The Magician's Apprentice

  The king had paused, and his expression grew more serious as he scanned the faces of the newcomers. “There is no time to lose. The leaders are to join me to discuss our strategy. The rest of you may rest, eat and make camp for the night. By tomorrow we will have decided what our next move will be.”

  As he turned back to Sabin, the army stirred and began to disperse. Dakon looked at Tessia.

  “Duty summons me yet again,” he said.

  The corner of her mouth twitched in a half-smile. “I expect a full report later, Lord Dakon,” she said loftily, then nudged her horse after the crowd.

  He chuckled, then rode up beside Werrin’s horse, dismounted, and handed his reins to a waiting servant. Narvelan was already hovering nearby. Dakon moved to the young magician’s side.

  “That’s Lord Perkin. And Lord Innali,” Narvelan choked out. Dakon looked at the two older men who had been standing beside the king. “The unofficial patriarchs of Kyralia?” He shrugged. “They had to show their faces eventually. And they’re hardly going to be excluded from this discussion.”

  “I guess not,” Narvelan said, his voice thin with resignation.

  “Don’t let them intimidate you,” Dakon told him. “They may have money, and ancestry that goes back before the Sachakan occupation, but neither will matter in battle. You have fought and killed Sachakans. That makes you far more impressive than a pair of old men with only fancy names to speak of.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Narvelan said. He sighed. “I almost wish it weren’t so. Though it was easier the second time. And the third.”

  Dakon frowned at his friend. “What was easier?”

  “Killing Sachakans.” Narvelan glanced at Dakon nervously. “I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried that it gets easier.”

  “Choose relieved,” Dakon advised. “If all goes well we will kill many more Sachakans. If it doesn’t, I doubt we’ll have the chance to worry if it was easy or not. Ah, we’re heading inside.”

  The king, Werrin and Sabin were moving towards the tent. Dakon saw that the rest of the army advisers were edging after them. The king beckoned to the two patriarchs, who strode forward to follow him inside. Dakon, Narvelan and the rest came after.

  Wooden chairs had been arranged in a circle. The king took the larger, fancier one, and the others settled into the rest. Magician Genfel introduced the Vindo and Lans magicians.

  “I have some reports of the first battle,” Errik told them. “But not a detailed account.” He looked at Sabin. “Describe it to me.”

  Sabin obeyed, and Dakon was struck by how much the army leader had actually missed. Sabin’s attention had been on attacking the enemy, relying on those around him to tell him how the rest of the Kyralian army fared.

  Another advantage to our new methods of fighting, Dakon thought. His attention did not need to be divided. But the disadvantage is this lack of the whole picture.

  To fill in the details he could not relate himself, Sabin turned to Werrin. After a while the king interrupted.

  “This strategy of fighting in groups shaped much of what you were able to do. Tell me more.”

  Dakon smiled as Werrin related how Ardalen demonstrated his magical trick of giving power to another, and the advantages and drawbacks of the method. He then explained how setting the apprentices to playing Kyrima with themselves as pieces and using only strikes of light had led to fighting in groups, with one given the task of striking and another of shielding to focus concentration.

  A message arrived for the king then, and servants brought food and drink. The king returned quickly, his face grim.

  “The Sachakans have overtaken Calia,” he told them. “They have not wreaked the destruction they have in the past, however.”

  Dakon shook his head. Calia was a major town, prospering from its position near the meeting point of two major roads.

  “They aren’t wasting their strength,” Innali said. “At least there are no people left for them to take more from.”

  The king frowned. “Then why did I receive reports of bodies?”

  Werrin sighed. “There are always some who refuse to leave, who hide to avoid being taken away against their will. Some even skirt around the army and return home.”

  “Why?” Innali asked. “Do they not understand the danger?”

  “Some do, some don’t. They think they can hide from the Sachakans – and some do manage to. To them protecting their property from thieves is more important. Or else their plan is the thievery itself.”

  Innali scowled.

  “The enemy isn’t keeping them alive to continue using them as a source,” Sabin added. “So to them they are a limited resource.” He looked at the king. “The Sachakans have their slaves, but we have the people of Kyralia. If they are willing, they could be our best resource.”

  “But they are a resource we haven’t been using,” Werrin pointed out. “It has been difficult enough getting villagers and townsfolk to leave their homes, giving them a chance to gather what food and possessions they can. We haven’t had time to persuade any of them to let us take their magical strength.”

  Lord Perkin shook his head. “And the people of Kyralia aren’t here for us to take power from. Instead they are arriving in Imardin in droves. The supplies they bring won’t last long and most have no roof to sleep under. We will soon begin to lose them to starvation and disease.”

  The king frowned. “If the Sachakans decided to, they could ride here in a few hours. The towns and villages between here and Imardin are yet to be evacuated, and as you’ve said, that takes time. More than usual, since they contain not just their normal occupants, but those who have not travelled as far as Imardin but chosen to stay in these villages instead. I am reluctant to give any more ground.

  “Then there is the news of another group of Sachakans in the north-west, travelling this way,” he continued. “If we wait too long they may join with the main army. Are we strong enough to confront the Sachakans now? Tonight?”

