The Mage Wars

by Mercedes Lackey

  Snatch and fly, that’s your plan, isn’t it, damned foolish bird? You’re going to die the hero they all call you, for what? Because you couldn’t stand another moment of another gryphon’s pain? Couldn’t wait any longer.

  The wagons rushed closer in his sight, and their magical alarms blazed into light, waiting like barbed snares to be triggered. Were they traps too, besides being alarms? Would they trap him? Were they the bait, not the tortured gryphon?

  Would it matter? You’re too damned predictable, Skan, too sensitive, couldn’t stand to wait. She’d die anyway, you know it, by the time you’d have gone in. Why do it?

  Colors and textures rushed past him in three dimensions, as he dove ever closer to the wagons.

  It’s because you’re not bright enough, stupid gryphon. Stupid, stupid gryphon.

  Well, death is inevitable anyway, so dying for the right reason is…

  Just as final.

  Stupid gryphon.

  Too late for reconsideration, though. The wagon alarm-fields loomed nearer and Skan had to risk a spell to disarm them—the easiest was one which made them detect another place nearby, instead of the place they were supposed to protect. He focused on them, released the flow into them, diverted their field away to an open part of the camp… and they did not sound. Now his troubles stemmed from the soldiers who might still be outside—and the makaar. He might be invisible to the alarms, but he was still pitch black to anyone’s vision. A soldier of Ma’ar’s army would not wonder at a shadow that moved through the sky—he’d call an alert.

  He half-hoped for detection, since he would likely have the quarry before any spells could be leveled against him. Once discovered, he would not have to skulk about any longer… he could blaze away with a detection-spell to find the gryphon whose scream he heard earlier. Otherwise there would be delicate searching around, for… who knew how long. Of course, discovery also brought such pesky distractions as arrows and firebolts and snares and spells…

  He backwinged and landed, kicking up clods of dirt next to the wagon, and his head darted side to side, looking for spotters. None yet, but that would change all too quickly. Two steps to the back of the wagon, then under it—no one ever guards the bottoms of things, only sides and doors—and he began prying at the wagon’s floorboards, next to the struts and axles, where the mud, water, and friction of traveling always rots the wood. He was curled up under the wagon completely, on his back, tail tucked between his legs, wings folded in against his ribs, hind claws holding the wingtips. He didn’t dare rip at the canvas of the wagon’s bonnet—past experience had shown that apparently flimsy defenses were often imbued with alarm-spells. His claws glowed faintly with the disruption-spell he was using, and the wood shriveled above where his claws slowly raked, silent from the sound-muffling of his cupped wings.

  The enemy’s wagons traditionally had an aisle down the middle, and that was where Skandranon was working… another four cuts, five, six, and he’d be able to pull the boards down under the blanket of a silence-spell. Then he’d get a look inside at their coveted prize…

  He began mentally reciting the silence-spell, calling up the energy from inside himself and releasing it around the wagon. He was careful to mold it just short of touching the wagon itself, building it up from the ground. The wagon’s defenses might yet be sensitive to the touch of just such a spell. It was hard to tell anymore, so many variables, so many new traps…

  He hoped that the mages under Ma’ar’s command did not sweep the camp for magic at work. Things were going so well, so far. Skan reached up, claws digging firmly into the crossbrace, cracked through it, and the entire aisle section fell to the ground, inches in front of his beak…

  …and Skandranon found himself face to face with a very upset, recently awakened weapons-master, who was drawing something—surely a weapon—up from beneath his bedding. The weapon pointed at the gryphon, and started changing…

  Skan’s right claw shot out and struck the human’s scalp and squeezed, finding flesh yielding. His thumb pierced the man’s eye-socket, and inside the envelope of silence, a gurgling scream faded into the wet sounds of Skan withdrawing his talons from the kill.

  The man’s hands twitched and dropped the weapon, which was pointing at Skandranon still. It was a polished rod, wrapped in leather, with a glowing, spiked tip revealed where the leather ended. It rolled from the dead man’s fingers and fell to the ground, and the tip withdrew into the rod.

