The Magician’s Apprentice

“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 fought 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