Mad Mage_Claire-Agon Ranger

by Salvador Mercer

  The sound of weapons being drawn permeated the air as nearly a score of soldiers, Balarian special forces, an accomplished impersonator, and a surprised Kesh liaison officer all prepared to battle the lone renegade.

  “This one’s mine,” the Balarian assassin said, stepping toward his enemy.

  “Halt,” the lieutenant of the Red Throats said as he pointed his blade at Dorsun. “This one belongs to us.”

  “Aye,” several of Drakos’ bodyguards said in unison, and as one, they all started to advance.

  Cortiz took a parting shot at the rebel Kesh leader. “You are’z brave for coming here alone, but also stupid to do so, and now you will die alone.”

  Suddenly, a knife appeared as if by magic, sticking from the chest of the Kesh liaison officer. Cortiz was just as surprised by the change in his health that he could only look down at the small hilt sticking from where his heart was located. He looked up in disbelief and heard the last words of his life, which came from a woman with an Ulathan accent, “He’s not alone.”

  Cortiz fell to the ground dead, and the Kesh lieutenant found himself in the same predicament, looking at a small hilt protruding from the center of his chest. Before he hit the ground lifeless, two shadowy forms of a woman and a young man appeared in the faint light of the lone lantern that was struggling to illuminate the new battleground.

  “What are you doing here?” Dorsun turned, asking Salina as she and Cedric took up a defensive position, flanking him.

  Salina scowled. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

  Dorsun spoke quickly as the Red Throats advanced, all drawing melee weapons. For some reason, there were no crossbows in sight. “I came to pay my debt and either prove or dispel the identity of their captive. He’s not your husband. You should have let me finish my business and departed in peace, and then me and my master’s debt would have been repaid.”

  Salina engaged the first pair of troopers as they tried to flank her and stab her quickly to take advantage of their numbers. “Well, twenty to one didn’t seem like fair odds to us.”

  “No, it didn’t seem fair at all,” Cedric said, taking another knife and hurling it at the Balarian assassin who had drawn one of his own. The Balarian was quicker than any opponent they had ever seen, and he sidestepped, leaning back to allow the projectile to pass harmlessly. “Damn.”

  Dorsun kicked a small pile of dirt at two other troopers advancing on him, and lunged, piercing one quickly and then parrying the blow from his partner. “So you think six against one is better?”

  “Yes,” Salina said, twisting and thrusting her own slender sword, trying to parry the blows coming at her with increasing intensity. “Those odds stink, too, but you may actually live a few minutes longer with them.”

  Dorsun hacked down another trooper, and then the fifth fell to a graceful thrust into the man’s neck. With some anguish, Dorsun spoke. “I came here so you wouldn’t have to, you and your son. I can’t believe you would sacrifice your life, and that of your son, for a Kesh.”

  “He is my husband’s son, and honor means something to our family. What would it matter to live if we did so in dishonor?” Salina asked, backing up to keep the probing blades of her enemy away from her body. They had started to get too close for her comfort.

  Dorsun also backed away as several of the Balarians, at a visible hand signal from their leader, began to advance slowly on their left where Cedric was engaged in a knife-throwing duel with a short Balarian who looked as young as he was. Cedric said, “I insisted, and Mother accepted.”

  “You both understand that I don’t think we can escape here alive?” Dorsun asked, parrying another blow by a Kesh trooper. “An entire Kesh company of troops are a few stone throws down the road and will be here shortly. I think it’s time to run.”

  “Good advice,” Cedric said in agreement.

  The trio prepared to turn and run east from the direction where the Ulathans had first arrived from, when the sounds of armed troops came to them, followed quickly by the twinkling of many torches. They took their last blows and parries, and then Salina yelled, “Run.”

  They turned to flee when the small rise was lit up by a score of torches and at least two score of Kesh troopers, all with nasty red gashes painted across their black-dyed leather breastplates. Some of these troopers did carry crossbows, and they were leveled directly at them.

