A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  “War overtook us and, as was the case with so many, we left Thranandir. Perhaps it was not so much that we were running away as it was that we were running toward something. This new world was, after all, a mystery to us, a place to be explored and experienced. As I have said, we were very young.”

  Sir Veryan turned a corner and walked down a side street to another open square.

  “Eventually we came to the Rowanin, and there we chose to make our new home. For a while, we were happy and our community thrived. I married Donella, and we had a child, a dark-haired girl as sweet and bright as her mother.”

  They entered the square and Blayde saw that it was the church square where, in Nachtwald, stood the Blessed Church of Aedon. But here stood a much larger structure and more beautiful than the one that now occupied its place in Nachtwald. In fact, this was no church at all, but a cathedral.

  “But Tenabrus’s war against the Ashalonians spilled over into Arkirius, and the Rowanin was no longer safe. My daughter and my wife were slain by orcs, and our home was overrun.” Sir Veryan lowered his head and let out his breath. His eyes grew bright and dangerous.

  “Those of us who remained formed the Yattiar, the first Silver Leafs of the Rowanin. We hunted the orcs and any other creature that dared to wander into our woods. We drove them out and we hung the skins of our fallen enemies on branches at the edges of our lands to warn others who might think to enter it unbidden.”

  Sir Veryan straightened, squaring his shoulders and giving Blayde a hard look. She met his eye and did not look away.

  “I am sorry for what you endured,” Blayde said.

  Sir Veryan stared at her for a long moment, then the intensity of his gaze faltered and he looked away.

  “It was long ago and many leaves have fallen over that path.” He pointed to the cathedral in front of them.

  “This cathedral was dedicated to the Enuran, a place for those who worship the Nine Judges to gather and sing praises, and it was built by Aedon Arturas.”

  “You were knighted by Aedon,” Blayde said. “You were the first wood elf ever knighted by a human king.”

  “I was. I was captain to his Nine Valiants, and I created the Order of the Green Heron to serve as his personal guard and protect him from harm.”

  “Why?” Blayde asked. “Why would you leave the Rowanin? Why would you bind yourself to a human and forsake your own people?”

  Sir Veryan looked at her again and his face was stern but not unkind. “There was nothing there for me any longer. My life in the Rowanin was over. I had taken my revenge as best I could, and it had left me empty and without hope.” He heaved a great sigh.

  “Aedon Arturas was more than a man. He was, and is, a god in man’s flesh, a champion for all the people of Ninavar. I never knew anyone as strong or as driven as he was. When I first met him, he was a boy of 15, but he was no youth. He had the eyes of an ancient, the soul of a poet, and the heart of a warrior. A year after our paths crossed, he was crowned King of Elathia. By then we had become friends, more than friends even, for we were as close as brothers. We fought many battles together. We shed blood and tears alike and I knew that he had a destiny far greater than any man or elf I had ever known.

  “They called him the Sword of Enu, sent by the Enuran to restore order to the world. I believed it. I needed to believe. Before Aedon there was only war, endless war. For more than 500 years, since the opening of the Dreamland, the dark elves had been fighting to destroy man and elf alike. Tenabrus was relentless in his hatred. Ashalon was gone by then, turned into a wasteland, but still the sorcerer king pressed his attack. Mankind had been driven to the brink of extinction, and the dwarves were retreating into the east. The elves still maintained strongholds in Arkirius, but they were failing.

  “Aedon united us—men, elves, and dwarves. We fought as one against Tenabrus and his armies, and what a long, bitter struggle it was. Aedon faced Tenabrus at the Battle of Midderan and, with Tiluren’s help, defeated him, although the sorcerer king’s body was taken from the field and never recovered.

  “Even then, the dark elves would not relent, even after the death of their dark lord. They rallied in the north and came on again. It came down to one battle, the battle at Arrom’s Rock. If we lost there we would lose everything.”

  “But you weren’t at Arrom’s Rock,” Blayde said. “You were here, in Kalridon.

  “I was.” Sir Veryan walked up the steps to the doors of the cathedral and pushed them open. Blayde followed him inside.

