Knight's Struggle: Age Of Magic - A Kurtherian Gambit Series (Tales of the Wellspring Knight Book 2)

by P. J. Cherubino

  “All clear,” Darla said.

  “Did you check the traps?” Tarkon demanded.

  Darla smiled, and David nodded his head with a serious expression that mirrored Tarkon’s own.

  Darla giggled.

  “What’s funny?” Tarkon growled.

  “My brother wants to be you,” Darla said.

  Tarkon shocked them both by pulling down his scarf and smiling. “He shows promise. He has the discipline to become the Forge. Both of you do.”

  The look of awe on David’s face was comical. His sister reined in her mirth and placed a hand on David’s shoulder.

  “That’s my brother,” she said.

  All the while, Tarkon kept glancing out through the slit in the blind to check the woods. Something wasn’t right. They should have heard another owl call signal.

  David was about to say something when Tarkon held up his hand. He made two rapid gestures that told the two young fighters to stay alert.

  “Watch me,” Tarkon said. “Stay alert. If something happens, stick to the plan.”

  The young ones made excellent guards, but they weren’t fighters. If they encountered trouble, they were trained to escape back to the inner perimeter where the hardened fighters were. That’s why there were multiple security rings in the woods surrounding Argan.

  Tarkon pulled up the white hood of his winter camouflage suit and slipped out of the blind and into the shadows between the trees. The light cloud cover showed the forest in shades of black, gray, and only sometimes, white.

  He picked his way carefully through the deep snow, then hunkered down behind the gnarled trunk of an old and massive pine.

  At first, he thought the shadows were made by a gentle wind moving the branches above. The second time the shadows moved, he saw they were people.

  Tarkon made the owl call again, then hurried to take cover behind another tree. There was always the chance that making a sound—any sound—would give him away. The shadows stopped moving when Tarkon made the call.

  There was no return call from the guard post ahead, but the post behind him responded with the acknowledgement signal. When the shadows moved again, they came directly towards him and the blind.

  He couldn’t risk yelling or signaling to Darla and David, so he darted for cover again, knowing the enemy would see him.

  Two of them were on him in seconds, and that surprised him. That meant they had to be Movers.

  They covered twenty yards in two blinks of an eye. Tarkon rose up and aimed both pistols carefully. He prepared to summon the explosive force into the hollow bulbs at the end of his pistols.

  Something slammed into his chest. He was weightless and flying high. Tarkon turned his body in the air in a desperate attempt to see where he was headed. His armored backplate slammed into a tree, and he glanced off to tumble in the snow.

  He managed to hang onto his pistols. Jumping to his feet instantly, he scanned the woods. He’d lost them. Only a moment later, two more shadows hurtled towards him. He could tell by the way they moved that they were regular soldiers.

  BLAM! He fired one pistol, dropping one of the approaching men. The other took a knee and fired a crossbow. The shot went wide. BLAM! Tarkon fired again, but this time he wasn’t so lucky—he missed.

  The second shot was a risk that did not pay off. His weapons were noisy and told the enemy exactly where he was.

  A Mover sailed through the air from fifty feet away and arced towards him. Tarkon slipped both pistols into his belt, then summoned a fireball from his right palm.

  The woods exploded into orange flame as the fireball burst around the Mover. But when the enemy hit the ground, he landed on his feet. The Mover had somehow deflected Tarkon’s attack.

  He knew he was in trouble.

  “Die!” a voice screamed to his right just a second before a crossbow sounded.

  Tarkon’s blood went cold.

  David didn’t follow protocol. He tried to stay and fight. He fired, but missed. Time slowed down. The Monk had been in enough fights to know that David was dead. Tarkon tried to keep discipline, but the rage took him away.

  The touchless strike of the Mover was so violent that the crossbow simply dropped to the ground while David’s body flew back. Tarkon heard the sickening impact of David hitting a tree behind him.

  Darla’s anguished scream nearly made him choke. He managed to scream, “Run, damn it! Run!”

  “No!” said the Mover. “Stay and die, scum!”

