A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  * * *

  The sounds of battle faded. The cries of fury and pain, the screams of remorseless slaughter, were silenced at last. Dawn spread across the sky with a dull gray light that illuminated the snow-covered ground, glinting off broken blades and torn armor. Distant mountains, forever draped in white, rose to meet the frosty sky, their jagged peaks cruel as the swords and spears still clutched in frozen hands.

  In the midst of this tortured scene, Jankayla took her ease, reclining against the ceratu. The shaggy beast had been pierced by many arrows and finally fallen at the edge of the camp. Jankayla sat on one of its massive forelegs, leaning her back against the bulwark of the beast’s torso as she sipped wine, red as spilled blood, from a wooden cup. One booted foot rested on the severed head of Galam, former chieftain of the Belgari tribe.

  Jankayla’s Warchod, elite dark elf soldiers clad in black leather and chain mail, wandered among the ruins of the camp, searching for treasures. Some of the Warchod gathered around her, standing guard and attending to the needs of their mistress. The only other living thing in the camp was a small, misshapen creature in dark robes, who appeared out of the shambles of ruined tents, lumbering toward her with a swinging gate while rubbing its small hands together.

  “Grisnal,” Jankayla eyed the creature with weary patience. “Any word from our new friends?” Her servant was a wizard and a tolerably good one despite his deformities. But his true talent was divination. Grisnal’s scrying frequently yielded information that was quite accurate and true, making him extremely useful. Grisnal was the git of a dark elf woman and an orc, an unfortunate coupling if ever there was one. Jankayla had occasionally pondered how such a union might occur, but since she didn’t really care, she had never bothered to inquire.

  “They come, my lady,” Grisnal said in a lilting voice. “In fact, they are here already.”

  Jankayla raised her eyes to see a company of orcs emerging from the woods. They were man-sized brutes with leathery skin ranging in color from brown to black. There were a fair number of them, enough to overcome her Warchod should they wish, but since they were here at her invitation, she doubted it would come to that. Still, nothing was ever certain with these creatures. At their approach, Jankayla rose, taking her staff in hand.

  “I see you have been busy,” the orc leader said as he drew near. He was the largest of the company, heavily muscled, and tattooed in red ink. He had blunt features with a ridge of bone running lengthwise along the midline on top of his skull. His skin was ebony and crusted in places, showing signs of the blight, a skin condition his race suffered, the result of prolonged exposure to sunlight.

  “Durog,” Jankayla said, almost jovially, “how nice of you to join us. I am a woman of my word, am I not?”

  She picked up Galam’s head, her long fingers entwining with the thick mat of tawny hair as she tore it lose from the ice and tossed it. It landed at Durog’s feet with a frozen thump. The orc looked down at it, recognizing the Wudu chieftain’s features. He spat on the dead man’s face, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I hope you made him suffer before you killed him.”

  “I told him a story, a very sad story, but I’m afraid he didn’t like the ending.”

  Durog looked at her, puzzlement twisting his mouth.

  “Never mind,” Jankayla said. “What news do you bring?”

  “The clans are falling into line. I had to kill Bogmer to make my point—never cared much for that arrogant maggot to begin with—but the rest came over easily enough. The Yellow Fang, the Skull Crushers, all of them. Even Agrum’s lot, but I’ll need to keep an eye on that son of a whore. Too ambitious for his own good.”

  “What about the rendezvous?”

  “They’ll all be there,” Durog looked around at the dead Belgari that littered the field, “now that the pass into the mountains is open and there’s nothing to prevent it. By the time the border guard and the rest of the Wudu clans realize what’s happened, it’ll be too late. Some of the goblin tribes are coming too, and I’ve managed to recruit a handful of trolls to join the party.”

  Jankayla smiled at that. “Apparently, no one wants to miss the war.”

  “We haven’t had one in a while and we’re overdue. Everyone’s looking for a little payback from those pig-skinned humans and Arkirius is a good a place to start.”

  Durog looked down again at the chieftain’s head lying in the snow. His expression grew angry and he kicked it away with his boot.