  “Aedon hoped to divide the dark elf army. Kalridon was a threat they could not ignore. Aedon gave me this city and asked me to hold it, knowing that it would mean my death.”

  “Why would you accept such a post?” Blayde asked.

  “Because I loved him and I knew he was right. Aedon Arturas never lost a battle, but he did lose a great many other things that were important to him, as did we all.”

  Sir Veryan made his way down the center of the cathedral, his footsteps loud in the stillness. Blayde looked around her. Tall glass windows rose up on either side of the chancel to a great arched ceiling overhead.

  “They came with a force of 10,000 orcs, 6,000 goblins, and 15,000 dark elves, an entire legion of them mounted on the backs of wyverns. We knew we could not win, but winning was never the point. We held out for more than a month, giving Aedon and his forces time to rally at Arrom’s Rock. We resisted them for 37 long days and even longer nights, with little rest, dwindling food supplies, and no hope of relief. But we held. We did our duty, knowing what it would cost us in the end.”

  Sir Veryan entered the nave, making his way past the wooden benches that lined the chamber to the chancel in the back. There stood the altar, the secret entrance to Sir Veryan’s tomb as Blayde had already discovered, and to the left of it was the font, a great stone basin filled with water. They appeared to be the same as in the current Church of Aedon, as if some of the cathedral had survived and the new church built around it. The base of the font was carved with runes, none of which meant anything to Blayde. The knight stood over it, looking down into the water for a moment, and then his gaze rose to meet hers.

  “What do you see?” Sir Veryan asked.

  “See?” Blayde furrowed her brow. She looked into the font, but all she saw was water. “I don’t see anything.”

  “That is because you’re not looking. Open your mind. Tell me what you see.”

  Blayde leaned against the edge of the font and gazed down into the water. She tried to do as the knight said, to clear her thoughts and really look. But she could see nothing.

  Then something did appear. The water rippled and darkened, and she was looking down on Nachtwald. Not Kalridon, not the city of her dream, but the real city as it was now. The city was in flames. Red tongues of fire ate hungrily at dry wood, turning it to charcoal and sending clouds of thick, cloying smoke up into the midnight sky. She stood in the middle of a street as men and women ran past. Orcs loped after them, falling on them like wolves among sheep. Anguished screams filled the night. Wailing mothers stood over the charred and mutilated bodies of their sons and daughters. There were goblins and orcs everywhere, their murderous eyes and cruel knives reflecting the orange glow of the burning buildings. Blood flowed in the gutters like wine spilled from a barrel.

  A shadow passed overhead, a great menacing shape. Something roared, a prehistoric cry that froze the heart and dulled the mind. There was a crash, a building collapsing or a gate being thrown down. And then the shadow, the huge winged thing fell from the sky and settled onto the castle wall, looking down on the destruction with baleful eyes. Somewhere nearby a bell tolled, a death knell that went on and on. Terror gripped her limbs and Blayde staggered back and would have fallen had Sir Veryan not grabbed her arm.

  “What was that?” Blayde shook off the feeling of dread with an effort.

  “That was a wyvern. The dark elves once bred them like pets and rode them into battle. They disappeared from the world, along with all
dragonkind. There hasn’t been one of the Drakontus in Arkirius for hundreds of years, until now.” The knight released her arm and stepped back, his eyes fixed on some distant point.

  “How is that possible?” Blayde asked.

  Sir Veryan did not look at her. “The world is changing and not for the better. The future is always uncertain and evil is restless. It never sleeps—not for long at any rate.”

  He turned to her, and his form began to glow, a warm radiance surrounding his figure. He laid a hand on her shoulder and she could feel the warmth of his touch. “Now it is your turn.”

  “My turn for what?” Blayde said.

  “To fulfill your destiny of course. The Golden Phial is in Nachtwald, even now. You must protect it, and you must protect the city and its people from the forces arrayed against her.”

