The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3) Read online

  “Twenty eight…out of one hundred and forty originally!” Falon said with shock. “It’s impossible that they lost that many on the field. Impossible…” she repeated numbly. The other two companies had lost twenty to thirty men each, but the losses for the Prince’s gallows warriors was beyond anything she could have imagined.

  “Personally, I doubt more than half of the men were killed outright,” Darius comforted her wryly. “Most likely the rest of them ran off—as might have a few of ours from the other companies, now that we’re on the subject. Expect a few men to straggle in to camp tomorrow after they’ve come back to their senses—or slept off a good drunk and run out of money to keep going. But even if half of the men from Warrick’s company survived, don’t expect many to return. This was a punishment assignment for most of them.”

  “Even though we’ve marked them with the Swan tattoo?” Falon asked with surprise.

  “Their company took the most casualties. What does a thing like an oath breaker’s mark matter to a dead man? Far better to go home and try to hide from it, or join a hard-bitten mercenary group that doesn’t care about such things and will actually pay for your deeds. Although, if they’re such tough fighters then why leave in the first place?” he scoffed. “Worst case, from what I understand, they’ll eventually be discovered for the deserters they are and live out anywhere from five years up to the rest of their days as a serf working like a slave on some lord’s land. To a certain type of man, bondage is better than an early grave any day of the week. It’s not for me; I’ll go down with a blade in my hand, but some men…” He trailed off.

  “I can understand fear,” Falon said after a moment, “if I could hide from this life, go back and make a different choice so I didn’t have to come here, I can’t say I wouldn’t choose differently.”

  “Going back and changing history is the purview of the gods, if it’s anyone’s. It’s not for the likes of us,” Darius said harshly. “I’m not saying fear can’t be an important ally in keeping a man alive, but giving into that fear is for women, children and slaves. So if they want to be another man’s slave, that’s their choice. But for the rest of us, it’s a man’s job to—”

  He was interrupted by a scream as a man in the tent started seizing.

  “Orderly!” shouted a Healing Wench, stepping back from a man who was moaning and writhing on his cot.

  “What do you need, Wench?” asked a pair of men, hurrying over to her side and knuckling their foreheads respectfully. Wenches might be scorned at other times but they were treated with respect during the aftermath of a battlefield when they literally held life and death in their hands.

  “There’s nothing more I can do here. As it stands, his leg is lost unless the surgeon can do something to piece it back together and save it. Send this one over to Butcher Bill for further carving,” the Wench said indicating the man on the cot and then stepping back, “you can bring him back here if he survives.”

  “Yes, Wench,” the man on the left said with a grimace, while the one on the right looked down sympathetically at the man with the mangled leg. Without further ado, they lifted the man onto the stretcher and hurried out of the tent.

  Darius and Falon waited until the hubbub had died down.

  “Anyway,” Darius said, still staring after the stretcher team as they hurried into the tent of a non-magical surgeon, Butcher Bill—who in his civilian life sounded like he chopped meat for a living—before forcefully pulling his eyes away and turning back to her, “expect a handful of men to stream in over the next day or two but that’s about it. The others are dead or deserted.”

  “Earth and Field,” Falon swore, “meaning we just lost half the company dead or fled? What a disaster.”

  “I don’t recall either you or I in command of the battalion during this battle,” Darius pointed out.

  “You know what I mean,” Falon glared, “play whatever games you want; this is a disaster, plain and simple. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Swans were disbanded after this!” She tried to imagine her life if she and the other survivors were split up and forced to join other fighting companies, and it was far from an intriguing notion.

  “Normally fifty percent losses would be a disaster,” Darius agreed, “however, if we disband Warrick’s company and fold those twenty eight survivors—plus whoever comes wandering back—into the unit, it should just about bring your Swans and the Ice Fox’s back up to full strength. Losses were great, yes, but mainly among the new men.”

  “Still doesn’t help us if Warrick or the Prince decide to fold us into another company,” Falon riposted.