  Tarkon brought forth energy he’d never experienced before. His whole body felt as if it were inside a furnace. The skin on the back of his hand blistered when he let loose a fireball that melted the snow around him in a ten-foot radius.

  The Mover exploded in a gory, sizzling ball of meat and bone.

  The Monk turned to another Mover who ran forward with a short sword in one hand. A touchless strike slammed into the side of his head and nearly dropped him, but that didn’t stop him from getting off another shot.

  BANG! The Forge Monk’s hand became a firearm. The steel ball in Tarkon’s left fist streaked forward and caught the Mover in the left shoulder. Tarkon heard him grunt as he spun around from the force of the hot steel.

  Another enemy soldier came up on his left. Tarkon stumbled, but brought out the twin daggers from their sheaths at the small of his back.

  He dodged an expert sword thrust, then lashed out in a one-two counterstrike. The blades found their home across the enemy’s sword arm. He felt the metal hit bone. A sword fell to the snow, but the disciplined enemy did not scream.

  But there was no time to finish him. The man was still a threat, but not as big a threat as the Mover who had recovered from his bullet wound enough to try another touchless strike.

  Tarkon managed to dodge the force somehow. As a veteran of many battles, he knew he’d just gotten lucky. Behind him, he heard the sound of splintering wood. That could have been his chest.

  He had another fireball left in him that the Mover couldn’t dodge. Even while completely engulfed in flames, the Mover kept coming. Tarkon blocked an overhand sword strike with his daggers, slipped to the inside and slashed the Mover across the face. He had aimed for the throat, but the fight had worn him out..

  He didn’t know if he had enough energy to finish his foe.

  He punched the burning Mover in the face, then gave him a kick to the side just as the sword came around again. As the Mover staggered back, Tarkon threw one of his daggers. It was another risky move, but it paid off with the blade sinking into the side of the enemy’s burning head.

  Tarkon turned to follow the trail of blood from the last remaining enemy. He could have let the man bleed out, because it looked like he had a severed artery. But there was no way he was letting any of these bastards live for any length of time with the knowledge they had killed David.

  As soon as he was close enough, he kicked the enemy in the back. Tarkon dropped down and straddled the man with his knees, then plunged his dagger in his heart.

  For good measure, he did it again.

  He wiped the blade on the enemy’s furs, then pushed himself up, winded and exhausted. Tarkon retrieved his dagger from the charred skull of the Mover, then followed the sound of weeping.

  He didn’t even bother to look towards the running footsteps. The whole fight lasted about a minute, but reinforcements were too late. He found Darla weeping over the shattered remains of her brother. Tarkon didn’t even recognize the boy.

  “He’s gone,” Tarkon said, pulling Darla into his arms. “I’m sorry. He’s gone. Don’t remember him like this.”

  She screamed and tried to fight her way out of his arms, but he squeezed her tight. He just didn’t know what else to do. He shook her.

  “Look at me!” Tarkon boomed, holding her out at arm’s length. “We will have our revenge. I will teach you to be the Forge and we will avenge David—together!”

  Argan Village, the Next Morning

  The ringing alarm bell brought Astrid o
ut of a deep meditation around two in the morning. She hadn’t been to sleep since. It was dawn now, and all the reports from scouts and fighters for the past four hours came in clear. There was no further enemy activity around the village.

  She didn’t want to send anyone close to the Keep, just in case there were more patrols. The civil guard was starting to detain people on the Toll Road when they encountered them.

  That didn’t happen very often, because the road between Argan and the Keep was barely passable with the snow. In another month or so, wagons wouldn’t be able to use it, and it would be difficult to travel even by foot. The secondary trails used by the woods people would be far more useful. Repeated travel by humans, as well as elk and deer, kept those back trails reasonably clear.

  Astrid stood near one of the main trail heads, waiting for Moxy. She’d sent the Pixie out for a final check. With that nose of hers, and her sharp eyes, she’d be able to tell if anyone was in the woods who shouldn’t be.