  On your back, underneath a wagon, in an enemy camp, you kill a weapons-master one-handed? No one will ever believe it. Ever. That was too close, too close, stupid gryphon.

  Someone will come by soon, Skan. Move. Get the whatever-it-is and get away. That’s all you need to do. Get away.

  Skan released his wingtips and pulled himself across the body of the slain human, keelbone scraping against the ragged edge of sundered wood. His wing-edges caught, pinning him in the opening, and he wheezed with the effort of pulling himself through too small an opening. It was dim inside. Only the waning light from outside leaking through the canvas-openings provided any light. Around him, stacked in open cases, waited glistening objects, the same as the weapons-master had held, each the size of his foreclaws.

  Each far more deadly than his claws, he was sure.

  They must be some entirely new kind of arm, and he needed no spellcasting to know their magical origin. They exuded magic, their collective power making his feathers crawl like being in the heart of a lightning-storm a-brewing. Now to grab one, and leave! Skan reached towards the cases, almost touching one of them, when his inner voice screamed No!

  The weapons-master had one, he was guarding these, these may all be trapped…

  A hair-thin crackle of reddish energy arced between the weapons and his extended foreclaw, confirming his fears.

  Then there may be only one that isn’t trapped…

  He moved slowly, wings folded so tight it hurt, up onto his haunches, then back down to all fours, until he faced the rear of the wagon. Then he reached down through the shattered floorboards, groping for the slain master’s weapon. It didn’t make sense to Skan that the man would trap his own weapon, even if he was a mage; weapons-masters as a rule tended to be terribly impressed with themselves, and thought they could handle anything themselves. Too bad, so sad, first mistake and last. What’s that, stupid bird, you’re getting cocky because you’ve lasted this long? More to do, and every second is borrowed time.

  At last came the feel of the rod, warm to his touch despite the thickness of his scaled skin. He reared back, eyes closed to the thinnest of slits, concentrating on not touching the racks of trapped arms. He transferred his prize to his mouth, clenching it tightly above his tongue, and fell forward across the gaping entrance he’d made, stretching across it towards the untied flap of the wagon bonnet.

  All right. What’s the worst that could happen? I touch the canvas, and the entire wagon goes up with all the energy in these things. That’d be just like Ma’ar: if he can’t have them, no one else can… I’d better count on it.

  Skandranon bunched up his leg muscles, preparing for a massive leap through the exit, when he heard bootsteps outside, and a moment later, a shadowy figure opened the flap, cursing in the enemy’s tongue.

  Now. Now!

  In the same instant, the figure opened the canvas, and the gryphon leapt. Skan used the man’s shoulders as a vault, crushing the man’s face against the back of the wagon from his momentum. He snapped his wings open, catching the edges, as the human crumpled underneath him. Then a deafening sound exploded around them as the wagon’s massive final trap was set off—a crimson circle of fire spread across the ground, incinerating the human, catching the other wagon. A thrashing body was engulfed in the flame arcing from it as Skandranon gained altitude.

  The makaar roused.

  End of your charmed life, gryphon. At least now you can cast freely before you die… find her, wherever she is, accomplish that at least—

  Skan’
s wings rowed at the air, clutching for distance from the camp. There was one thing yet to do, before his conscience would let him leave. Somewhere—his mind searched through the camp and town for where—there was one of his own kind being killed, slowly…

  He searched, and found her tortured mind as he crested the ridge. It felt as if her body had been lanced deep by thousands of needles, cut on by a hundred mad surgeons, broken by mallets, yet still she lived. There was a wrenching moment as Skan’s mind reeled from the backlash of what had been done to her, and he felt his wings fold involuntarily.

