9.9.10

1: The Boy Who Would Be a Knight

Trace liked riding in the caravan with his parents. It made him feel responsible, especially when his father would hand him the reigns and let him lead the horses.  He knew he wasn't really doing anything, that the horses were only following the road ahead of them, but it made him feel responsible nonetheless.

His parents didn't take him with them every time they went out. They were traders, but wanted him to grow up with a place to call home. Every time they left he would beg them to let him come along, but their answer was always the same. Only on special occasions would they take him with them.

Like on his seventh birthday. That would be the last time he would ever ride with them. It was a simple route, carrying a load of grain from their home in Withestrop at the edge of the farm belt toward the walled city of Inari. Some of that grain would later go as far as the capital, but Trace and his parents would be back home celebrating his birthday by then.

Or they should've been, but before they were even halfway to Inari they were attacked by bandits. Everything happened so suddenly that Trace couldn't follow it. The horses let out whinnies of terror, jerking the reigns right out of his father's hands. There was shouting from both inside and outside the hide covering the caravan, and suddenly Trace found it hard to breathe. He was coughing on something thick and dark with a bitter taste that chewed at his nostrils.

The next thing he knew he was being dragged by his parents out of the burning caravan. Abandoning their cargo for their lives they headed for the shelter of the woods, but were cut off by nearly a dozen men. They all wore the black bandannas of bandits around their necks and swords in their belts.

The crop, the only thing of value in the caravan, was singed and worthless, but the bandits wouldn't walk away empty-handed. They surrounded Trace and his family, swords raised and eyes burning with hateful joy.

Trace's parents tried to stop the bandits, but they were merchants and unarmed. There was only so much they could do before they were slain and the bandits turned their swords on Trace.

The young boy never thought of fighting them, or of running. He didn't even look up at the bandits or their swords. He had never even thought about death before and now it was staring him in the face. He stared into the blank eyes of his parents, not even caring that his expression would look exactly like theirs in only a few seconds. He didn't cry for the end that seemed all but inevitable at that point.

Only that end never came.

“That's enough.” Trace didn't hear the voice coming from farther down the road, but the bandits did. It was commanding enough to turn their attention from the boy who couldn't even cry.

The bandits only laughed at the intruder. He may have been wearing the white uniform of the mage-knights, but like the traders they had just killed he was unarmed. And he was alone, against ten of them. But he wasn't afraid, which both delighted and infuriated the bandits.

Most of the intruder's face was hidden by a dark red muffler, so the bandits couldn't see him smile as they ran toward him. He didn't move a muscle, not even when the bandits raised their swords.

By the time Trace looked up a few seconds later four of the bandits were on the ground. The remaining six were gathered around the man in the white uniform, snarling and breathing hard. Trace couldn't believe his eyes. He had heard rumors about the mage-knights, everyone had, but he'd never met one in person let alone seen one fight. It was amazing.

His muffler swinging behind him, the man easily ducked underneath one of bandits' sword as he swung, spinning around to plant both of his palms on the bandit's chest. Trace couldn't see the light blue shockwave of magic that came out of the mage-knight's hands but he could see the way it sent the bandit flying back through the air.

The other bandits came charging in, but the man easily dodged their swords. All he had to do was get a hand on one of the bandits and he would fall, unconscious. That was the power of the mage-knights.

Half a minute later only one of the bandits was left standing. He looked at his fallen comrades and made one last reckless thrust for the man with the red muffler. But it was in vain. The mage-knight stepped out of the way of the bandit's strike, grabbing the hilt of his sword and tugging. Unable to release his grip on the sword, the bandit was pulled right into the man's free hand, his palm landing right at the bottom of the bandit's chin. Once more a blue shockwave came out of the man's palm and the last of the bandits fell.

The man didn't say anything after that. He only looked at Trace for a second before turning and walking away, but the details of that one second would be etched into the young boy's memory forever. He would never forget the man's short black hair, or his silver eyes. For as long as he lived, he would never forget the mage-knight in the dark red muffler.

*          *          *

Trace didn't wake up especially early the day he was supposed to leave Withestrop, even if it was for the first time in nine years. Then again if he woke up any earlier than he usually did he wouldn't have gone to sleep at all.