  “The trap worked anyway,” the Balarian assassin said, advancing on them with a score of new Kesh troops running from the north along the road and on either side, completely surrounding them now. His next words were chilling. “Time to kill the rebels.”

  Chapter 6

  Treachery

  The trap was obvious once she found it. Dareen had been left in her cell with the idea that there was no longer any magical protection on or around it. She was tempted to try her small wooden wand on the locked gate of her cell, but something nagged at her incessantly, warning her that something was amiss.

  She had been given water and some fresh food, so at least she wasn’t thirsty or hungry. Several other prisoners, most of them women, came in under armed escort with buckets of water and many rags, mops, and towels, and quickly cleaned the room and especially her cell. They never looked at her and didn’t speak. Her only duty, as ordered by the armed commander, was to move from one side of the cell to the other once the first side was clean. Dareen didn’t want to cause these prisoners any problems, so she kept quiet and let them finish their work. So it was that once she was left alone, she began her search again for what was bothering her.

  It turned out that she actually felt it before she saw it. The cell and room was sealed tightly, and though it had a small open window with iron bars over it at ground level above, near the ceiling for her, there had never been any real airflow from it. The overpressure inside kept the cell hot and stuffy. Not long after the guards and cleaners had departed, she felt a slight breeze as the cool fall air, hinting at the impending approach of winter, flowed past her.

  The air had to have an egress, and she started to look for it before realizing that she could be observed. So she stopped for some time and then lay down and feigned sleep. After a long while, she cracked her eyes ever so slightly and began to scan the bricks on the wall behind her. She was sure that two of her walls were buttressed to the outside, so she could focus on only half of her surroundings. After more than an hour, she spotted the tiny mirror sticking out from a brick that had been adjusted ever so slightly. She was indeed being watched.

  Very clever, she thought to herself. But why? What would they fear or learn from her? It took her some time to reach a conclusion, but the only thing she could think of was the actual truth as to why she was brought here. To the Kesh, she had demonstrated something that resembled magic, or a mastery of it. To them, any potential for any other race of Agon to use, master, or excel in the art of the arcane meant that they posed a risk to them. Before simply executing and eliminating that risk, the Kesh had another urge baked into their genetic makeup. An insatiable curiosity for all things knowledgeable. They would want to learn how she had this ability before eliminating it.

  This brought her to her next conclusion. If they learned how she could exercise her power—divine or arcane, it didn’t matter—then they would no longer need her, and her life would be over. Her goal would be to buy herself as much time as possible to allow her sons to rescue her. She would think of nothing else other than the fact that Ann was now safe. She needed to remain alive in order to finish raising her daughter and fulfill her duties as a mother.

  So she concocted her plan based on something her parents had told her well over a decade ago. It involved a traveling gypsy woman and her crazy antics that either awed or terrorized those who witnessed it, depending on their position.

  She stood and walked over to the window where the sun had crossed over the other side. This meant in the morning, she had more light, as her window faced in an easterly direction, based on the rising sun. In the
afternoon, she had less light, as the sun was setting on the other side of whatever structure stood atop of the dungeons. She raised her arms and began to chant gibberish. She convulsed several times, contorted herself as best she could, and then finally yelled and flung herself to the ground, feigning unconsciousness.

  “What in da name of the devils is that she-witch doing?” Darker asked.

  “Let me see,” Ruster said, taking a position where Darker was observing the prisoner.

  “Go ahead, but she’z done now,” Darker said, relinquishing his position on the spy tube where a set of mirrors allowed them to see around corners—in this case, the corners of the small brick that was pushed out from the wall.

  “I heard da witch,” Ruster said, squinting into the peephole. “She was making such a damn racket, though I ain’t understood a word she said.”

  Darker plopped down in a dirty stuffed chair that was luxurious by comparison to the many hard wooden chairs strewn around the warden’s quarters. He had seen to it that he had at least some comfort for himself in his new position as warden of the Keshtor prison. “I ain’t sure how to report that.”