  The magicians exchanged glances.

  “Let’s sum up,” Sabin said. “After the battle more than half of us were exhausted of power, the rest depleted to some degree. We each have had one day’s recovered power from our apprentice or servant. Tomorrow we will have had two. And we have over thirty magicians who have not used up any power in battle yet. Together, we number over a hundred.

  “We have no idea how depleted the Sachakans were after the battle, but we did kill twelve of them and we can assume several more were near exhaustion. They have more slaves per magician than we have apprentices or servants. They have been taking power from those people who foolishly remained in their path. As far as we know, no reinforcements or new allies have joined them. They number something over fifty.”

  “It sounds as if we have the advantage,” the king said. Sabin nodded. “We do.”

  The king nodded. As his expression turned to one of determination Dakon cleared his throat. There was one issue they had overlooked, which had to be tackled before this new army threw itself into battle too quickly.

  “There is one other matter we have to address, your majesty. We need time to train the rest of the army in our new methods.”

  The king’s stare was direct and challenging.

  “How long will that take?”

  “A day last time,” Sabin told him.

  “Which was longer than it should have been,” Dakon added. “Too few of us volunteered to teach the newcomers.” He shrugged. “We had the luxury of time.”

  The king looked at Werrin.

  “I’m sure it could be done faster,” Werrin said, “if all were willing to teach. Perhaps a few hours.”

  The king looked at Sabin. “Is it worth denying a few magicians their sleep for?” he asked, smiling wryly.

  Sabin nodded. “Though we lost the last battle, it proved the value of Ardalen’s gift. Though the Sachakans were stronger, they lost some of their number. We may have been weaker, but none of us died. Had we fough
t as we used to – as they do – all those who exhausted their power would have perished. Not a dozen, not two dozen, but more than half our number. We lived to strengthen ourselves again. We lived to fight again. That is worth giving up a few hours’ sleep for.”

  Errik nodded, then he sighed and looked at Perkin. “Gather up those who need to be taught.” He looked at Dakon. “You will have the unenviable task of rousing some volunteers.” Dakon bowed his head.

  “I would like to make request,” one of the Vindo magicians said in halting Kyralian.

  The king turned to him. “Yes, Varno? What is it?”

  “Would I and my fellow Vindo be welcome to learn new magic?”

  Errik paused and looked at Sabin. “I must consult with my advisers, of course...”

  “We can make exchange,” Varno said, smiling. He reached into his jacket and drew out a small object. A ring, Dakon saw. A simple loop of gold holding a smooth red bead. All looked at it in curiosity and puzzlement.

  Surely he doesn’t mean to buy the knowledge with this rather un-impressive bit of jewellery, Dakon thought.

  “It is call a blood gem,” Varno explained. “Not stone; it glass imbued with blood of Vindo king. It allows him to reach wearer’s mind.” He smiled. “Very good if ships trading far away.”

  That revelation had roused murmurs of surprise from around the table.

  “I check with him short time ago if I may tell you this,” Varno added.

  “Communication by mind,” Sabin said. “But others cannot hear it.”

  “Yes,” Varno replied. “My people keep knowledge of making many, many hundreds years.”

  “Communication in battle, without the enemy knowing or guessing your signals,” Narvelan breathed.

  The king looked at Varno. “How fast can you teach the making of these?”

  The Vindo spread his hands. “Some moments, no more.”

  Errik smiled. “Then we have a trade. I suggest that the fastest way to do this is for your companions to join Lord Dakon for lessons in Ardalen’s method, and then teach you later, while you come with me and teach the making of these blood gems.”

  Varno bobbed his head. “That faster.”

  The king rose, and gestured for them to follow suit. “Aside from Magicians Sabin, Werrin and Varno, who are to come with me, you are all to follow Lord Dakon’s instructions.” Dakon saw the two Lans magicians exchanging looks of uncertainty. Sabin leaned close to the king and murmured something, and the king turned to consider the pair. “Your help and willingness to risk your life for the good of our land is payment enough,” he said quietly. “Go with Lord Dakon.”

  As the king and his companions left, the rest turned to regard Dakon expectantly. He found himself momentarily unable to speak. Then, recovering from his surprise, he smiled grimly and began to give instructions. To his relief, the magicians began to nod. Soon all were marching out of the tent, intent on the task at hand.

  When Hanara opened his eyes again he noticed no change at first. It was still dark. He was still lying beside the entrance of Takado’s tent. His master was still on the pallet in the middle, snoring faintly. Hanara pushed himself up and peered outside. The three shapes of the other slaves were still where they had been before he’d fallen asleep, on blankets laid on the ground outside. He knew he had been asleep, but for how long?

  Then he realised someone was shouting, in the distance, but close enough to allow him to make out the words.

  “Wake up! They’re coming! The Kyralians! They’re attacking!”

  Muffled sounds of movement and voices raised in protest came from within other tents. Hanara heard a low groan behind him. He turned away from the tent opening and moved to Takado’s side.

  “Master,” he said, quietly but urgently. “Wake up. The Kyralians are coming.”

  An eye opened. Takado blinked. He muttered something.