Morning began a few hours before daybreak in Withestrop, as it did in all the villages in the farm belt, with the herding and feeding of cattle. But Trace's day began an hour before that even. While even the hardest workers in the village were still asleep, Trace was running laps around the grain fields, swimming across the watering hole, or practicing with his sword on the trees in the woods. Anything to make himself stronger. Anything so that he would never be that helpless child he'd been when his parents were killed.

Making himself stronger wouldn't bring them back, he was old enough to know that, but on that fateful day he'd decided that he would do for other people what he couldn't for his parents, what the mage-knight in the red muffler had done for him. He was going to protect people, to save them, and any training no matter how rigorous was endurable if it was for that end.

After his morning exercise, he helped the farmers herd in their goats. Most of them used summoning magic, though none of them well, but Trace didn't need magic. That was why he had to work so hard.

Everyone could use magic in varying amounts. Most people weren't strong enough to fight with it, but magic always had an application. From spells to help gardens grow to wards that kept wolves out of the paddocks, magic had woven its way into every part of life, even in Trace's little village on the edge of the farm belt. Everyone could use it, except for Trace.

He had learned that nine years ago, after his parents were killed. Magic was supposed to be a part of life, like breathing. Everything that lived could breathe, and every person could use magic. Or that was how it was supposed to be, but no matter how hard he concentrated, how hard he trained or focused he couldn't feel any magic inside of himself.

Faced with this, anyone else might have given up on joining the mage-knights. They had magic in their name, after all, surely they wouldn't accept someone who couldn't use even the smallest bit of magic. But Trace wouldn't be deterred from his dream. He saw it only as an inconvenience, a challenge to be overcome.

And he did overcome it. Since he couldn't use magic, he learned to use a sword. He was taken in by the village blacksmith after his parents were killed, so he always had a supply of blades to practice with. After nine years of practice, he had gotten good enough that his sword was just as reliable as a mage's magic.

Which brought him to the day when he would leave Withestrop for Vanadrin, the eastern headquarters of the mage-knights. He left early in the afternoon, after all of the chores were taken care of for the morning. The whole village came out to see him off. He was kind and hard working, and while they were all sad to see him go they knew deep down that his future was bigger than a farming village could provide.

“You'll come back and visit, right?” a boy called Ham (short for Hamlan) asked, tugging at the hem of Trace's shirt. He had always been close to Trace, considering the older boy to be a brother of sorts.

“Of course.” Trace bent down to ruffle Ham's already messy hair. “When I'm a mage-knight.”

His goodbyes stretched on for over half an hour. All the younger children insisted on throwing their arms around him, the more demanding ones even climbing on his shoulders for one last ride. The adults were just as fond of him, but kept their distance and wished him well.

The crowd parted to let the blacksmith and his wife through to say their goodbyes to the boy who had been like their son for the past nine years. Even the gruff blacksmith, a stout man whose hair had been singed off so many times it had stopped growing back, couldn't hold back his emotions, which he covered with swats of his thick hands.

“Here,” he said, handing Trace a hastily wrapped package. “Take it.”

Trace did, and carefully unwrapped it. Inside the parcel was a sword, one of the nicest Trace had ever seen. The handle and scabbard were both made of a light-yet durable metal tinted green without any decorative carvings. The blade was thin yet strong, as light as the rest of the sword, and so smooth it might have been made out of glass or diamond. He could tell just from holding it that the balance was perfect, despite the whole thing being so light.

“It's the finest blade I've ever worked,” the blacksmith said before Trace could say anything. “For the finest swordsman I’ve ever seen. Your parents would be proud of the man you've become.”

Trace through his arms around the stout man, still holding the sword. He didn't know what to say. “Thank you,” just didn't seem to be enough, but he said it anyway. “I won’t let you down.”

The old blacksmith returned his embrace. “Of course.”

And so Trace left his home behind and set his sights on Vanadrin. It was a three day journey to the mage-knight's eastern headquarters, but Trace didn't begrudge the walking. The inns he had to stay in along the way were filled with stiff beds and questionably fresh meat, but the thought that he would finally be able to join the mage-knights when his journey was over was more than enough to keep him in high spirits. Maybe he would even meet the mage-knight who had saved his life all those years ago.

The road to Vanadrin wound through the woods, occasionally crossing through a plain or village. For the most part it wasn't even paved, just tight-packed dirt roads all the way up to the city. Trace, who had never really been outside of Withestrop, wasn't quite sure what to expect of Vanadrin. He knew it would be bigger than his home village, with houses made of stone instead of wood, but nothing he had ever seen could prepare him for his first look at the city.

