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Chapter I. Stableboy
Slap! Randal swatted a stinging horsefly that had tried to make a meal from his shoulder.
"One down," he counted aloud. Then he looked at the swarm still hovering in the air around him. "Only about four thousand to go."
The late afternoon sun beat down on the Basilisk, a small country inn a few day's ride from Tattinham, near the eastern mountains of Brecelande. Inside the stable, the air was thick with the stink of manure and rotting straw, and throbbed with the buzzing of a myriad heavy, slow-moving flies. Randal had once been a squire in his uncle's castle of Doun, and most recently had been an apprentice wizard at the Schola Sorceriae, the School of Wizardry in Tarnsberg on the western sea. Now he heaved another pitchfork-load of manure over his shoulder, and wondered why he'd ever left home.
Randal was about fifteen, with the height and the sturdy build that come of being well-fed from earliest childhood. At the moment, however, a film of grey dust covered most of his face, and sweat plastered his long, untrimmed black hair to his head and neck. Randal had started work when a pair of merchants departed and left the stables empty, but the Basilisk's regular hostler—who should have been working with him—had never shown up.
"It's no good," Randal muttered. "I have to rest."
He leaned the pitchfork against the wall of the stable, and rubbed his hands down the front of his tunic. His right palm ached, as it did whenever he performed hard physical work these days. He looked down at the hand, and at the raised, red scar that stretched across it—low on the side away from his thumb, higher on the thumb edge, so that it actually crossed the first joint of his forefinger.
Randal clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to ease the cramp in the scar-stiffened flesh. If only he hadn't grabbed the sharp-edged blade of Master Laerg's ceremonial sword ... if only he hadn't used the magical object like a knightly weapon, to kill the renegade wizard Laerg before his spells could destroy not only Randal but the entire School of Wizardry, if only ... but if he hadn't done those things, he would be dead now, and the kingdom of Brecelande would be held fast in Laerg's sorcerous grip.
Even working here for the rest of my life, thought Randal, glancing about the filthy stable, would be better than that.
He took up the pitchfork again, and returned to mucking out the befouled straw. As he worked, he took some comfort in knowing that tomorrow or the next day should see him on the road again, well away from the Basilisk and its stinking stable, and within reach—at last—of his goal.
Magic.
More than anything else, Randal had wanted to be a wizard, a worker in spells and the enchantments that could change the texture of reality—or, more practically, make short work of clearing out a filthy stable. He had spent three years at the Schola in Tarnsberg, studying the magical arts, before breaking the oldest law of wizardry, the one that forbade a wizard to attack or defend with steel.
His action had saved the Schola from destruction, and the Regents—the master wizards who controlled the School of Wizardry—had not been ungrateful. They'd made Randal a journeyman wizard, setting him on the second stage of the long road that led from apprenticeship to mastery. But they'd also done something else.
They'd taken his magic away from him. Until he could get permission from the wizard Balpesh, once a Regent of the Schola and now a hermit living near Tattinham in the eastern mountains, all Randal's skill and training had to remain untouched, no matter how great the need.
Randal slapped at another fly. Back in Tarnsberg, any second-year apprentice could get rid of these flying nuisances with an elementary spell. He could do it himself, right now. Nothing prevented him, except his own will.
The Regents of the Schola hadn't put him under any kind of enchantment or binding-spell when they barred him from the use of magic—they had done something far simpler, and far less kind. They had asked for his sworn word, and he had given it.
A wizard doesn't lie, thought Randal, bending again to his work. Even if I can't work magic right now, I'm still a wizard. The Regents said so.
Randal had wanted to be a wizard ever since a master wizard named Madoc the Wayfarer visited Castle Doun. But the training that kept Randal true to his promise had begun a long time before. Lord Alyen, who was Randal's uncle and brother of the baron who ruled over Doun, had never spoken an untruth in Randal's hearing—and Sir Palamon, the castle master-at-arms, in charge of turning squires into knights and clumsy peasants into seasoned fighting-men, had his own way of dealing with liars and oathbreakers.
Sir Palamon, reflected Randal, had high standards. In everything. If he ever saw this stable, he'd nail the hostler's hide to the wall.
More than once, on his long journey eastward from Tarnsberg, Randal had caught himself half-wishing he had never left the castle and barony of Doun. If he'd stayed, he'd have been almost a knight himself by now; Sir Palamon himself had said that Randal showed promise.
But no, I had to be smart. Living at my ease for the rest of my life wasn't good enough.
Another fork-load of manure went over his shoulder.
I wanted to understand the mysteries of the universe.
Randal gulped in a breath through his mouth—the reek made the air too nasty to breathe any other way—and dragged the back of his arm across his forehead, in a foredoomed attempt to keep the sweat from running into his eyes.
"Mysteries of the universe, hah!" he muttered aloud. "I'm standing knee-deep in the mysteries of the universe right now."