  “The Kyralians, master,” Hanara repeated. “They are attacking – or will be soon. I do not know if it is a trick or not. Do you want me to check?”

  Takado’s brows lowered, then abruptly he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

  “No.” He closed his eyes tightly and rubbed his face. “Get me a drink.”

  Hanara dashed to a small chest Takado had taken from one of the towns. On top were a half-empty bottle, a gold jug and a matching goblet.

  “Water or wine?”

  “Wine,” Takado snapped. “No... water.” He shook his head. “Just give me both. Quickly.”

  Hanara grabbed the bottle and the jug and brought them both to Takado. His master drank from the bottle first, then from the jug, then splashed water over his face. He thrust bottle and jug back into Hanara’s arms, moved to the tent entrance and disappeared outside.

  Taking the opportunity, Hanara drank some water. It tasted of silt. He considered the wine and decided against it. He’d need a clear head if he was to serve his master well in battle. But what should he do next? If the Kyralians are about to attack he’ll probably want to take as much power as he can, so I’d better wake the others. Hanara felt remarkably calm as he moved outside and prodded the other slaves awake. As he explained, the slaves began to glance around the camp anxiously. They do not have what I have, Hanara thought, smiling. I have achieved the long-life feeling, in serving Takado. It doesn’t matter if I die tonight. Perhaps that is why I am calm.

  Yet doubts began to creep in again, as they had since the night after the battle, when Takado had disappeared with Asara and Dachido, then returned with new horses, but in a foul mood. Hanara did not know what had angered Takado so much, but his master hadn’t regained his confidence and good humour. Takado had taken magic from his four slaves two or three times over the next day, and hunted down the Kyralians foolish enough to cross his path with a frightening savagery. He’d even chased down domestic animals.

  At least we ate well last night.

  Takado’s mood had swung back to its normal confidence when, at sundown, twenty Sachakans had ridden into Calia to join the army. They had been preparing themselves for battle by roaming about in north-west Kryalia, attacking villages and towns. But they brought news of a group of Elyne magicians travelling south to join the Kyralians. Takado had roused the army and set forth, intending to find and defeat the Kyralians before that help could arrive.

  After a few hours’ travelling, however, he had stopped the army and ordered them to make camp. Nomako’s scouts had brought news that the Kyralian army had grown larger, and the Elynes would not arrive for another full day. He wanted to gather more information and debate tactics, and threatened to withdraw his assistance. Instead of engaging in a debate, Takado had retired to his tent, saying they could argue about it in the morning.

  It wasn’t morning. Hanara estimated morning was still several hours away. But the camp was alive with activity. Magicians strode about or gathered in tense knots. Slaves dashed here and there. Hanara saw Takado talking to Asara and Dachido. Nomako approached them, pointing south. Takado glanced in that direction, said something, then turned on his heel and headed for Hanara. Recognising the look on his master’s face, Hanara dropped to his knees and held out his wrists. Takado’s knife flashed into his hand.

  The taking of power was rapid and left Hanara reeling. He saw the other slaves sway as they endured the ritual. Then Takado barked Hanara’s name and strode away.

  Hurrying after, Hanara looked beyond the camp and saw a sight that set his heart racing. A long shadow stretched across the southern end of the field. A dark ribbon of movement blown steadily closer, by a wind he could feel only in his imagination. The slip of moon skulking within the trees allowed only hints and glimpses of the Kyralians’ approach.

  White faces in the dark, he thought. They look like what the barbarian tribes of old must have looked like, but they’ve grown clever and strong.

  As in nightmares, his feet felt weighty and encumbered as he walked towards them, but he forced himself to follow Takado. Memories of slaves struck by str
ay magic slipped into his mind, despite his attempts to keep them out. I will stay close to Takado. I will keep close to the ground. If he holds I will be protected. If he fails I will not want to live anyway.

  Or did he? Again, traitorous doubts crept in. He pushed them aside.

  From all around him, Sachakan magicians and their slaves hurried forward. As Takado stopped, they fell into a line stretching out on both sides of him. Asara and Dachido, instead of standing among their own people, took their places by his side, showing Nomako who they considered the leader of the army to be.

  A globe of light flared into existence far above Takado’s head, brightening the pale faces of the Kyralians. They had stopped advancing, Hanara saw. Once again they’d formed knots of five or six magicians. Many, many more knots than had been at the last battle.

  “Have you come back to surrender?” Takado called out.

  “No,” a voice replied. “We have come here to accept yours, Ashaki Takado, though I expect you will take some persuading.”

  All eyes fell on a young man stepping forward from a knot of magicians near the centre of the Kyralian line.

  Takado burst into laughter. “King Errik! The runt himself has scurried out of his castle to squeak at us. Which is about all he can contribute to a fight,” Takado glanced at his fellow Sachakans on either side, “from what I’ve been told.”

  “I have plenty to contribute,” the king replied. As if copying Takado, he looked up and down the line of Kyralian magicians. “I have my people. I have magicians, united in knowledge and strength. I have ordinary people, willing and ready to defend their country any way they—”

  “Magicians who have already failed you once,” Takado said. “And will again.”

  The Kyralian king smiled. “How many of your allies died in that last battle?”