Vanadrin may have been the home of the mage-knight's eastern headquarters, but it was also a city independent of the knights' barracks and training facility that surrounded it. The two had grown independently yet relied on the support of the other. Vanadrin, a merchant town, took advantage of the security the mage-knights provided while the knights benefited from the prosperity the city's market brought. All together, the results were stunning.

From a distance, Vanadrin looked more like a mountain than a city. Everything, even the streets were made of marble and the city was built into a man-made hill made of large, circular steps. The main road cut through the steps, forming a continuous slope ringed with alleys around which the shops and houses were built.

Trace had never seen so much stonework. The city by itself was easily three times the size of his village, not including the mage-knights' training fields to the side. It was hard to imagine any number of people creating something so vast and impressive, even with magic.

Then again, Trace didn't know much about magic, as he quickly found out as he entered the streets of Vanadrin. Along every alley he saw magic being used for things he'd never even imagined it could be: creating dazzling light displays on signs outside of cafés, making small string puppets dance and do cartwheels on their own to attract kids to toy stores, amplifying the smell of fresh baked bread seeping out of the many bakeries.

But the most brilliant displays came from the street performers gathered in the many plazas throughout the city. They breathed intricate pictures out of multiple colors of fire into the air or lifted themselves off the ground on gusts of wind, all for the hope of a few spare coins from anyone passing by. Trace couldn't help but stop to watch them, even if it meant suffering at the elbows of the people pushing past him. They were so good at using their magic, better than anyone in Withestrop. To summon great blasts of fire with just a few chanted words or moves of their hands was a talent unlike anything he had ever seen. And these were only street performers. The mage-knights would be even better.

Without realizing it Trace's hand found the hilt of his sword on his waist. Could he really hope to fight on par with people like that using only his sword. Whatever his answer might have been, it was already too late to think about that.

Making his way through the city was harder than Trace expected. The streets and alleys were narrow and filled with throbbing crowds that seemed to have minds of their own. It took a special knack to be able to weave through the crowds of people without fighting them, one that was completely beyond Trace. Instead of taking the direct route and fighting the shoppers and other pedestrians all the way up the hill, Trace decided to stick to the smaller, less populated alleys.

There was enough room for him to go through the alleys without scraping his shoulders on the buildings on either side, but only barely. Most of the buildings were at least two floors high, so unless the sun was directly overhead the alleys were constantly bathed in shadows. Still, Trace found navigating them easier than dealing with the crowds of people standing in the main streets of the market. He didn't stop to look at the graffiti on the walls, either carved into them by hand or charred on with magic, but he did laugh at some of the caricatures (even if he didn't know who they were making fun of).

He got out of the alleys and back into the market's main street up near the top of the hill where the crowds were thinner. Here he could actually see what was for sale in the various stalls running along the side of the road. Everything from fruit and vegetables to clothing and fabrics were on sale, all the way down to dolls for children and small amulets that were guaranteed to, with the accompanying mantra, focus the holder's magic into a specific spell. Trace couldn't resist buying one shaped like a fireball and trying it in the nearest empty alley. It didn't work.

Trace didn't look at the goods for sale after that, but rather at the people. They were all wearing colorful, stylish clothes that were a luxury back in Withestrop. He might have felt out of place in his tanned leathers, but in a market that big it was hard not to fit in. Trace even saw a few people from the north judging by their thick fur hats. He might have guessed it from their accents as well, only he'd never heard a northerner talk himself.

And then something caught his eye from across the street. It was quick, but he thought he saw the silver flash of a blade for an instant. But when he looked more carefully there was nothing there, just four men walking in unison toward the alley. And caught in the middle of them was a young girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen.

Trace knew instantly what was happening. The girl was being robbed. He looked around for a mage-knight or anyone who could help. He didn't see anyone, so he went himself.

He had been right. Once they were safely out of view in the alley, the four men had surrounded the girl. She had her back to the wall, and as far as Trace could see two of her assailants had knives trained on her.

“Come on,” the mugger in the middle said, waggling his knife in front of her, “we just want your money. A little girl like you doesn't walk around by herself without a purse. Just hand it over so we don't have to do anything you'll regret.”

