A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for finding me and bringing me out of the darkness. I—” he hesitated. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t quite know what to do.”

  “Fight on,” Sir Jon said. “What else can we do?”

  Father Moram rose to his feet, picking up his hammer and rearranging his robes, which were still covered in Sir Henri’s blood.

  “Father, I don’t understand—” Blayde said.

  “Not now,” Father Moram’s voice was weary and full of concern. “We will not speak of this here.” The priest looked up at his two young acolytes, his face stern. “Take him back to the keep and wait for me there. It is not safe—”

  “They’re coming!” A warning shout rang out from lookouts along the wall and was echoed by other watchers in the towers above. A thunderous blow struck the river gate and men rushed to brace it. At the same moment, something large struck the main gate, sending a tremor along the wall.

  “They’ve moved the catapults into the city!” a soldier shouted down at them. “They’re using them to assail the gate.”

  A violent shriek cut the air like a knife and the wyvern appeared above them, its unearthly wail sending a thrill of fear through all who heard it. The great shadow swept over their heads, coming in low and knocking men from the parapet. All along the wall men dropped their weapons and fell onto their faces to avoid the raking claws of the beast.

  “Go now.” Father Moram laid a hand on Ren’s shoulder. “Please go with them. It’s not safe for you here, and there are others who will need your help before all is through. We will see each other soon, and then—”

  A howl rose from beyond the wall, and Blayde could see the few remaining archers, frightened and disorganized, scrabbling for arrows. The wyvern swept past the armory tower, then banked to the left and came around again. Only this time it did not disappear into the darkness, but fell, with the weight of dread, into the midst of the barbican.

  The earth trembled as the huge winged form landed in their midst, its taloned feet tearing up the ground. The beast was big as a ceratu with monstrous, bat-like wings and a long tail, tipped with a dagger-like sting, that flicked back and forth like a cat’s. Its head was like that of a dragon, with massive jaws that looked as if they could snap a man in two. The defenders on the ground fell back, scrambling to get away from it as the wyvern wheeled and snapped its jaws. Durog sat upon the wyvern’s back, tall and menacing in his black armor, the great two-handed sword in his hands, laughing with sadistic pleasure.

  * * *

  “Your arrogance will be your downfall!” Durog roared, reveling in the terror and mayhem the wyvern inspired. “You think you can hide from me? You are rats in a cage, scurrying from one place to the next, but there is nowhere you can run that I cannot find you.”

  The wyvern’s long tail whipped about, catching several men-at-arms and sending them flying. The defenders pulled back farther, scrambling to get away as Durog urged the monster forward.

  “Come now, who will be the first to die?” Durog felt drunk, intoxicated by his enemy’s fear. “My mount needs feeding.”

  Outside the walls his orcs and goblins were attacking both the castle’s main gate and the postern gate above the river, a unified assault that these meager forces could not withstand for long. It was all too easy. Durog examined the interior of the barbican. A single gate led from it into the outer ward, guarded by a portcullis. It would not hold for long against a determined attack. He spotted a young boy and two acolytes as they disappeared through the opening, followed by a handful of terrified townsfolk, fleeing the wyvern. Durog felt a momentary sense of fear that he could not explain. The feeling was unsettling and more than a little unexpected and was followed by a cold rage.

  “Give me the Golden Phial,” Durog growled. “Give it to me now, and I promise you all a swift death!”

  “Keep your false promises to yourself!” Father Moram shouted. “It is you who is in danger here, foul emissary of an obscene race. Aedon protects this place, and you will never possess anything of his!” The priest strode forward, the haft of his hammer gripped in both hands.

  Durog threw back his head and laughed. It was a chilling sound, guttural and mirthless. “You are either very brave,” Durog chided, “or the biggest fool ever, but either way you will soon be dead and forgotten.”

  Father Moram took another step and lifted the hammer above his head. Lightning arced from the square head, dancing along the ground, and lashed at the wyvern. It reared up, startled, and beat its wings, sending up a cloud of dust and debris, a sudden hurricane that blinded the defenders. Durog clung to the saddle, casting a string of profanities at the wretched priest.

  “Be gone, demon!” Father Moram shouted.

  With an effort Durog got the wyvern under control again. It wheeled and the beast’s tail came around. The sting at the end plunged like a spear into Father Moram’s belly. The priest gave a short cry of pain as he was lifted off the ground. He hung there for a moment, impaled on the wyvern’s spike, writhing in agony, and then, with a flick of its tail the wyvern tossed the priest against the barbican wall.