  “What did she do?” Ruster asked, continuing to observe the Ulathan prisoner.

  “She did some sort o’ devil dance and nearly broke her back, she did,” Darker said, shaking his head and looking for his drinking flask.

  “You’z heard what she did to da last prison warden back in Ulsthor?”

  Darker sighed. “Now you ain’t gonna bring that up, too, are’z you?”

  “What?” Ruster took a moment to look back at the newly promoted prison warden. “She plucked his eyes out and took his guts, using dem to decorate her prison cell, she did.”

  “She did no such thing,” Darker protested, tiring at hearing all the things that could happen to him from the she-witch in his newly appointed position.

  “It would be odd to see your gutz hanging from the rafters,” Ruster rambled as he looked back in the peephole. “She could use ’em to brighten up her iron bars a bit. Dey do look bland.”

  “Shut your trap hole, maggot,” Darker said nastily. “You ain’t sure of nuttin’, and if you’z keep talking dis way, I’ll see to it dat she hangs your guts up but good.”

  “Testy, testy,” Ruster said, not taking his eye from the peephole. “I waz just trying to keep you warned iz all.”

  “Well, keep your warnin’s to yourself,” Darker ordered. “You keep watch a bit and rouse me if she tries any more devil dancin’. Da bosses are gonna want to know what she’z up to.”

  Ruster nodded while Darker closed his eyes and began to snore almost immediately, so he never heard his companion’s words muttered softly under his breath. “Betta hope she don’t devil dance on your’z grave. Betta hope not, indeed.”

  “Try not to stare,” the old man said to Jakar, who was waiting in the small lobby outside the High-Mage’s chamber within the Onyx Tower.

  “Stare at what?” Jakar asked.

  “You’ll know when you see it,” the old man said. He turned and used the knocker to sound the door twice. Without a word, the door opened slowly. “Go on and remember what I said.”

  Jakar looked at the old man suspiciously and then decided he couldn’t do anything except enter and meet his new master for the first time in weeks, since the revolution happened. He walked slowly, and immediately noticed the fresh paint and furniture adorning the chamber. High-Mage Am-Tor was seated where Sultain usually sat. The room appeared more than functional, which contradicted the reports he had heard.

  He crossed the bare chamber floor and stopped a good dozen paces from the man and his chair. Am-Tor, and it took some getting used to, was seated with a hooded cloak covering his face. Only his bearded chin was visible, as his head was tilted down toward the floor. The newly self-appointed High-Mage didn’t speak or move, and Jakar wasn’t sure if the man was even awake.

  The most disturbing sight was the High-Mage’s staff. Normally they were metallic with a precious gemstone attached at the top. This was uniform and routine in all staves, so the appearance of the High-Mage’s staff was most discomforting. The small dragon skull on the top of Am-Tor’s staff had seemingly fused itself to the gemstone, and the eye sockets glowed with a red light, dull but noticeable. Jakar’s skin crawled, and the goosebumps were indicative of the unnatural aura that the staff presented.

  With some hesitation, Jakar cleared his throat, and then said, “High-Mage, I am reporting as requested.”

  There was a long pause, and then Am-Tor spoke. “I know.” Another long pause before the man resumed. “You have done well, my old apprentice. Edward has informed me of your actions at the Keshtor garrison.” The High-Mage was referring to his newly appointed steward who acted as the logistic liaison and butler of the Onyx Tower. The same old man who had given Jakar the cryptic warning.

  “Thank you, Master,” Jakar began. “Speaking of which, is it not customary for the Onyx Tower’s steward to be someone from the upper castes. Is this to be a permanent appointment?”

  “You are bold and ambitious as ever,” Am-Tor said. “To answer your question, no. This appointment is temporary until we can sort things out amongst ourselves.” An obvious reference to the magic-users of Kesh. “We are few in numbers, especially after . . . shall we say, the purging of those who stood in my way.”