The thought made Randal laugh. In the dusty stable, the laugh turned into a choke, then a coughing fit. He staggered out of the open door into the sweet air and sunlight of the inn yard. He was coughing so hard that he barely heard the ringing of bridles and pounding of hooves as a trio of mounted men swept through the gate and into the yard.
He looked up as the cavalcade blocked the light in front of him. Through watering eyes he got an impression of bright colors and rich patterns. As the coughing fit passed, he heard a voice bellowing in his ear, "Boy! Say, boy! Take care of the horses, I say!"
Randal turned toward the owner of the voice, and saw a young man scarcely a year or two older than he was himself. The youth wore the belt, spurs, and chain of a knight, and rested one gloved hand on the hilt of a sword.
So this is what they're making knights out of these days, thought Randal. Sir Palamon was right about the chivalry going downhill in a greased handcart.
The young man wasn't amused by Randal's appraising glance. "Look at me that way again, boy, and I'll slap your eyes out. Now take the horses and be quick about it—their comfort's worth more than your miserable life."
Randal looked away. He took the bridles of the horses as they were given to him and kept his thoughts to himself. The Basilisk's regular hostler, the one Randal was supposed to be assisting, came running up to help with the task, all the while bowing to the lordlings and muttering a stream of flattering phrases.
In spite of the hostler's show of eagerness, most of the work still fell to Randal's lot. He walked the horses down, dried them, and curried them. When that task was finished, the hostler had Randal spread new straw, and set out hay. By the time the work in the stable was done, the sun had almost set, and Randal had to help close the gates of the inn yard.
With its gates closed and barred, the inn resembled a small fortress more than it did any place where hospitality might be found. Nobody inside the walls complained, however—no honest man went abroad in this country by night. Some folk claimed that in the old days, before the death of the High King, wild beasts were never seen outside of the deepest forests; and a man could walk alone from one side of the realm to the other with a sack of gold tied to his belt, and never fear a thief. But if those days had ever truly existed, they were long gone, and prudent travelers spent the night, when they could, behind locked doors.
After the gates were shut, Randal went to the kitchen, out back behind the main room of the inn. These days, as he made his way from Tarnsberg to Tattinham as a traveling laborer, he never got to walk into any place by the front door. In the kitchen, the cook set Randal to scouring out the pots and pans from dinner. Finally, almost two hours later, Randal got his own share of the evening meal: a small portion of burned meat and soggy bread.
He retreated with the food to the chimney corner, where he wolfed down the bread and meat in spite of the taste. As usual, the food vanished long before he had satisfied his hunger. He thought back wistfully to the meals he'd eaten at the Schola. Like the other apprentices, he'd complained about the school's plain, and somewhat monotonous, fare; but at least there had always been more than enough to fill even the emptiest stomach.
"If I'd known then what I know now," Randal muttered. The cook shot him a murderous look, and he fell silent again.
After his meal, such as it had been, Randal lingered for a while near the kitchen's other door, the one that opened into the main room of the inn. The young knights were still there, talking and laughing. Two of them, apparently ardent falconers, had gotten into an argument over which was the better hawk, a kestrel or a peregrine.
Randal had his own opinions on the subject. Apprentices at the Schola didn't go hawking, but the knights and squires at Castle Doun had flown their hunting-falcons at birds and small game every chance they could get. He listened to the raised voices for a moment, feeling homesick, before he left the kitchen by the back door.
He made his way across the yard to his sleeping-place in the stable. Although the afternoon had been hot, the night breeze blowing down on the dark inn-yard made Randal shiver. His stomach still growled in protest against the scanty meal, but since he couldn't do anything about the emptiness in his midsection he ignored it.
He couldn't help remembering what Madoc the Wayfarer had said, back when Randal was still a squire at his uncle's castle, and becoming a wizard had seemed like a bright and wonderful dream: "You'll be hungry more often that you're fed," the master wizard had told him, "and spend more time in danger on the road than safe under a roof."
Madoc was certainly right about that one, thought Randal. So intent was he on his own thoughts that he didn't watch the path ahead of him. A moment later, he ran straight into a warm, brocaded wall.
"Churl!" said a familiar, and slightly drunken, voice. It was the young knight he'd encountered in the inn-yard earlier. "Do you realize you've stepped on the toe of a nobleman?"
Wonderful, Randal thought. Just the way I wanted to end the day.
He tried to side-step the young knight and continue on toward the stable. But the nobleman was not pleased.
"Don't you have a tongue, you insolent oaf? I'll teach you to touch a knight."
"I'm . . . I'm sorry, my lord," Randal mumbled.
"You certainly are," growled the knight. "And you'd be even sorrier if I had the schooling of you."
Randal started to mutter something properly apologetic, but a second voice cut in from behind him and drowned out the words.
"What's all this, then?"
"Nothing much," said the first knight. "Just a peasant with no manners."