  Moxy told Astrid that she could smell a magic user from a hundred feet away. “They smell like a thunderstorm,” she had said. Astrid believed her.

  Footprints that seemed to form themselves in the snow approached. Astrid had to squint to see a faint shimmer above the snow. The shimmering grew more intense as Moxy approached, then she gelled into view, five-feet-two-inches tall and completely naked. Astrid held Moxy’s leather armor and silk blouse and pants.

  Moxy looked around to see if they were alone. “No thanks,” she said. “The air feels nice. But if this bothers you…”

  Astrid shrugged and shook her head. “Why would I care? I’ve got the same parts.” She looked the pixie up and down, taking in her perfect form. “Well, nearly the same.”

  “You roof dwellers are strange about nudity,” Moxy replied. She sat down cross legged in the snow and her long, white hair gathered around her knees.

  Astrid squatted down on her hams to talk with her. “What do you think?”

  “I think Gormer is right, no matter how much I hate to say it,” Moxy replied with a faint grin.

  It was an inside joke. When they all met Gormer, he was a complete asshole. Now he was just kind of an abrasive prick. The man had issues, but he’d earned respect from the Core in spite of his bad behavior— or maybe it was because of it. The man caused conflicted emotions in just about everyone he met.

  “You think we need to send Gormer and Pleth into the Wards to get information?” Astrid asked.

  “I do,” Moxy replied. “It makes the most sense. I smelled two very strong Movers. Before Tarkon killed them, they’d been all over the woods. I saw the spots where they lingered. The smell was stronger in those spots, and it looks like they took their time. They were watching. Had to be.”

  Astrid grimaced. “If they sent anyone back with information…”

  “We need to know what they know,” Moxy said.

  “I’m just not sure of the value of sending them to the Wards. Gormer is getting stronger with the psychic magic, but he’ll need to get physically close to someone to read their mind. We don’t know if the civil guards will be privy to the information we need. One thing’s for sure. We need to take that keep. If we let them build up over the winter, they'll kill us in the spring.”

  They sat there for a while, until Astrid started feeling cold. She needed to move to stay warm. The cold didn’t seem to affect Moxy at all. She laid down in the snow and rolled around for a moment, luxuriating in the feel of it.

  Astrid laughed, then stood. Moxy did the same and finally accepted her clothes.

  “How is my man, Tarkon?” Moxy asked.

  “Not good. He hasn’t said a word since he got back. He burned his hand using his magic.”

  “Burned his…” Moxy trailed off. “I’ve seen him reach into the blacksmith’s forge and create metal with his bare hands.”

  “I know,” Astrid said. “Heat isn’t supposed to hurt him when he uses his magic.”

  “I better go check on him,” Moxy said.

  “He’s at the blacksmith’s,” Astrid said. “Convince him to get some rest.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Keep 52

  First Lieutenant Balan stood in the courtyard, waiting for a patrol that was hours overdue. He’d sent two Movers and two apprentices on a recon mission towards Argan. Their orders were to observe and report. He told them very clearly that they were to engage the enemy only if absolutely necessary. Balan didn’t want anything to tip his hand. He wanted to know everything about his enemy before he struck.

  But now, he wrestled with the only conclusion that made sense. They were all dead. If that were true, then his enemy was much more capable than he thought. Either that, or they had even more powerful magic users in their numbers.

  He knew Astrid was a particularly deadly mage. The reports were unclear just what her powers were. It seemed she had healing abilities and greatly-enhanced speed and strength. She was also very smart, which was almost as good as magic in most cases.

  But he had trouble imagining the power that could take out two of his best Movers and two very capable apprentices. Maybe there was more than one enemy mage in the woods. But why would they do that? It didn’t make sense.

  He gave a start when a page ran up behind him. Balan whirled around on the boy, who skidded to a halt and gasped.

  “What is it!” Balan demanded.

  “Commissioner Krann requests your presence immediately,” the boy blurted out.

  Balan felt hot blood prickling in his cheeks. “His words… his words…” the page stammered, backing away.