  “You should’ve let me kill Galam.” Durog’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “He was an enemy of the Red Claw. We could have handled the Belgari on our own.”

  Jankayla offered Durog a cold, predatory smile. As a rule she did not like orcs, not even ones as eloquent as Durog, but he had two things most orcs did not—brains and ambition—a dangerous combination in a creature that lacked such basic moral values as humility and mercy. Like it or not, he was exactly what she needed. Others of his kind would follow him, even the other warlords.

  “It might interest you to know that the Belgari were in league with the Arkirian border guard and have been for years. They were tasked with more than just guarding the passes into the mountains, and have been accepting coin and food from the Arkirians in exchange for killing orcs.”

  “That’s hardly a secret. What of it? And why should you care if orcs live or die?”

  “Normally I don’t. Your short existence is as nothing to one who has lived for nearly a thousand years, who has seen the rise and fall of generations. But things have changed in the world, and I find myself in need of an army. You should be more appreciative of my interest.”

  This brought a bark of laughter from the orc. “I have long heard tales of the kingdom of Thilea and of your sorcerer king, Tenabrus. You have power enough to conquer half the world if the stories be true. I cannot help but wonder why you would come to me and my clan for aid.”

  “As I said, things have changed.” Jankayla pulled her cloak closer around her and took a step toward Durog. “I cannot call upon Thilea’s armies, not yet at least. What I am about to do I must do alone. These few,” she indicated her Warchod, “loyal retainers though they may be, are all that I have. To achieve my designs I will need an army, one that hates Arkirius as much as I do. And one that is not afraid to battle humans.”

  “I do not fear humans,” Durog said, “nor do my kin. We’ll soon have an army greater than anything the world has seen in hundreds of years. But before I lead my people over the mountains, I want to know what you intend to do with them.”

  “Do?” Jankayla said, mock surprise written across her face. “I will do nothing with them. They are yours to command, Durog og Bharog. You are the high warlord now. All I want is for you to keep the Arkirians off balance long enough for me to complete my task, then you are free to do as you like. Just imagine what you might accomplish... after you’ve fulfilled our agreement of course.”

  Durog could imagine it, and the thought brought a smile to his brutish face, but it quickly faded. “And me? What do I get out of all this?”

  “You get to fulfill your rightful destiny. I have long known of your desire to reclaim the lands that once belonged to your people, in the days before Aedon subdued the north and built his great stronghold on Arrom’s Rock. The Rock is the key to both of our ambitions.”

  Durog folded his arms across his massive chest. “So, that’s it then. You want The Rock.”

  “No, I don’t want it. You do. I only want what is inside it. The Rock will be yours, your seat of power if you choose it, from which you will be able to retake the surrounding countryside.”

  “There is nothing at Arrom’s Rock but dust and broken ruins.”

  “The castle is in ruins, true,” Jankayla said, “but Horgar and his dwarves burrowed deep beneath The Rock and built an entire underground fortress inside the mountain. Those halls remain and are enough to hold you and your people in safety while you pillage the countryside. Which reminds me,”
she paused, considering her words. “I will require... participants... a great many of them, in fact. You should be able to find plenty of innocent souls among the villages.”

  “And what about the Arkirians?”

  “The people of Arkirius believe Arrom’s Rock to be haunted, an evil place, and will not willingly go near it, but there is one kingdom that stands close by. If they were to discover me there, they might try to interfere. However, with your help, they will be much too busy to realize the true threat. When all is done, The Rock will be yours and I will have the bones of Ashendraugnir.”

  “For what purpose? What could you possibly want with a pile of moldering dragon bones?”

  “That is my business,” Jankayla said. “In exchange for your assistance, I have helped you build an army. I have opened the pass for you, and I will give you The Rock. The bargain is fair, is it not?”

  “You’ve given me nothing. The Red Claw could have taken the pass at any time, and if Arkirius is to be won it will be with the blood of my people. If you want our help, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Jankayla’s face darkened. If not for her great need, she might have reduced this loathsome orc to a pool of blood and entrails. How dare he question her. Still, she had expected this and had one more gem to offer.