  :Kill me,: she screamed, -.stop them, something anything!:

  .Open up to me,: Skan sent to her, -.open up to me and trust—there will be pain at first, then all will be dark. You’ll fly again, as Urtho wills…

  She halted her scream as she recognized the code-sign for the death-spell. No one had made a move to block it yet—

  He pulled back from her for a bare second, trying to steady himself in his flight. He reached out again, riding the wind, then unleashed the spell, caught her mind, pulled it free of her body for one gut-wrenching second. The spell struck home and stopped her heart.

  I am sorry, so sorry… you will fly again after the dark… Then he released her spirit to the winds.

  Somewhere in the captured inn, a bound and wing-cut body convulsed, then lay still. Above the valley, Skandranon raced away desperately, unable to cry out for her, as seven makaar surged skyward to destroy him.

  * * *

  At last, the General slept.

  Amberdrake started to rise, then sank back down to his seat on the side of the General’s bed as Corani woke convulsively, with a tiny gasp. The anguish was still there, filling the room, palpable even to the weakest Empath. For an Empath as strong as Amberdrake, the impact of Corani’s pain was a blow to the heart.

  Amberdrake waited for the General to speak, while radiating warmth and reassurance, concentrating on the soothing scents still flavoring the air as a vehicle for that reassurance; the gentle hint of amber incense, the chamomile in the oils he had used in his massage, the jessamine covering the taste of sleep-herbs in the tea he’d given Corani. He ignored the throbbing pain in his own temples, his tension-knotted stomach, and the terrible sense of foreboding that had come upon him at the General’s summons. His feelings did not matter; he was a kestra’chern, and his client—more patient than client, as was often the case—needed him. He must be the strong one, the rock to rest against. He did not know Corani well; that was all to the good. Often men of power found it easier to unburden themselves to a stranger than to a friend.

  The General’s suite was in Urtho’s keep and not in a tent in the camp; easy enough here to pull heavy curtains to shut out the light and the world with it, to burn dim, scented lamps that invoked a feeling of disassociation from the armed camp beyond the keep. The General himself had not summoned Amberdrake; the few times he had called to the camp for a kestra’chern, it had been Riannon Silkedre he had wanted—slightly inferior to Amberdrake in skill, an accomplished and well-respected female. No, one of Urtho’s aides had come to the tent—quietly, with his livery hidden beneath a cloak, which said more about the aide’s visit than the boy himself did.

  Urtho was still closeted with his General when Amberdrake arrived, but when he finally returned to his quarters, he did not seem surprised to see Amberdrake there. He was clearly distraught, and yet it had taken Amberdrake hours and every bit of his skill to persuade him to unburden himself.

  And he knew why Urtho had chosen him and not Riannon. There were times when it was easier for a man to reveal his pain to a man—and Amberdrake was utterly trustworthy. Whatever was revealed to him remained with him, forever. He was many things to many people; tonight, he had been something of a Healer, something of a priest, something of a simple, noncommittal ear.

  “You must be disappointed,” the General said into the lamplit dimness, his voice resigned. “You must think I’m a weakling now.”

  That was what Corani said; Amberdrake, being what he was, heard what Corani meant.

  He was really saying, “I must disgust you for falling apart like this, for looking so poorly composed,” and “You must despise me and think me unworthy of my position.”

  “No,” Amberdrake replied simply, to both the spoken and unspoken assertions. He did not want to think what the General’s collapse meant to him, personally; he must not think of it. Must not remember the messengers that roused the camp last night; the premonitions that had awakened the more sensitive and marginally Gifted among the Healers and kestra’chern from nightmares of blood and fire against the outline of the mountains. Must not think of the fact that Corani’s family came from Laisfaar at Stelvi Pass, and that while his sons had posts with the army here, his wife and all his relatives were back there. There, where Skandranon had gone. He and Gesten did not know why, or for what reason; Amberdrake only knew that he had gone off without a farewell.

  “No,” Amberdrake repeated, taking the General’s outflung hand before Corani could reclaim it and massaging the palm and fingers carefully. The muscles felt cramped and tight; Corani’s hand was cold. “How could I be that stupid? You are human and mortal; we are the sum of our weak moments and our strong. Everyone has a moment they must break at; this one was yours. It is no shame to need help, and know it.”