  “The Golden Phial?” Blayde frowned. “I thought it was only a myth—”

  “It is very real, as real as I am. The Golden Phial contains the essence of Enu. It is a conduit of his power, his will, but it is no sword and cannot be wielded like one. The Phial appears only when Enu chooses. It helped Aedon once, at a time of great need. It may serve Nachtwald now, or it may not. Either way, it will take more than the Golden Phial to prevail against Nachtwald’s enemies.”

  Blayde rubbed at her temples, not quite knowing what to believe. It was madness and perhaps she was mad as well.

  “That is why you came, is it not?” Sir Veryan’s eyes held her in their fierce gaze.

  “I don’t know why I came,” Blayde said. “Not exactly. I only know what Arias taught me. She taught me to be a knight like you were, are, I mean. I want...” she hesitated. “I want to be a great knight, as great a knight as Sir Veryan Emrallt.”

  He smiled at that.

  “Kneel before me then and speak the words.”

  Blayde knelt, but she did not know what to say. She was unprepared and untutored for such an event. Weapons and war she knew, but ritual and ceremony were things she found difficult to fathom.

  “I don’t—” she began, but words failed her.

  “It matters not. I will ask and you will answer.” Sir Veryan straightened his back and squared his shoulders, looking as much like a king as any elf or man Blayde had ever seen.

  “Blaydocaldoren Filanderan, daughter of Draugminaion, Chieftain of the Rowanin, and Aelotharian Filanderan, the Rindaya, will you defend the poor and the helpless? Will you speak the truth, even under threat of death? Will you remain loyal to your lord and to your companions? Will you be brave and never avoid the dangerous path out of fear?”

  Blayde looked up at the knight’s face. “I will.”

  “Nearly 700 years ago,” Sir Veryan said, “I made the Knights of the Green Heron to protect our lord, Aedon Arturus, when still he was a man of flesh and blood. Once our order numbered in the thousands, and many who came after Aedon’s time served the emperor’s sons and their sons after them. But with the passage of years and the fracturing of the empire, the Knights of the Green Heron fell to war and time, until there were none of us left. New kingdoms emerged from the ashes of the old and the Knights of the Green Heron were forgotten, replaced by lesser men.

  “But the time has come for their return. You shall be the first of that new order.”

  Blayde glanced at the knight’s hip, where his sword should be, but the scabbard was empty. She knew enough to know that Sir Veryan was supposed to touch her on the shoulder with his sword as part of the ceremony.

  “Your sword,” Blayde said, “it’s gone.”

  “You have my sword, and I expect you to use it wisely. It’s not the sword that matters. It’s the promise you make and the conviction of your heart. Since we have no sword, these hands will have to do.”

  He laid his hands on her shoulders and the warmth of his touch filled her, so that she began to perspire from the heat of his presence and the warmth of the smile he favored her with.

  “Arise a knight,” he said.

  Blayde stood, facing Sir Veryan.

  “Are you prepared for what is to come?”

  “No one knows what is to come. But I will face it with courage and honor.”

  “Fair enough.” Sir Veryan drew back his hand and struck her hard across the face. The colée staggered her, but she kept her feet. Blayde straightened, her cheek stinging, and felt a faint wetness at the corner of her mouth.

  “So you will remember,” the knight said. “Go now, Sir Blayde, fair daughter of the Rowanin, and be a true knight, courageous in the face of your enemies, bold in war, and steadfast in your conviction, that Aedon should love thee and give you strength.”

  * * *

  Blayde woke. She opened her eyes and found Ren standing at the side of her bed watching with a curious expression on his face. The boy reached out a hand and wiped absently at a small trickle of blood that slid down Blayde’s cheek, his fingers coming away red. Blayde lifted her head, gazing about the small room. Sunlight streamed in through the open window and the air was fresh and smelled like summer. Rayzer was there, curled up beside her on the bed. As she stirred, her brother lifted his head, his eyes heavy with sleep. A smile crept across his face as he looked at her.

  “It’s about time you woke up,” he said. “What’s he doing here?” Rayzer added, seeing Ren standing beside them.

  “I don’t know,” Blayde said. She sat up and wiped the remaining blood from her lips with the back of her hand, marveling at it. Rayzer slid off the bed. He yawned and stretched, running a hand through his hair.