  “My servant,” she indicated Grisnal with a wave of her hand, the misshapen little wizard lingering on the periphery, “is able to see things, things which have not yet occurred. He has seen the Golden Phial. He knows where it is.”

  This caused something of a stir in the Red Claw’s ranks. Even Durog sucked in his breath at the mention of it. Most knew the story of the Golden Phial, the sacred vessel said to contain the light of Enu, given to Aedon Arturas on the eve of the Battle of Midderan. The Phial was rare magic indeed and extremely powerful. It was said that any army that possessed the Golden Phial could not be beaten, that they would become invincible.

  “That’s just a story,” Durog said. “It doesn’t exist.”

  “It does,” Jankayla said. “The Golden Phial is real, and Grisnal knows where it is to be found. If you honor our agreement, I will share this secret with you.”

  “Why would you do that?” Durog asked, suspicion twisting his features. “Why not take it for yourself?”

  “I don’t want it, and I haven’t the resources to win it even if I did. I want the bones of Ashendraugnir. The Phial will be yours.”

  This answer appeared to satisfy the orc. A cruel grin spread across Durog’s face. His thick black lips peeled back to reveal crooked yellow fangs and he barked out another laugh.

  “Share your secret then, and we will make our alliance.” He spit into the palm of his leathery hand and extended it. Jankayla took it without hesitation, squeezing the orc’s thick, scarred fingers in an iron grip that caused Durog’s eyes to widen in sudden admiration.

  “Tell him, Grisnal.” Jankayla held Durog with her eyes.

  The wizard shuffled forward, still rubbing his hands together in nervous agitation. He wheezed, then coughed, clearing his throat loudly.

  “It’s in the very kingdom my mistress spoke of, a place called Nachtwald. It is a small, backward kingdom, out of the way and easily subdued.”

  “How far away from Arrom’s Rock is this Nachtwald?” Durog said, meeting the sorceress’ gaze.

  “That’s the best part. It is less than a day’s travel from Arrom’s Rock. With the Golden Phial, your army will be unstoppable. All of Arkirius can be yours, and no one will be able to oppose you.”

  “Are you sure about all this?” Durog turned to look at the wizard.

  “Yes,” Grisnal said. “I have seen it. It will be there when your army arrives. In a month’s time, when the moon is hidden and the lumen of darkness is at its peak, you will take the city of Nachtwald and there you will find the Golden Phial.”

  Chapter 2

  Portia an Nachtwald took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she gathered élan. Opening them again she traced a pattern in the air and whispered a few words in Lunovarian, the language of the first people. With an effort of will she cast her spell and the released energy turned into a butterfly that flitted around her head.

  “Good,” said the old wizard from his perch. “Now, give us some light, a beacon to guide us in dark places.”

  Portia extended her other hand and made a swirling motion, speaking the words as she cast. A ball of soft, white light appeared in the air just above her head.

  “Good, good. Now the shield. Protect yourself!”

  Portia drew a circle in the space before her and spoke several words in rapid succession. A convex circle of energy appeared in front of her. Portia turned and the circle turned with her.

  “Excellent! Now fire. You must be able to attack as well as defend.”

  Portia dropped the protection spell, and the ball of light and butterfly both disappeared. Her forehead was damp with perspiration and her face tight with strain as she turned again, focusing on the rotted stump of an old tree. She spoke the words as her hands rotated, one over the other. A ball of fire appeared beneath her fingers, small at first, but growing larger as she fed it élan. She flung the ball away from her. It flew straight, striking the stump with a dull thump, scoring the ancient wood, and showering the ground with sparks.

  “Again,” the wizard said.

  Portia repeated the motion, producing a second ball of flame, this one smaller, that she launched at a nearby boulder. Wump!

  “Again!”