  Somewhere, deep inside, he wondered if it was also his. There was pressure building inside him that threatened to break free at any moment. He was not so self-confident that he thought he could do without help. The question was, would there be any there for him? Too many battered spirits to mend—too many bruised bodies to comfort—the resources of Healers and kestra’chern alike were stretched and overstretched. That he was near the end of his reserves made little difference.

  Far too many of his clients had gone out to battle and had not returned. And Skan had been due back this morning; it had been near sunset when the aide left him in Corani’s quarters. Skan was never overdue.

  But for now, this moment, he must put his own strain aside. None of that must show—he shouldn’t let it break his concentration or his focus. Corani came first; Corani must be comforted enough, given enough reinforcing, as if he was a crumbling wall, that he could function and come to heal. Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong, at Stelvi Pass. Corani had not told him what, but Amberdrake knew, with dreadful certainty. Stelvi Pass had been overrun; Laisfaar, and Corani’s family with it, was no more. It would be better for them to be dead than in Ma’ar’s hands unless they’d hidden their identities and vanished into the general population. And that was unlikely.

  Corani accepted this, as wise generals accepted all facts. Corani had accepted Amberdrake’s comforting as well. For the moment, anyway. That was another of Amberdrake’s abilities; it bought time. Time to bring distance, time to heal. “My sons—”

  “I think that Urtho has seen to them as well,” Amberdrake replied quickly. Urtho would have seen to everything; it was his way.

  Skan-

  Quickly, he suppressed the thought, and the anguish it caused.

  The drugs in the General’s tea took effect; in the dim light, Corani struggled to keep his eyes open, eyes still red and swollen from weeping. The General had fought those tears; fought to keep them properly held inside with the determination that had made him the leader he was. Amberdrake had fought his determination with a will of his own that was no less stubborn. “It’s time to sleep,” Amberdrake said quietly.

  Corani blinked, but held him with an assessing gaze. “I’m not certain what I expected when I saw you here,” he said finally. “Based on Riannon—”

  “What Riannon gave you was what you needed then,” Amberdrake replied, gently touching the General’s cheek. “What I do is what you need now. Sometimes neither is what the recipient expects.” He laid a soothing hand on Corani’s forehead. “That is what a kestra’chern does, after all; gives you what you need.”

  “And not necessarily what I want,” C
orani said quickly.

  Amberdrake shook his head. “No, General. Not necessarily what you think you want. Your heart knows what you want, but often your head has some other idea. It is the task of the kestra’chern to ask your heart, and not your head, what you need, and answer that need.”

  Corani nodded, his eyelids drooping.

  “You are a strong man and a good leader, General Corani,” Amberdrake continued. “But no man can be in two places at the same time. You could not be here, and there as well. You cannot anticipate everything the enemy will do, nor where he will strike. The war thinks its own way. You are not answerable for the entire army. You did what you could, and you did it well.”

  The muscles of Corani’s throat tightened visibly as he fought for control. Amberdrake sensed tears being forced down. Corani was on the verge of more than tears; he was on the verge of a breakdown. This would accomplish nothing, worse than nothing. The man needed rest, and with Amberdrake’s hand resting on his forehead, he was open to Amberdrake’s will.

  “You must sleep,” Kestra’chern Amberdrake said, imposing a mental command on top of the drugs. Corani closed his eyes, and this time he did not reawaken when Amberdrake rose to go.

  * * *

  Gesten would be where he had been since dawn: at the landing-field, waiting for Skandranon to return. Amberdrake left the keep, slipping unobtrusively out into the scarlet of a spectacular sunset. The landing-field was not that far away, and Amberdrake decided to head there, rather than returning straight back to his tent.

  Depression weighed heavily on his heart, a depression that was not relieved at the sight of Gesten alone on the field, patiently making preparations to wait out the night-watch.