The Magehound

"And who would command this army of jordaini?"

"I would have done so gladly, were I still jordain." Andris glared at the fading magical light.

The magehound dispelled the globe with a flick of her coppery fingers and then picked up the scroll. She smoothed it and put it on the table before him.

"Cast the spell again, jordain."

Andris set his jaw and formed the gesture as before. This time no light came to his call. He lifted a puzzled stare to Kiva's face.

In response, she reached into the folds of her gown and retrieved the jeweled wand that had damned Andris. She touched it to the grape arbor that curved over the breakfast table. A high, ghostly note vibrated through the iron trellis.

Understanding, pained and incredulous and furious all at once, dawned in the jordain's eyes. Kiva nodded acknowledgment of his insight.

"Yes. The result would be much the same if I were to touch this wand to a stone, a toad, or a pile of goosedown. It finds magic in everything, whether there is any to find or not."

"My brothers think me dead," Andris said, speaking first of that which troubled him most.

"Would it comfort you to know that you will see and work with many of them again? That in doing so, you will be doing what you trained for? You and your jordaini brothers will attend powerful wizards, using both your talents and your resistance to magic for the good of the land."

Andris regarded her thoughtfully. "You make a powerful point. But why the deceit?"

"It was a necessary thing. Truth might be meat and drink to the jordaini, but most men order their lives by other impulses. There is great status in having jordaini servants, and the wizards clamor over you like hounds snarling over bones. A man of your talents was needed for this great task. Other opportunities would soon be offered to you. We could not entrust the outcome to fate."

"You could have told me of your plans outright. A jordain is free to choose among employments offered him."

Kiva smiled and laid her slender hand on his arm. "Forgive me, Andris, but I did not know your true measure. Status is all-important in this land. I have on good authority that both Procopio Septus of Halarahh and Lord Grozalum of Khaerbaal intended to petition for your service. The admiral of Halruaa's navy reports to Grozalum. If Procopio has his way, he will be king after Zalathorm. Most ambitious jordaini would be sorely tempted by offers from such patrons. I feared that you might find such an uncertain undertaking less attractive if you knew what glories were available for the taking."

Andris scratched at the unfamiliar stubble on his chin. "But I am jordain. I serve the truth and the land."

"And what of yourself, Andris?" she said softly. "What do you want for yourself?"

The question seemed to puzzle the young man. Kiva tried again. "How content are you with the life that lies before you? You will advise, wizards will command, and others will do. Is that what you want? Correct me if I have read you falsely, but I think you were born to command."

Andris was silent for a long moment. "It is not the tradition of this land."

"Nor is it tradition to mount a campaign without magic. Yet you have devised just such a campaign, and you long to command it. Is this not truth?"

There was mockery in her voice, but the young jordain's face remained thoughtful. "Who commissioned my services?"

"I ca

Andris's face suffused with wonder as the alchemy of hope transformed her lie into his greatest hidden dreams. Every wizard, every fighter in the land aspired to serving the great Zalathorm. This, then, was what Kiva seemed to offer. His own command, at the king's bequest!

The young jordain rose and fell to one knee before her. "Since you speak for the wizard who commissioned my service, you are my patron. Tell me what you desire me to accomplish, and I will find a way to do so," he said earnestly.

The elf woman patted his arm. "You have made a fine start, Andris. Far better than you know."

The next day Mbatu stood at the edge of the camp, watching as Kiva's recruits trained. Though he could find no fault in the warriors' efforts, neither did he take any pleasure in watching them.

Yesterday he had been the battlemaster, today all that remained for him to do was watch as the tall, red-haired man put the fighters through their paces.

To his amazement, the men were no longer Kiva's captives and mercenaries, but an army. The wemic didn't know what Eva had told the young jordain, but something had set him aflame. His passion had spread like wildfire to every man in his command.

The men were armed with rattan swords, so they could get used to the unfamiliar weight and length of them before using steel. Andris chose five men and bade them to swarm him. They charged in, whistling their practice blades through the air.

Mbatu chuckled, expecting the tall man to be facedown in muck before he could lift his sword.

He should have remembered his own encounter with a jordain. Within moments, all five of the fighters had been sent reeling back to nurse their bruises.

"Iago," Andris called, pointing to a slim, dark blade of a man. "You play the role of the out-numbered fighter."

"An honor," the man said dryly. "It will be excellent practice for playing the role of the corpse."

Andris joined in the laughter this comment elicited, then his face turned serious. "Remember that we will not be fighting honorable duels. We need to work together if any of us are to survive. Imagine that Iago is surrounded by undead. I'll show you how to work the perimeter and finish off the attackers as he pushes them back. You three-you can be the first wave of undead."

The men lifted their swords and rushed in for the attack. Andris fell back, so that for a moment, Iago was standing alone. The smaller man parried the first thrusting attack.

Before the rattan swords could disengage, Andris stepped in and seized the attacker's hair. He drew his sword lightly across the man's throat and then spun toward the second attacker, fist clenched as if it were still gripping a handful of hair. He swung hard into the second man's gut, doubling him over.

"Freeze," he commanded.

The men stood as they were, though the man he'd just hit wobbled as he struggled to stand in his bent-over position.

"Let's say that I beheaded the first zombie and used the head to shield-smash the one coming up behind. What now? Iago?"

The slim jordain nodded toward his «headless» companion. "This creature ca

"You can do better. Turn it toward the other monsters," Andris suggested. "Like so."

He whirled and used the flat of his sword to strike the man who was bent over and off-balance. The man stumbled into the "headless zombie," who obligingly turned and started swinging at this new attacker.

Iago skirted the pair and lunged at the third man, who parried and riposted high. Iago caught the blow with his sword and then planted a foot on the man's chest, pushing him away-and directly onto the point of Andris's waiting sword. At the last moment, Andris sidestepped so that the man splashed down into the water. He rose dripping but smiling in relief. Rattan swords did not draw blood, but all of the men were covered with livid bruises.

"You see?" Andris said. "Working together, small bands of men can fight large numbers. Let's try it again, this time with four attackers."

It was a precise sequence, a deadly dance with finely timed moves. Again and again Andris walked them through it, showing how to fight against four, against six, how to vary the defenses and attacks against humans, against wights and ghouls.