  Balan pushed past him and marched towards the pre-madness stone building that served as the Keep’s office building.

  He found Krann standing in front of his desk with that swagger stick under his right arm and his hands folded behind his back.

  “First Lieutenant Balan,” Krann said. His weathered, hawk-like face seemed to peck at him as Krann spoke. “I called you here to lodge yet another formal complaint. I find it unconscionable that our Protector has refused to respond to my initial protest. The Protectorate charter clearly states—”

  Balan held up his hand and spoke. He didn’t shout, but the look in his eyes and his tone of voice made the usually self-confident and unflappable Krann stop speaking immediately.

  “I have had a very trying morning,” Balan said. “While I respect the Commissioners, and especially you, I have no time at the moment to deal with such concerns. I happen to be dealing with a growing insurgency.”

  Krann stood there for a moment. He seemed to consider Balan’s words. Then, he opened his mouth and destroyed that illusion permanently.

  “I demand—” Krann began to say.

  Balan was barely conscious of his actions. The flash of anger came so suddenly that it almost startled him. His hand flashed out, palm forward, and the energy just flowed through him. Krann flew back so fast, and so violently that he folded in half as he crashed through the window.

  First Lieutenant Balan sighed as he watched shards of glass fall from the splintered window frame. He blinked rapidly, then pulled over a nearby chair and sat with a heavy thud.

  “Krann, Krann, Krann,” he said to the corpse he imagined lying in the slushy ground below. “All you had to do was let me work. But you just couldn’t help yourself. Such a shame. You were a good Commissioner.”

  Lungu Fortress, The Next Day

  “Balan did what?” Protector Lungu said. His cup of beet wine stalled halfway to his mouth.

  “First Lieutenant Balan killed Commissioner Krann,” the messenger said. “That’s what the parchment says,” the young woman was careful to say. She held the message in trembling hands.

  Lungu had asked her to read the message as he was eating lunch. He set the wine cup down and extended his hand towards the messenger. The parchment flew from her hands and fluttered across the space between them like a flag atop the mast of a sailing ship.

  The messenger gasped, and Lungu waved her away after he c
aught the parchment. He blinked rapidly between each read of the message.

  “I found it necessary to kill Krann. He was insubordinate. I have sent for another Commissioner to replace him. Here’s hoping the new one will be more compliant.”

  Lungu closed his eyes and set the parchment beside his plate. He pushed his breakfast away and cupped his face in both hands.

  “Attendant,” he said through his fingers. “Fetch Treasurer Brol. Tell him to come here immediately.”

  Lungu wasn’t accustomed to this type of frustration. It seemed that this Astrid situation had made nearly everyone close to him into a fool. Balan had no idea what he’d done.

  A few minutes later, Brol swept into the room. “I heard the news,” he said as he sat beside his protector. He picked up the wine meant for Lungu and drank it in three gulps.

  “By all means,” Lungu said. “Have some fucking wine.”

  “This is a bad situation,” Brol said.

  “A brilliant mind!” Lungu exclaimed to his bewildered attendant. “Did you hear that insightful assessment from my most trusted advisor?

  The teenager went pale and swayed on trembling knees. Lungu hurled the empty wine cup at him. “Leave us!” he bellowed.

  The attendant was too terrified to dodge the cup, but he was lucky. The fine ceramic shattered on the wall above his head. The boy squeaked and bolted from the room.

  “I should kill that weakling,” Lungu growled. “Cowering simpleton. Remind me why we need peasants like him?”

  “Because they fill your coffers with tribute,” Brol replied. He crossed the room to where the attendants kept everything and picked up another cup and another bottle of wine.

  “Wait,” Lungu said. “How did you hear about my idiot First Lieutenant killing Krann before I did?”

  “The Chief Commissioner Brovka sent me a message,” Treasurer Brol replied.

  “But he didn’t send me a letter?” Lungu said. He picked up the cup after Brol filled it and took a great pull. “What did he say to you that he should have said to me?”

  “He told me he was on his way to speak with you directly,” Brol replied.