  Portia pivoted, staggering a little. She repeated the motion a third time, gritting her teeth as she said the words. There was a flicker of flame and a puff of smoke, then nothing. Portia took a breath and tried again, taking more time as she rotated her hands. She spoke the words, enunciating each syllable. There was a loud pop, and another puff of smoke, but no fire appeared.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down the sides of her smooth cheeks. Portia dropped her arms and swore softly. “Dammit.”

  “Hmmmm.” The old wizard climbed to his feet, leaning on his staff. “Try again.”

  “I can’t.” Portia’s hands were trembling, both from anger and from the rapid expenditure of energy. “I’m too tired.” She leaned over, hands against her knees.

  “Of course you can. There is energy all around you. You just have to reach out. Focus.”

  “I’ve tried, Zerabnir.” Portia straightened, daubing her face with the sleeve of her dress. “I’ve been trying for hours. I can’t do it!”

  The wizard sighed. He stared at the ground for a while, then shook his head and laughed. “You will, my dear, you will. It takes time to learn these things, but learn them you must. You rely too much on your own reserves. It is dangerous—”

  “I know there’s élan in the world around me.” Portia threw her hands up. “But I can’t... feel it. It’s there, but I can’t seem to find it.”

  “You just have to have patience and keep trying. To be a true wizard, you must be able to tap into those hidden energies that surround us.”

  “I know.” Portia said again, biting her lip. “I won’t give up, Zerabnir.”

  Zerabnir smiled. “Well I know. I’ve seldom had a more willing student. Now then, I think we’ve had enough practice for one day. Come inside and we’ll have something to drink.”

  Portia pulled back her long blond hair and tried to set aside her frustration. She knew her teacher was right, but knowing did little to quell her disappointment. She inhaled and let her breath out slowly, trying to regain her composure. If only her father would let her attend the Lumenarium. But that was never going to happen, not with the way he felt about magic. She was fortunate to even have Zerabnir.

  The old wizard lived in a ruined tower on the outskirts of Nachtwald, a league from the castle. He had once been counted among the greatest of all enchanters and for many years had presided over Nachtwald as court magician. But after the death of Portia’s mother, Katherine, Baron Cedric had banished the wizard from his
court. Obviously, her father blamed Zerabnir, but Portia had never been able to find out what happened, or why, and neither man would talk of it.

  Zerabnir had been old even before he came to Nachtwald. Now, he was positively ancient. Once a tall and imposing figure, no doubt, the wizard was now shrunken and bent, like an oak tree that has seen too many winters. His long fingers were bird-like, his pale skin stretched over bone like a thin sheet of parchment. Portia had been his apprentice for seven years, and in that time, she had grown quite fond of the old wizard. She felt a certain love for him, much like the affection she felt for her brother, Finn.

  In fact, she and Finn had been together when they first stumbled upon Zerabnir’s tower during one of their many escapades into the forest. Finn liked the city, but Portia had always preferred the woods and wild lands surrounding Nachtwald. She had traveled most of the forest paths, as far as Arrom’s Rock in the north and the Alleg River crossing in the south near Hardhallow. But here was where she came most often, to this tower, even though Cedric warned her against it. Her father might have tried to prevent her had he known, but Nachtwald’s lord was often away and Portia’s maids knew better than to tell tales about her comings and goings. A wizard, even a fledgling one, was a powerful enemy.

  Portia shook her head, focusing on the present. Zerabnir ushered her inside with a wave of his hand. “Come in, my dear. I’ll put the kettle on and we can have a chat. I have some news to share with you that I fear cannot wait any longer.”

  “That sounds ominous.” Portia picked up her leather satchel from where it lay on the ground and followed, feeling a little unsteady on her feet.

  The wizard led her up a narrow staircase, taking each step in slow succession, then through an arched doorway into the upper chamber. The room beyond was filled to overflowing with tables, chairs, and various cases, all of them sagging beneath the weight of a lifetime’s accumulation of knowledge and curiosity. Zerabnir went immediately to the fireplace and stoked the flames, adding bits of wood until a warm glow spread out into the room. Then he put the kettle on and collapsed wearily into a large chair beside the hearth. Within moments he began to doze.