Under the Ashen Banner

Chapter Three: Training Begins (Part 2)

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Six months into his training, Sir Garrett pulled him aside. "Sergeant Blue tells me your weapons training hasn't gone so well. Why do you suppose that is?"

Neil's heart leapt into his throat at this news. Might they kick him out of the company if he didn't do better? If they did, where would he go? How would he make his living?

He must have been contemplating these questions far too long, for Sir Garrett leaned in closer to him and said, "Well?"

"I... don't know, Commander," said Neil.

Sir Garrett sighed and folded his arms. "Let's assume that it's simply because you haven't found what you're good at yet. I like to think everyone has something they can do well, they just need to discover it. Tomorrow I want you to start training with Clyde. He's our head magician."

Neil stammered, "B-but I don't know any magic."

"All the more reason you should train with him," Sir Garrett responded. "Contrary to what some folk will tell you, magic isn't something you're just born with. You learn it through intense study. Some folks just pick it up faster than others, is all. With any luck, that will be you." Sir Garrett turned his head to stare off into the distance. "Then maybe the other Commanders will stop calling me an idiot for bringing you here..."

Having spent the better part of his life afraid that his master might curse him, Neil's tongue was bitter every time someone even mentioned magic. The worst thing about the arcane arts was the paranoia they induced. Growing up, every time he stubbed his toe, had a nightmare, or found out that the morsel of food he'd hidden away had grown moldy, he wondered if it was simply bad luck or because he'd been jinxed.

Sir Garrett snapped his fingers in front of Neil's face, pulling him back to the moment. "I really hope you don't daydream like that during a battle. That sort of thing can get you killed. Anyway, tomorrow look for the people wearing the tall, pointy hats. Clyde will be among them."

"Why do they all wear those hats?" asked Neil.

Sir Garrett gave him a look as if he'd just asked why water was wet. "So people know they're magicians. Same reason anyone wears a uniform, dullard."

Neil winced at the rebuke and the insult that followed it. He made a mental note to try to ask fewer foolish questions.

. . .

Early the next morning, Neil awoke unable to get warm. The pavilion tent he shared with over a dozen other recruits must have had a draft somewhere. Glancing around at the others he saw he was not the only one unable to sleep through the cold.

He arose from his bedroll and helped himself to a pot of stew that had been left to cook overnight. While some of the more high-born mercenaries in the camp complained about the flavor, Neil found all of the meals the Ashen Banner's cooks prepared to be better than anything he'd ever eaten. Master Davaa had only ever fed his slaves unleavened bread, salted pork, and foul-tasting pottage. Between the bland and the bitter, Neil had developed a strong appreciation for anything savory. Even if it was a mix of fish, carrots, pigeon (entrails and all), and boiled acorns.

Once he'd had his breakfast, Neil snapped a twig off one of the nearby trees, chewed on the end to form bristles, and dipped those bristles in salt to clean his teeth. His hands he wiped off on the dewy grass. After cleaning up, he changed into one of the new tunics Sir Garrett had given him and marched off to find this "Clyde" the old knight had spoken of.

Most of the magicians, it seemed, had their tents gathered in the same area. There, the campfire burned purple rather than orange. Each of the tents was embroidered with star charts. Maps of the heavens had lines indicating the paths of the celestial bodies. While one could count on the stars to be constant, the "Wanderers" (also called "Planets") often changed direction depending on the season. Neil himself had kept an eye on the stars his whole life, so he supposed that perhaps he and the magicians had something in common after all.

One of the magicians, a young lady with dark hair and golden earrings, passed near Neil, barely seeming to notice that he was there. "Excuse me," Neil called out to her. She jumped at the sound of his voice. "Sorry, but I'm looking for Clyde. Where can I find him?"

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and pointed to a tent from which smoke rose through a hole in the top. "He'll be in there, but... he doesn't like visitors."

"Sir Garrett sent me," Neil countered.

The young lady blinked twice at him and said, a little slower this time, "He doesn't like visitors." Without another word, she walked off.

Neil shrugged and approached Clyde's tent. Smoke wafted out through the flap, and the foul stench made Neil's nostrils curl. He covered his nose and entered. "Clyde? Mr. Magician? Sir Garrett sent me to..."

Inside the tent was a small firepit over which hung a cauldron. Odorous, black fumes rose from the boiling contents and out through the hole in the tent's roof. Neil's eyes watered, and he wiped the tears away so he could see better. Wooden tables stood around the cauldron, forming a hexagon. On each table sat a plethora of herbs, dried animal parts, and vials with liquids of strange colors.

A man wearing blue robes and a pointed hat scurried from one table to the next, picking up ingredients and tossing them into the cauldron. Spiky white hairs sprouted from his brows, resembling a pale tarantula's legs. His gray beard hung down to his knees, despite the fact that it was braided, and flowing locks ran down his back.

In one of the far corners of the tent stood a young lady with curly red hair, freckles across her nose, and green eyes. Like the old magician, she too wore a pointed hat, but hers was decorated with star charts, like the outside of some of the tents. She held a leather-bound book in hand and furiously scribbled notes with a quill.

"Umm... excuse me," said Neil. "Clyde?"

The old man glared at him, his face contorted with fury. "What do you want?"

Neil's heart raced. One wrong word might provoke a curse from the elder. "I... well, Sir Garrett sent me here for... t-training."

"I've no time to train you," said Clyde, his protruding eyebrows trembling. "Much more important things to do right now than correct fools."

The girl with the star hat chimed in, "Magus, if one of the commanders sent this boy to us we best not ignore him."

"You heard me!" Clyde snapped, continuing to mix in ingredients. "I said no time."

"No time because we don't have enough magicians," the girl countered. "And if we don't take time to train more we'll never have time again. It's like money. Got to invest a little to--"

"Then you train him!" the wizard spat, followed by a slew of unpleasant words muttered under his breath. "Get out!"

The girl rolled her eyes, closed the book, and set both it and the quill down on one of the magician's tables. She approached Neil with smiling lips and said, "Come with me, then. What's your name, boy?"

"Neil."

"Really?" she giggled. "Such a simple name. Mine's Errigal. Pleasure to meet you, Neil."

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