Trace wasn't looking at the girl to see whether she was scared or not. His gaze was fixed on the mugger with the knife held to her neck, on his expression. It was a look Trace knew well, that he would never forget. The rabid, joyous anticipation before a kill. Whether she handed over her money or not, that girl would never leave that alley. Not unless someone did something. And finally, Trace was in a position to do something.

The girl was unstrapping a leather pouch from her belt, looking more angry than scared, when Trace stepped up. “Hey,” he said, drawing the attention of all four muggers to him. That was all the warning he gave. He had already slipped his sword, still in its sheath, out of his belt and as soon as the nearest thug turned to look at him Trace smacked him hard across the face with the end of the sheath. There were two loud cracks; the first from Trace's attack and the second from when the mugger’s head his the stone wall. After that he sank to the ground, stunned.

The remaining three muggers were quicker to react than Trace would've expected, but he was still faster. They didn't shout or say anything before lunging at Trace. With one hand on his sword's hilt and the other on its scabbard, Trace easily pushed the man's knife out of the way, then pulled his sword as far out of its sheath as it would go before its butt slammed into the man's jaw. Before he could react Trace followed up with another hit across the face with the edge of his scabbard and the man fell.

The next attack came even before the last man had hit the ground, with the third of the four muggers reaching over his falling comrade to stab at Trace with a short sword. Trace saw it coming and swung hard with his still-sheathed sword. He got the point of his sheath on the man's hand and slammed it into the nearest wall with a crunch. The mugger howled in pain and dropped his sword, but Trace was already spinning around to sweep his legs out. He landed high on his back, his head whipping toward the ground a second later.

That left only one mugger, who took one look at his three fallen comrades, stashed his knife back into the folds of his shirt and ran off.

With her four attackers taken care of, Trace finally turned his attention to the girl they were attacking. She was a head shorter than him, with spiky hair that was black with four white streaks in it. She was still holding the leather pouch open, but instead of coins inside of it there was some kind of silvery powder.

He wasn't quite sure what reaction to expect from her, but he certainly hadn't thought she would get mad at him. But that was exactly what happened. “I could've taken care of them,” she told him, scowling as she put the pouch away.

“You're welcome,” Trace said as he slid his sword back into place, put off by her strange response.

“I didn't ask for your help,” she said before storming off and leaving Trace to scratch his head. He had heard that people in the cities weren't as friendly as in the countryside, but he'd thought that was just a rumor.

But Trace was taking too long, and he was already late. He had saved that girl's life, whether she thanked him for it or not. That was what mattered.

The mage-knights took new recruits twice a year. The recruits had to be sixteen or older, had to be willing and able to serve the public and uphold the name of the mage-knights, and, for the most part, be proficient with magic. Trace was hoping they would be lenient on that third part. The applicants gathered in the main plaza at the very top of the city, right outside their headquarter building. In the center of the plaza was a pewter statue of the very first mage-knight with a summoned tidal wave behind him, and around that stood four registration tables.

Trace went to the nearest table, manned by a woman only a few years older than him with thick brown hair pulled into a braid behind her and a big piece of moonrock hanging on a necklace. The uniform she wore was similar in style to the mage-knights' uniform, but instead of the usual spotless white it was gray. There were two stacks of paper in front of her, meant for recruits for field and office positions in turn. She took one look at him, then at the sword at his waist, and handed him the sheet for field positions. Once he filled it out she took it back and gave him his registration number. “Good luck,” she said with a smile as he walked away.

Most of the applicants were already there, but a few more were still coming. Trace was the thirty-seventh out of a total of fifty-two applicants. There was a fairly even mix of boys and girls, and nearly all of them were sixteen. This wasn't the kind of thing people reapplied for if they didn't make it the first time. Trace didn't expect to see anyone he recognized, people from the farm belt rarely joined the mage-knights and no one else from Withestrop had come with him. He did think he saw the spiky black and white hair of the young girl he'd just saved, but he convinced himself that couldn't be right. There was no way she was sixteen.

“Nice sword,” a boy said from behind him. Trace spun to see a boy a bit taller than him with green eyes, blond hair and an unappealing air of superiority to him. One look at his face told Trace his previous comment had been meant more as an insult than a compliment. “You think that's gonna help you?”