  The wood elf, the one called Blayde, ran to the priest’s side, but Father Moram had his hands over the wound and a golden light pulsed beneath his palms. A healing spell, damn the man, why couldn’t he just lie down and die like any other?

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” Father Moram croaked in a mocking voice, climbing to his feet and retrieving his hammer. He spat a gob of blood and phlegm onto the dirt.

  Durog’s face twisted in rage. He gnashed his fangs and urged the wyvern forward. “Let’s see how well your spells work when my wyvern cuts you in two and devours your putrid flesh.”

  Before Durog could close the distance, however, the three Briar Knights leapt in front of him, their swords flashing, armor bright in the torchlight. The red-haired knight, in bloodied tabard and torn hauberk, stabbed at the wyvern’s great head, while his companions slashed at the long serpentine neck. The wyvern fell back, twisting, and beating its wings to maintain its balance, while Durog roared from his precarious seat on its back. If he could just get close enough, he would dispatch the troublesome knights with his own hands. His sword had yet to be blooded and what better necks to cleave than these three.

  A sudden blur of movement caught the warlord’s attention. He half turned in his saddle to see the other wood elf, the mad one called Rayzer, as he sprang at the wyvern. The Yattiar leapt onto the wyvern’s back and Durog was momentarily taken aback by the sheer audacity of the attack. He brought up the great two-handed sword in a desperate parry, barely in time to save his head. Steel rang on steel—once, twice, three times as Rayzer danced across the wyvern’s scaly hide. The wood elf growled like an animal, moving with an inhuman quickness and attacking with uncommon savagery. What a specimen he was. It was almost a shame to have to kill him.

  The Yattiar’s eyes flickered across Durog’s neck and for the first time since he had placed it there Durog thought of the talisman he wore, the small wyvern carved from soapstone, that gave him control over his mount. The wood elf discarded one of his swords and reached for it. Durog pulled back, catching the wood elf’s wrist and twisting. At the same moment he dug his heels into the wyvern’s sides and pulled back on the reins. The wyvern’s great wings beat the air. Rayzer wrenched his hand free, falling backward, sliding down the wyvern’s side and disappearing beneath its wing as the great beast took to the air once more.

  “Flee while you can, little rats,” Durog shouted. “Your end will come soon enough.”

  * * *

  Rayzer hit the ground and rolled, coming up on his feet in a fighting stance as the wyvern rose above him, once more out of reach. Rayzer snatched up his fallen sword and stalked toward Blayde, slashing the air in frustration. “I almost had it!” he snarled, grinding his teeth.

  Blayde was beside Father Moram. The priest’s robes were in tatters, his pale skin showing an angry red line where the
wyvern’s spike had pierced his flesh. Father Moram looked more than a little unsteady on his feet. He leaned on the haft of his hammer, breathing hard.

  “It’s amazing you’re still alive,” Blayde said.

  “I may not have been able to heal Henri, but this wound was not so great. Aedon has not abandoned me yet.”

  “That may be so, but do me a favor and don’t try that little stunt again. If that spike had gone through your heart instead of your belly we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  “Now then,” Blayde turned to her brother, “what are you on about?”

  “The talisman carved in the wyvern’s likeness. I nearly had it...”

  Screams and shouts rang out from the direction of the river gate. As Blayde turned she saw one of the archers pitch from the walkway to fall dead on the yard below, his head cloven in two by an axe. Orcs were coming over the top of wall. The river gate was in shambles and, as she moved to intervene, she saw it burst inward. A sea of snarling faces rushed in through the breach, their swords and axes cutting down the defenders who fought to hold them back.

  “It’s no use, you fools!” Sir Jon shouted. “Fall back! Everyone fall back to the outer ward. Now!”

  Blayde and Rayzer each grabbed Father Moram by an arm and pulled him toward the open portcullis. A stream of soldiers and townsmen raced for the safety of the outer ward while the Briar Knights shouted and waved their swords, shepherding the stragglers through. Orcs and goblins poured into the barbican, an angry mob of savage faces and wild eyes.

  As the last of Nachtwald’s defenders abandoned the barbican, the portcullis dropped into place with a metallic clang. Several orcs managed to squeeze through at the last moment, but Rayzer and Blayde cut them down before they had taken three steps. Other orcs and goblins pressed up against the outside of the portcullis, hammering at the heavy iron with swords and axes.

  “Damn them all to the Isod,” Sir Henri shouted. He tore the remains of his tabard from his shoulders, then pulled the remnants of his rent hauberk over his head and dashed it to the ground. Half naked, his chest heaving, he regaled the orcs with a string of colorful curses.