  Darius shrugged. “Above my pay grade. That said, we just lost a major battle. If we’re disbanded, I’d say the men are just as likely to be sent home as they are to be told to join another company,” he said evenly. “How deep is the Prince’s war chest going to be after this loss?”

  Falon started to feel hopeful—maybe she could go home! Then her shoulders slumped. “We’re fighting in lieu of taxes—Lamont’s taxes,” she explained sadly. “His lordship’s purse ran out before the last battle. Right now, I think both the Prince and his Lordship think the other will cover any future expenses, and I’m stuck trying to keep everything together using battlefield spoils—spoils that are in rather short supply right now, in case you didn’t notice,” she pointed out.

  “Write a letter to his lordship explaining the situation and asking for relief,” suggested Darius.

  “I suppose it hurts nothing to write,” Falon agreed, feeling tired right deep down into her bones. The screams, cries, and sobs from the tents all around her—especially the Surgeon’s—were wearing on her very soul.

  Studiously ignoring a young apprentice wench who came running out of a tent holding her mouth before vomiting as soon as she cleared the walkway, Darius gave Falon a nod and turned to walk away.

  “Get some sleep if you can, Lieutenant; we have an early day tomorrow. Take an ale or four if you need it,” he said severely before walking away.

  Even though she was so tired all she wanted to do was collapse, the thought of going back to her empty tent and trying to sleep scared her. Then, squaring her shoulders and scolding herself for a ninny, she screwed up her courage and womanfully began walking back to her tent.

  Chapter 42: A Pay Day

  “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

  Falon’s day started early, as expected—she just hadn’t expected to be quite this early.

  “What?” she asked barely having time to throw on a new pair of trousers before staggering out the tent flap, “what is it now?”

  “My fireball. My fireball—it’s lost I can’t find it anywhere!” Oliver shouted the moment he cleared the tent.

  Falon swayed back, avoiding both the noise and terribly bad breath coming her way simultaneously.

  “Say it, don’t spray it, why don’t you?” she exclaimed, pushing him back with two fingers when he leaned forward to odiously invade her personal space.

  “But my fireball,” Oliver, aka Schmendrick, yelled as if he’d just been stabbed, “you have to go back and get it!”

  “I have to go get it. Why can’t you just go back and get it yourself?” Falon asked.

  “Because it’s gone,” Oliver declared, throwing his arms into the air wildly.

  “If it’s gone and you can’t find it, what do you think I’m going to be able to do that you can’t?” Falon demanded, starting to get angry after she had to duck one of his arms to avoid getting popped in the face.

  “I don’t know…take a squad—or, better yet, a company—and make them give it back!” he said, as if it were the most simple thing in the world for her to just winkle up the entire battalion and go get it.

  “Make who give it back, Oliver!” Falon said feeling irritated and exasperated. “If you know who has it maybe we can ransom it.”

  “I don’t know who has it! You’ll have to find that out. All I know is I can’t make another fireball spell without it. And it’s not �
�Oliver.’ As I’ve told you time and time again, that’s just the boring name my parents gave me!” he snapped.

  “Alright ‘Schmendrick’, that’s enough,” she snapped right back, “maybe you weren’t listening yesterday but the Prince gave away all the battle spoils to the Baron when we ‘lost.’ So maybe you are, but I personally am not, prepared to restart a war we just lost over one missing fireball. If you find out who took it, I’m more than willing to help you ransom it back—so long as we can afford it—but that’s as far as I can go.”

  “Ahhhh!” Oliver cried, inarticulately shaking his head and clenching his fists. “You don’t know how much I had to scrimp and save to get that thing and now it’s lost,” he snapped his fingers. “Just like that!”

  “Look, you used it for the Swans, so as long as you’re with us we’re willing to help you get another one,” Falon said, putting her hand behind her back and crossing her fingers. Nothing she said was a lie…unless the ‘fireball’ proved too expensive. Then all bets were off.