Trace could stand a lot of things, had this boy insulted anything else he would have just let it slide, but his sword had been a gift from the man who had raised him in place of his parents. He wouldn't let anyone make light of it. He tugged the hit free so two inches of the blade shone in the sunlight like a mirror, directing it right into the boy's eyes as if by accident. “Want to find out?” he challenged.

The blond boy looked like he did, but before it could turn into a fight another boy stepped in and separated them. He had sandy hair and dark eyes and was smaller than both Trace and the boy he was about to fight. “That's enough,” he said, tugging at Trace's arm because he was the less intimidating of the two, even with his sword. “Wouldn't want to get kicked out before it even starts.”

The other boy thought for a second before turning around. “You're not worth it,” he said to Trace. “If you make it through the tryouts, we'll settle this then.”

“Count on it,” Trace said. The other boy might not be one to back away from a fight, but Trace wasn't either. He would become a mage-knight and then settle things with the blond boy. It was just another reason why he couldn't fail. “What makes him so sure he'll pass anyway?”

Trace was talking to himself, but the sandy-haired boy still attached to his arm answered. “Because he probably will. Jaden's a jerk, but he's practically a royal jerk. He's learned from some of the best mages and it shows.”

“You know him?”

“Only by name. He's the son of a baron out west. Most of the kids here are, kids of nobles that is. Barons, regents, things like that. That girl over there is daughter of an archduke. I'm Simon, by the way.” By the time he was finished talking Simon had managed to remove his hands from Trace's elbow and held one out to shake.

“Trace. So you're from a noble family?”

“Me? No.” Simon laughed. “My parents are merchants.”

“Mine were too,” Trace said.

Simon caught the implication and winced. “Sorry. But the most impressive person here would probably be her,” he said in a hasty attempt to change the subject. It was hard to see who he was pointing at since she was shorter than everyone else. But once the crowd shifted he caught sight of a head of spiky black hair with white streaks.

“Her?” Trace couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“You know her?” Simon asked.

Trace shrugged. “We sort of ran into each other on the way here. Is she even old enough to be here?”

Simon smiled. “She may not look like much, but both of her parents were decorated mage-knights before they went into politics. Not to mention she's the only class five here. That I know of,” he added quickly.

“Class five?” Trace asked.

“Magical class five, as in, as powerful as you can get. You've never heard of magic classes?”

“There aren't many mages in the farm belt.”

“Right. Well magic classes are determined by raw talent, the amount of magic a person has at his or her disposal,” Simon explained. “I'm a high three. You don't know what you are?”

“No,” he admitted. But if he had to guess, he would say he was a class zero.

“Well, if there's anything else you don't know, just ask. Information's kinda my specialty.”

“Thanks.” Trace's response was drowned out by a shift in the crowd of applicants. Without anyone saying anything, all of them had turned to face the statue at the center of the plaza. The tables had been replaced by a small podium where a man in the white uniform of the mage-knights was standing. He had short blond hair and eyes like two glaciers surveying the crowd. He didn't need to say anything for the whole crowd of applicants to fall silent, overwhelmed by his pressure.

“Who's that?” Trace whispered to Simon.

“You don't know? That's Captain Iceman Shaw, one of the heroes of the Cessian Uprising.”

Even Trace understood what that meant, so he joined the rest of the crowd in staring up at the Captain with admiration.

“I applaud you all for coming out today,” he began without preamble. His voice was loud and harsh, cold without any sympathy. “Wanting to serve and protect your fellow countrymen is laudable. The willingness to give your life for someone you've never met is one of the noblest features a person can have. It's a rare thing to find, but I see it in all of your eyes. For that, and for your dedication to the mage-knights, I thank you.

“However, being a mage-knight takes more than dedication, more than devotion, and more than a desire to serve. It requires a strong body capable to meeting the demands of knighthood, a sharp mind capable of clear thinking and sound judgment even in the face of great perils. But most importantly you must be able to fight. You cannot protect others if you cannot first protect yourself. That is the first rule of the mage-knights.

“Not everyone is cut out for knighthood. Today, we will test all of you to see which of you are capable of taking on this responsibility. Many of you will fail, but it is better to fail today than to die a pointless death in the line of duty. I am to oversee your selection, and the training of those I deem worthy. In that regard my judgments are absolute. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Captain,” came one reply in fifty-two voices.

Captain Shaw let a smile creep across his face. “Good. Then let's see what you're made of.”