig and his hammer rode
in the lead. Sir Jastyn and Maid Maribrae followed behind, the flanks of their
horses brushing against one another. In the third rank was their new scout,
Sage. And Beldrun Shanks rode at the rear, still manacled, and spitting the
word ‘cock’ at Sage again and again.
“D’ya really think we should let the
big man ride in the back?’ Hammer asked.
“You think he’ll run?” asked Grae.
“’sa fair concern, ain’t it?”
“You’ve seen that horse he’s riding,
haven’t you?”
Hammer chuckled and they rode on.
The rest of their soldiers waited for
them at Tyftin. Three more footmen, two archers, and a mage.
“It’s a wonder they let us have a
magician,” said Grae.
“Where do you think they dredged him
from?” asked Hammer. “I thought every spare mage was at The Front.”
“I’m afraid to imagine what kind of
mage they would assign to this squad,” said Grae.
Hammer chewed at a strip of jerked
hare. “Don’t much like ‘aving mages around. Readin’ my thoughts and such.”
“You don’t really believe they can
read your thoughts, Hammer, do you?”
“Course they can,” said Hammer. “And
they can give you warts just by lookin’ at you.” Grae said nothing and Hammer
gazed past bushy brown eyebrows at him. “What? It’s true. You’ve seen ‘em yourself,
Grae. Remember that wizard at Debney? Burned up thirty Durrenians just by
pointing at them. ‘ad this way of looking at you. Like ‘e could see clear into
your spirit.”
Grae shrugged. He didn’t know
what to believe about mages. All he knew was that the good ones could be damned
useful.
Tyftin was a large city. It sat beside
the Mythaenthys, with towering white walls and a population of nearly thirty
thousand within them. One of Sir Jastyn’s uncles was the Count of Tyftin.
Another was the Thane of Tyftinshire. Both lived at Daun Faulen, on the western
side of the city. So when the gate guards spotted Sir Jastyn, the group was
waved through without a second glance. Sir Jastyn and his songmaiden begged off
to pay a short visit to his uncle.
Meedryk Bodlyn, the magician assigned
to the squad, waited for them in a chair just inside the door of the Canalist’s
Guild hall. Grae knew that mages were sorted into their specialties. Canalist
were general purpose mages. He wasn’t sure that was the best type of mage for
the mission, but he wouldn’t complain. They had assigned him a mage and mages
served a valuable function. The good ones did, anyway. Meedryk Bodlyn rose and
saluted clumsily, sending his chair tumbling to the floor, and Grae wondered if
this mage would serve any function at all.
“Meedryk Bodlyn?” asked Hammer.
“Yes, hammer,” the magician mumbled.
He was a boy, really. Not much older
than a boy. Slight of build with poor posture and hair the color of dirty
firewood. His gaze was everywhere except on the person speaking to him, and he
wore one of those coats that magicians always insist on calling cloaks. But
this coat had three small stars on the shoulder in place of rank insignia.
Grae looked to the magician’s arms.
“You don’t have your bracers on, soldier.”
“I … I haven’t earned them yet, brig
sir,” he stammered.
“What?” Grae asked.
Meedryk shook his head, his eyes
falling toward Grae’s boots.
“The brig asked you a question,” said
Hammer.
“I’m sorry… I’m not a mage yet,” said
Meedryk, understanding now that it had all been a mistake, his placement on the
squad. He wondered if they would send him back to Maul Kier. Back to the misery
of his old unit, Peregrine Company. “I’m a
never strays, never balks in the face of an enemy. A trained war horse does
whatever is asked of it, without question. What more could you ask of
something?”
-- Brig Grae Barragns, Wolf
Company, Maulden
Lojen’s Eye glowered high and hot
above Grae’s squad as they set off toward Tyftin. The Brig and his hammer rode
in the lead. Sir Jastyn and Maid Maribrae followed behind, the flanks of their
horses brushing against one another. In the third rank was their new scout,
Sage. And Beldrun Shanks rode at the rear, still manacled, and spitting the
word ‘cock’ at Sage again and again.
“D’ya really think we should let the
big man ride in the back?’ Hammer asked.
“You think he’ll run?” asked Grae.
“’sa fair concern, ain’t it?”
“You’ve seen that horse he’s riding,
haven’t you?”
Hammer chuckled and they rode on.
The rest of their soldiers waited for
them at Tyftin. Three more footmen, two archers, and a mage.
“It’s a wonder they let us have a
magician,” said Grae.
“Where do you think they dredged him
from?” asked Hammer. “I thought every spare mage was at The Front.”
“I’m afraid to imagine what kind of
mage they would assign to this squad,” said Grae.
Hammer chewed at a strip of jerked
hare. “Don’t much like ‘aving mages around. Readin’ my thoughts and such.”
“You don’t really believe they can
read your thoughts, Hammer, do you?”
“Course they can,” said Hammer. “And
they can give you warts just by lookin’ at you.” Grae said nothing and Hammer
gazed past bushy brown eyebrows at him. “What? It’s true. You’ve seen ‘em yourself,
Grae. Remember that wizard at Debney? Burned up thirty Durrenians just by
pointing at them. ‘ad this way of looking at you. Like ‘e could see clear into
your spirit.”
Grae shrugged. He didn’t know
what to believe about mages. All he knew was that the good ones could be damned
useful.
Tyftin was a large city. It sat beside
the Mythaenthys, with towering white walls and a population of nearly thirty
thousand within them. One of Sir Jastyn’s uncles was the Count of Tyftin.
Another was the Thane of Tyftinshire. Both lived at Daun Faulen, on the western
side of the city. So when the gate guards spotted Sir Jastyn, the group was
waved through without a second glance. Sir Jastyn and his songmaiden begged off
to pay a short visit to his uncle.
Meedryk Bodlyn, the magician assigned
to the squad, waited for them in a chair just inside the door of the Canalist’s
Guild hall. Grae knew that mages were sorted into their specialties. Canalist
were general purpose mages. He wasn’t sure that was the best type of mage for
the mission, but he wouldn’t complain. They had assigned him a mage and mages
served a valuable function. The good ones did, anyway. Meedryk Bodlyn rose and
saluted clumsily, sending his chair tumbling to the floor, and Grae wondered if
this mage would serve any function at all.
“Meedryk Bodlyn?” asked Hammer.
“Yes, hammer,” the magician mumbled.
He was a boy, really. Not much older
than a boy. Slight of build with poor posture and hair the color of dirty
firewood. His gaze was everywhere except on the person speaking to him, and he
wore one of those coats that magicians always insist on calling cloaks. But
this coat had three small stars on the shoulder in place of rank insignia.
Grae looked to the magician’s arms.
“You don’t have your bracers on, soldier.”
“I … I haven’t earned them yet, brig
sir,” he stammered.
“What?” Grae asked.
Meedryk shook his head, his eyes
falling toward Grae’s boots.
“The brig asked you a question,” said
Hammer.
“I’m sorry… I’m not a mage yet,” said
Meedryk, understanding now that it had all been a mistake, his placement on the
squad. He wondered if they would send him back to Maul Kier. Back to the misery
of his old unit, Peregrine Company. “I’m a
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