Renegade's Magic

Yet as Soldier’s Boy’s ragtag force formed up to be quick-walked by the Great Ones down to the forest edge, I could not help but see the hand of the balancer in all of this. Could hatred and determination be a counterweight to organization and experience? I suddenly understood something about the old god of death and why he was also the god of balances. One could always make two things balance by moving the fulcrum. I had the sudden uneasy notion that I was the fulcrum that had been moved.

Soldier’s Boy bid Olikea farewell. All of the feeders except Dasie’s guards would remain here with Kinrove and Jodoli. From now on, the warriors under the leadership of Dasie and Soldier’s Boy would go on alone. Again, the few horses we had were led rather than ridden. I had never seen Dasie mounted on her cart horse. It pleased me to think she would be a poor equestrian.

The late morning and fading light of the short afternoon passed in the flickering landscapes of quick-walk. The snow was deep in the places where it had sifted down through the trees, and the cold was enough to crack the lips and stiffen faces. More than a few of our warriors expressed discomfort and then dismay as the march went on. I think some of them would have turned back, but the advantage of the quick-walk meant that they must remain with us, or face several lonely days of hiking back to our encampment. Those who might have otherwise deserted stayed with us, but gracelessly.

For the first time since Dasie had entered our lives, she was without her iron bearer. Kinrove and Jodoli had refused to even attempt to quick-walk anyone carrying iron, saying that even to have that metal nearby disrupted their magic severely. I do not know if she feared Soldier’s Boy might seize the opportunity for revenge or not. Like Soldier’s Boy, she had left her new feeders behind, but her two original feeders, attired now as warriors, walked to either side of her. The bronze swords they carried looked every bit as deadly as iron, and the men who carried them appeared confident and competent, for they needed to worry only about their swordsmanship, not about any accidental discomfort or injury to their Great One. Behind her, a warrior led the hulking horse she would ride into battle. For now, he functioned as a pack beast, laden with pitch torches.

Today both Soldier’s Boy and Dasie toiled through a day of walking that was a trial in itself for heavy folk who had grown unaccustomed to exerting themselves. The problem for Soldier’s Boy was not the cold, but the heat his own body generated from the exercise. He wanted to avoid sweating, for well he knew how quickly his body would chill once they had stopped moving, but there was little he could do about it. Again, I experienced that sensation of lurching and halting along as the magic shoved us. It was not pleasant, but I enjoyed knowing that Soldier’s Boy shared my discomfort.

Night came swiftly. The last bit of our journey we made in darkness. It was unnerving to be magically moved forward through a landscape that became, with every few steps, darker and colder. When we reached the forest of the ancestor trees that bordered on the end of the King’s Road, our unnatural journey abruptly halted. In the dark and the cold, the men and the dozen or so horses suddenly milled, speaking in low voices as they located one another in the dark. Dasie had planned well. She unloaded torches, and as her magic woke each one to flame, they were passed around.

The giant trees around us were heavily burdened with snow, but had effectively blocked most of it from reaching the forest floor. There were drifts in a few places, but for the most part, it was less than ankle deep. Fallen branches were gathered, and in a short time, a score of scattered campfires leapt and crackled in the darkness. The light made monsters of the passing shadows and the updraft of heat stirred the branches overhead, prompting a few to drip or suddenly spring free of a heavy load of snow, showering the soldiers below. Soldier’s Boy moved purposefully from fire to fire, talking to the men he had put in charge of his troops. Some were effective as sergeants; they’d taken charge of their troops and seen that they’d drunk from their water and eaten sparingly of their supplies. Others were more like bully boys, proud of being chosen to lead but, in their pride, pushing and harrying their warriors rather than truly leading. He should have let them choose their own leaders, I thought to myself. It would have been more in keeping with their Speck traditions. Then I was surprised that I could see how his overlayering of Gernian military tradition did not fit their culture but he could not. I wondered again at how much both of us had blended.

After he had made his circuit, he came back to his own fireside. The warriors from his kin-clan were there. He wasted a few long moments wishing that he had begun to cultivate them earlier and truly make them his own. He smiled at them and asked if they had any concerns, but could scarcely focus on their responses. In a few hours, his life might depend on them, and he barely knew them or any of the men in his command. He was no better, I let him know, than the distant officers I’d served under at Gettys. I was merciless as I gouged at his self-confidence and his ability to command. As I did so, I wondered if he had done the same to me during my long days as my father’s slave and prisoner. Had he been part of my inability to tear myself free and find a new life for myself? Even the idea that such was a possibility fanned my wrath to flames. I felt no compunction at all as I undermined his self-worth with every doubt I could imagine, with every recrimination from the past that I could unearth. I reminded him, over and over, that he’d been lazy and neglected his strength and fitness, that he’d wasted opportunities to win his men’s loyalty, to teach them discipline, to make them understand the necessity of drill and swift obedience.