  “Ah! I’ve been reduced to a pauper,” Oliver said morosely, “it’s gone. Gone, I tell you, and now I’m not only a wandering apprentice but one who can’t even cast a fireball spell.”

  “Right…right,” she soothed, patting him on the back as he glumly kicked the ground. Then she brightened. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about magic. How do you formulate your spells. Do you kind of feel it out, or is it more like weaving a shirt with a loom when you’re building a spell. How does it work?”

  “Feel it like on a loom?” Oliver scoffed, straightening up indignantly. “Wherever did you hear such complete utter nonsense? Girls use looms, and besides the only time a wizard needs to feel anything is when he’s being tested for magic affinity. Initially, you need to try and sense the magic around you but after that, other than maybe detecting magic around him, I’ve heard some wizards just seem to know when magic is being used. Anyway, other than it being mostly a matter of numbers and rote memorization, wizardry is mainly just a lot of math and boring old formulas. Like…like how a carpenter builds a house with hammer and nails and wood, but he has to watch his slants and angles if he doesn’t want the structure to collapse. That’s how a wizard builds his spells.”

  “Math and formulas are like hammers and nails…and wizardry is like carpentry?” Falon asked, feeling confused and wondering what exactly math had to do with magic. “That’s how wizards use magic to build spells? Really?”

  “It’s all a lot more complicated than that. The carpentry thing was just an analogy,” Oliver said, waving a hand dismissively, “the main thing is you need an amulet to cast spells. And the only way to get one is to pass a bunch of boring tests.”

  “But you just said you needed to ‘feel’ magic first,” Falon’s brow furrowed.

  Oliver sighed. “Yes you have to be able to sense the magic. But after that, you have to pass the tests or all you’ll be able to build will be really weak spells that rely solely on the magic that you yourself can gather. It’s really a rather slow and clumsy way of doing magic, that is. Personally, I can’t wait until I can upgrade my current apprentice’s amulet,” he said, his eyes looking far away as if at some distant treasure.

  “What do amulets have to do with anything? Are they some kind of focus?” Falon asked, wondering if a wizard’s amulets were like her inked on magic tattoos: something that helped you draw in the magic of the environment much faster than you could naturally.

  “A focus!” Oliver scoffed, looking down on her with great superiority. “A wizard’s amulet is no mere focus, my good Sir!” he chortled as if at her stupidity, and Falon couldn’t help her face from turning red—mainly with anger but also with a bit of embarrassment at being laughed at.

  “Then what is it, Mr. Know-it-all?” she asked hotly.

  “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” Oliver said, leaning down and whispering but from the excitement on his face he was just about to anyway. Clearly the chance to display his knowledge and brag about Wizardry, the most important thing in his life too much to pass up, “There’s a reason Wizards build White Towers all across the land.”

  “Wait…what? Hold on; are you saying there are a bunch of wizards running around building a bunch of White Towers?” Falon interrupted, the surprise getting the better of her.

  Oliver glared at her. “Of course; we’re building towers everywhere. It’s caused a lot of complaints from the local lords. I’m surprised you didn’t know,” he said with mixed surprise and smugness.

  “Okay, sorry for interrupting,” she said, fighting to keep her teeth from grinding in irritation.

  “Right. Anyway,” he said, gathering himself back together, “This amulet I’ve got has a maximum range of about twenty miles, but the sweet spot is around eight. Of course, anything shorter than that is good too. I’ve heard that master wizards have amulets that can link up to a tower from even further away, but all I’ve got is the most basic model.”

  “Wait…you mean your amulet needs to be near a wizard’s tower to work?” Falon said, looking closely at the amulet.