  Jakar nodded. Many troopers, magic-users, and other civilians had perished in the civil war that had lasted a mere night. Those who remained defiant to Am-Tor had either been killed or fled the capital. There was still quite a bit of confusion as the new government was being organized, and even those who had sided with the new High-Mage found themselves jockeying for position and favor in his new order. “Those numbers can be replenished with more worthy members of our society under your new leadership, Oh Great One.”

  Flattery was an old staple of Kesh society, and Am-Tor had always been susceptible to it. “Good,” he began. “We have much work to do in order to clean up this mess that Sultain left for us.” The use of the former High-Mage’s name without title or precedent was obvious.

  “The work has already begun,” Jakar added, a note of content in his voice.

  “Did the Balarians give you trouble?”

  “No,” Jakar explained. “They appear to be most unreliable, though, always non-committal and waiting to see who the victor would be in our own struggle.

  “That is their nature,” Am-Tor explained. “They are mercenaries through and through. This can be to our advantage, however, insomuch as they will serve the High-Mage regardless of who that person is. So now, they have no more reason to excuse themselves from the fight. We will press them, as well as the Northmen, into service in order to fulfill our destiny. Time is short, and the transit will happen sooner than most expect. We must be ready. Our future, the future of Kesh, depends on it.”

  Am-Tor sounded much more of a leader than Jakar had expected. “We have a contingent already in Ulatha working on ferreting out the rebels who have harassed our trade routes in and around the area. The three contingents in Keshtor have taken care of the opposition and allowed us to stabilize our main organizations.” Jakar was referring to the pillars on which Kesh society was organized—the magic caste, the merchant caste, and the military caste.

  “I have taken care of the Institute personally,” Am-Tor said, referring to his takeover of their Arcane Academy where new apprentices were chosen after a long period of vetting them for talent and ability. “You have secured the barracks and both garrisons, which leaves us with the Merchant’s Guild.”

  “Negotiations continue with your personal representative,” Jakar said.

  “If they do not bear fruit soon, I will deal with them personally.” The threat was enhanced with his menacing tone. “I think that takes care of almost all of our business.”

  “Understood, High-Mage.” Jakar nodded and bowed slightly after the exchange. He was about to turn and leave, thinking that he would not have to deal with any unplea
santries that were rumored to exist around the new court of the High-Mage. He was mistaken.

  “We have one final matter to discuss before you depart,” Am-Tor said, standing and walking over to Jakar with a rhythmic tapping of his metallic staff against the cold hard stone floor. He looked up and used his free hand to pull his hood back. Jakar sucked in air and tried hard not to gasp audibly. The High-Mage had an eye almost hanging from its socket. Half his face was smashed, as if hanging from a tree limb, and his entire jawline was crooked. It was amazing the man could even talk properly.

  “Ah, yes, High-Mage?” Jakar asked, wondering what this matter was and trying hard not to stare, so morbid was the High-Mage’s appearance.

  “Look at what that fool did to me,” Am-Tor lamented. “I want his followers to pay for this.”

  “What followers?” Jakar asked, confused, as he thought all subjects loyal to Sultain had been dealt with.

  “Am-Shee has gone into hiding and taken a fair number of troops with him, for one,” Am-Tor said. “He managed to convince a few apprentices to assist him in his rebellion.”

  “Uh, I thought we were the rebels?” Jakar asked.

  “We are the victors, you nitwit,” Am-Tor scolded his former apprentice. “These holdouts are responsible for the ongoing chaos, especially that fool Alister. They must be killed immediately.”

  “Alister died the same night Sultain did,” Jakar stated matter-of-factly.

  “I repaired the chief critir in the Chamber of Seeing,” the High-Mage said. “I tracked that fool of an apprentice to Am-Shee’s personal keep, before he gathered several powerful items from the Arch-Mage’s tower, one of which can block the vision of even the chief critir.”

  “So you are saying that both Am-Shee and Alister are alive and plotting against you?” Jakar was processing this revelation and, for a moment, forgot about the High-Mage’s hideous appearance.