"That so?" said the other. "Turn around, peasant."
Randal felt a hard shove between his shoulderblades. He turned to look at the man who had pushed him. The move turned out to be a serious mistake.
"Boy!" snarled the one who had spoken first. "Do you dare turn your back on a knight?"
Randal felt another hard shove, one that spun him around again in spite of his effort to keep his feet.
"No manners at all," said the second man behind him. "He was warned, and here he's turned his back on a knight again. We'll have to teach him." As he spoke, he dealt Randal a slap that made the young wizard's head reel.
Through the buzz in his head, Randy heard a new voice joining in with the others. "What do we have here?"
"A dirty little pig that doesn't know how to act before his betters," said the first knight.
"Time he was taught a lesson, then," said the new voice. Randal felt another blow, harder than the others. This hand wore rings.
Laughter echoed in the night. A foot kicked out, and snatched Randal's leg from under him. But Randal knew how to fall, and he rolled quickly back to his feet. He tried to get away then, and fade into the shadows, but one of his assailants caught him and pushed him into the circle again.
"Don't leave before you're dismissed, boy."
Randal wavered to a stop in front of the knight who had just spoken. His head still spun from the blows he had taken, and he almost lost his balance.
"That's not the way to bow, fool," said the knight.
Randal kept his head down, but his fists at his sides were clenched tight. If only he had his magic back again ... It wouldn't even take a lightning bolt, just a flash and a bang and these knights would be running for their lives. But I gave my word.
A buffet from the clenched fist of his latest tormentor almost knocked Randal off his feet. He clenched his own fists tighter, feeling the pain in his scarred palm and welcoming it as a distraction.
One of the other knights slapped Randal so hard the youth's eyes watered, and his ears rang with the blow.
I could take him, thought Randal, through the racket in his head. I'm not banned from fighting—just from using steel. But if I knock him down, his friends will probably kill me.
A boot hit Randal in the knee. He collapsed, and this time he stayed on the ground. He rolled into a ball on the packed dirt, hoping to protect himself from serious injury while the group of knights worked off their drunken bad-temper.
The next kick never landed. Instead, a deep but somehow familiar voice called out, "Let him go."
I've heard that voice somewhere, thought Randal.
So, it seemed, had the ones who'd been bullying him. He sensed them drawing back away from him, and then heard one of them—the young knight who had started the game—ask in surly tones, "Who dares command me?"
"Sir Walter of Doun," said the newcomer. "Who asks?"
"Sir Reginald de Haut Desert," said the first knight stiffly, like a dog backing off from its prey when it sees the pack leader coming. "I have heard of you, sir."
And so have I, thought Randal miserably, pressing his head into his knees where he lay in the dust of the innyard. His cousin Walter was the last person in Brecelande he wanted to see at the moment. Even getting kicked senseless by Reginald and his friends would have been preferable.
"And I have heard of you, sir." Walter's voice was courteous, but unyielding.
There was a pause, and then another voice from the circle around Randal said, "This one isn't worth dirtying my boots on. I'm going back inside."
From the sounds the others left with him. Walter spoke again out of the darkness above Randal.
"Here, now, boy—are you hurt?"
Randal stayed curled up on the ground and shook his head. Maybe his cousin would go away. But no ... Lord Alyen and Sir Palamon had both taught that a true knight took the less fortunate under his protection, and Walter seemed intent on living up to the ideal.
"Let me look at you, boy. Is this blood on your face?"
Randal shook his head. "It doesn't matter, my lord," he muttered.
Then he realized that his cousin wasn't going to go away as long as he lay there on the packed dirt. He tried to stand, but the last kick to his knee had been too much for him, and he faltered as he came upright.
A strong arm caught him before he could fall. Randal felt the heavy resistance of chain mail under a linen surcoat, and the limber muscle beneath. Walter had grown over the last three years, from a gangly boy into a young man of almost twenty. Randal looked away, still hoping not to be recognized.
"Here," said Walter. "Let me give you a hand."
He slipped an arm under Randal's, and began helping the young wizard limp back toward the lighted inn. Randal muttered something he hoped sounded like thanks; his voice hadn't finished changing when he'd left Doun for the Schola, and maybe Walter wouldn't remember him well enough to recognize his voice and accent.
But Walter had never been stupid. He paused, and the idle kindness in his voice changed to genuine curiosity. "What's your name, boy?"
A wizard never tells anything but the truth, thought Randal, despairing. Lies and magic don't work in the same mouth.
"Well, answer me," Walter said, more sharply this time. "What's your name?"
"Randal," Randal said, almost in a whisper. Then, more strongly, "Randal of Doun—cousin."
This sample chapter comes from TOURNAMENT AND TOWER (Circle of Magic #2, Troll Books, 1990) ISBN 0-8167-1829-6 $2.95.You can see all of the Circle of Magic books.