  “How long?” Blayde asked. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Nearly two days and a night. Ever since you picked up that thing.” Rayzer gestured at the sword.

  Blayde looked down and saw that she was still holding it in her hand. It was her sword now and she could feel the power thrumming through the blade. She could feel Sir Veryan’s presence in the room, almost as if he stood beside her. The sensation was eerie and more than a little disconcerting.

  “You’re bleeding,” Rayzer said, “You must have bitten your lip.”

  Blayde ran her tongue over her lips. “Never mind that.” She threw back the covers and swung her legs out onto the floor. There was a moment of dizziness, a sensation like the world was tilting to one side. Ren touched her arm, his fingers warm against her skin, and the feeling passed.

  “Where is your master?” Blayde asked as she rose to her feet. Ren shrugged and gave her a faint smile.

  Blayde laid the sword on the bed, clenching and unclenching her fingers. They were stiff from holding the sword’s grip. She looked down and realized that she was dressed in a cotton shift and nothing more. Her old leather armor and clothing were draped over a chair in the corner. She looked at them for a moment while deciding what to do, then picked up the sword again and turned to her brother.

  “There’s something I must do, and I’m going to need your help.”

  “I’m hungry,” Rayzer said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Later. First, we have to talk to Father Moram.”

  * * *

  Blayde left Father Moram’s house and crossed the small courtyard, ignoring the stares of curious townspeople as she entered the Blessed Church of Aedon. Father Moram was there, in the midst of a small army of acolytes. The chapel was abuzz with activity, with people running back and forth carrying bags and boxes. It looked as if they meant to abandon the church and flee to the castle before the siege began. Running is pointless, Blayde thought, there is nowhere they can hide that will be safe for long.

  “Good afternoon, Father,” Blayde said as she strode past, Rayzer and Ren both following in her wake.

  “Praised be Aedon’s name,” Father Moram’s eyes grew wide and astonished. “You’re awake.”

  “I am. More awake than I’ve been in a long while. It’s amazing what a couple days of sleep can do for you.” She went into the chancel and stood beside the altar, gazing down at the white stone. She remembered the voice that led her here in the nigh
t and the words she had said in her dream, kneeling before this very altar or one like it. She reached down and found the hidden lever beneath the lip of the stone. She pressed it and, with a grinding of stone, the altar slid sideways.

  “What are you doing?” Father Moram looked around, clearly discomfited. Then, to his acolytes, he said, “You all have things to do, have you not? Get on with it. I will deal with this. Take Ren with you. He needn’t be involved.”

  The acolytes collected their young charge, pulling him away. Ren, for his part, furrowed his brow at Father Moram as he was pulled from the chancel.

  “Sorry, Father,” Blayde said, “but I don’t have time for subtlety just now.”

  Father Moram frowned at her. “Sir Veryan’s presence here is a closely guarded secret known only to me and a few others. If Baron Cedric knew, he might—”

  “And the Golden Phial?” Blayde asked. She glanced up at the cup sitting atop the altar. “Is that it? Is that what the orcs are after?”

  “I cannot say what reasons the orcs have for attacking Nachtwald, but I am sworn to protect the Golden Phial and will do everything in my power to keep it safe.”

  “I’m sure you mean well, but the time for mysteries is at an end. It’s time for Sir Veryan to emerge from the shadows. It’s time for the Knights of the Green Heron to return.” Blayde went down the steps into the vault, Rayzer following close behind.

  “Wait,” Father Moram said. “Wait! What do you mean to do?” He hurried down the stairs, pausing just long enough to motion to two acolytes. The youths followed a moment later, bearing candles. Blayde ignored them. She marched past the rows of armored sentinels to the knight’s tomb where Sir Veryan’s armor kept silent vigil.

  Blayde ran a hand over the polished steel, admiring the detail and craftsmanship that went into its making. She laid aside the sword, and then pulled off the cotton shift, letting it fall to the floor. She stood naked beside the tomb, drawing open-mouthed stares from the two boys with their sputtering candles.