  “Hey!” Oliver said, quickly hiding his amulet back under his robe before she could get a close look at it, “it’s not a ‘wizards tower;’ it’s a White Tower. And anyway, that’s not what’s important. The main thing is that, depending on your status in the organization, you can get a better amulet. My amulet, for instance, is just about the lowest grade you can get. But even with it, as an apprentice I have a certain number of magic units I can draw per day to fuel my spells,” he said proudly. “That’s what makes me able to cast a powerful spell like a fireball. It takes a lot of my allotment, but I can totally hold my head up in front of the others as long as—”

  “Right, right; I get it,” Falon said, eager to divert him back on topic before he started shouting at her again to go find his missing fireball, “that amulet can store a large amount of magic and you can release it any time you need it to power a big spell.”

  “That’s simplistic and just about totally wrong, but for a layman’s understanding we can go with that,” Oliver said, wavering between irritated and smug before finally settling back down on smug and diverting away from chasing his missing fireball yet again.

  Falon bristled. “So it doesn’t store magic. Then what good is it?” she asked sourly. She wasn’t too stupid to understand; after all she was most of the way to a full-blown witch already and magic was in her blood. If there was trouble with her understanding, then it was due to the incompetent teacher, Oliver, and not her!

  “No, like I said, the White Towers suck in the random magical energy permeating the environment and they store it in themselves. Then, any wizard with an amulet is free to draw upon the tower to super-charge his spells. In fact, there are spells that can only be cast by using an amulet, pretty much anything above a cantrip level, really, and—” Oliver said.

  “No you didn’t!” Falon cut him off leveling a finger at him. “You totally did not say the towers were sucking in the magic around and storing it!” she said angrily.

  “That’s beside the point! I mean, do you want me to explain it to you or not?” Oliver defended himself vigorously.

  “Fine,” Falon settled back disgruntled. She stopped arguing—not because she was wrong, which she totally wasn’t, but rather because she wanted to learn how wizards cast their magic.

  “Okay, as I was saying. The towers draw the magic and store it. The amulets let us draw a certain amount per day, depending on the grade of amulet, and…” he frowned before his eyes lit up. “Oh, and there’s a limit on how long you can link your amulet to the tower. For instance, I have a twenty minute per day limit, and I can link up no more often than five minutes per hour. Also,” he added, his face screwing up in thought, “there’s a clause in the amulet contract which says that, while I have the right to a certain number of minutes and power units, if the tower runs out of energy—or if there are too many wizards drawing on the tower at one time
and exceed capacity—then the higher-grade amulets have priority. In that case, starting with the lowest grade linked in, all inferior amulets will be cut off from the tower until the higher ups have stopped using their amulets. However,” he shrugged, “that’s pretty uncommon. I mean, a random level three tower can handle up to a hundred amulets and stores quite a bit of energy. I can’t give you the exact numbers because you’re not an initiate, but suffice it to say that you’d need a secret conclave—or a whole army of wizards—before you’d exceed even a basic level three tower out in the middle of nowhere. Plus, with the way they’re working on overlapping coverage areas with a tower every eight miles, it’s only out on the border where you’d have to worry about a low level coverage plan—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Falon cried, waving her arms as though to stop a mad cow from charging headlong into the house, “multiple towers and…’coverage plans?’ You can only use your amulet so many minutes per hour and per day? Are you sure this is magic you’re talking about, or a time share plan for a space in the market where you can only use it on Tuesdays and Thursdays but not weekends?! This isn’t magic; this is crazy talk. Magic are spells and effects and—”

  “No!” Oliver thundered, thrusting a finger at her. “This is magic. This is how wizards are able to power their spells. What could be more important than the source of all high-level spells? Magic is exactly about distance, coverage, power taps, and the exact amount of energy needed to activate a construct using a magic-to-energy conversion formula! I told you before: it’s a lot of math and figuring.”

  “Ugh,” Falon grunted, putting a hand on her forehead to check and see if she had a fever but, unfortunately, her head was still cool. Oliver seemed convinced and maybe…maybe there was something to what he was saying. But amulets and formulas, not to mention whole White Towers bit, were not magic.