  “He seems much better,” Rayzer said.

  “That brief glimpse at what lies beyond death’s door seems to have rejuvenated him in more ways than one,” Blayde said. “The old Henri was not nearly so animated.”

  Sir Ducar came up next to them as the wyvern’s great shadow passed overhead once more, a deeper darkness against the velvet sky. “That gate won’t hold them out for long.”

  “I agree,” Blayde said. “We should pull back now, to the inner ward. Two swords alone could hold that bridge, and the gate house of the inner ward is far stronger and easier to defend.”

  “Once we’re inside, there is nowhere left to run,” Sir Jon said. Blayde turned to see the knight standing behind her, watching the orcs and goblins at the portcullis with his glacial eyes, his all too familiar frown back in place.

  “No, there isn’t,” Blayde said. “If we lose the inner ward, we lose everything.” She again felt the thrum of power running through the sword and a surge of anger that did not come from her, but from the raging spirit of Sir Veryan Emrallt.

  “There we will make our last stand, before the doors of the great hall of Nachtwald. There our fate will be decided.” She looked at each of them in turn, at the determined faces and hard visages that surrounded her.

  “It was always going to come down to this. We have done all we can to postpone the inevitable, but it has finally come. This ground is all we have left and, though the odds be against us, we will ultimately prevail. I know it in my heart.”

  “I wish I felt as you do,” Sir Ducar said, “but, regardless, I see no other option.”

  “Lead on then, woman.” Blayde was surprised to hear Sir Jon’s voice devoid of its usual mocking tone. “We’ve had our differences, true, but let’s see if we can at least die together without a squabble.”

  “I’ll make the effort if you will,” Blayde said, “and for the love of all the gods, old and new, can we find something to cover Sir Henri? His skin’s so pale, he’s like a beacon in the darkness.”

  “Come,” Father Moram said, adjusting his robes, “I think I can find some livery that will suit him. Then there is something important I must do before the end comes.”

  Blayde nodded, but did not ask the priest any more questions. Together, she, Rayzer, and the Briar Knights rallied all that remained of Nachtwald’s forces, pulling them back across the drawbridge into the inner ward. The bridge was raised and the gates closed with an ominous sound like the fall of a hammer onto stone.

  Chapter 27

  Finn stared at the sorceress. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he never thought she would be so... alluring. She looked at him, curious, wondering what he would do. Finn was wondering that himself. Killing orcs and goblins was one thing, but attacking this woman seemed unthinkable. Still, she was trying to kill them and worse. He looked up at the villagers, hanging over his head, their corpses swaying gently. It was obvious she had killed a great many people already. How could he possibly think of her as anything but evil?

  Finn tried to lift his arms, tried to move forward, to rush at her and stab his dagger into her throat, but his muscles would not respond. As he watched, Jankayla reached up and undid the clasp that held her garment in place, letting it slide to the floor. She stood naked before him, save for a large gemstone that hung from a leather thong about her neck. Finn’s mouth went dry and he was consumed by a lust more potent than anything he had ever felt. He longed to touch that pale skin, to taste those dark lips. The sorceress half turned, still watching him over her shoulder, revealing the tattoo that covered her back, a dark demonic shape drawn in black ink. To Finn’s horror and amazement, the tattoo began to writhe as if it were alive. It slithered over her skin, detaching from her flesh as it took to the air, a living shadow.

  The shadow flew at Finn, a huge, dark bird, thin as a razor but broad as an eagle. Finn dropped to the floor and the shadow swept past him. It turned and flew toward the center of the circle, then plunged into the pale orb. Almost instantly dark veins spread across the surface of the orb. It darkened, turning black as coal. The stones trembled beneath their feet.

  Finn blinked his eyes, trying to shake off the shock of what he had just seen. He took a breath, mastering his emotions and cursing himself for a fool, and then sprang to his feet. He let out an angry cry and leapt at the sorceress, dagger raised. She stopped him with a raised palm. An invisible force gripped his body, clasped him in an unseen fist that crushed the breath out of him and left him gasping. The sorceress gestured and Finn felt himself being dragged across the floor, the toes of his boots skidding over the rough stone until he was within her reach. She looked at him, smiling, a predatory look, as if she intended to devour him whole. Her face was only inches from his, her dark eyes promising pleasures beyond imagining. Her naked skin was as smooth as porcelain, her small round breasts inviting. She leaned down, close, as if to kiss him, and licked the blood from his lips. The sensation sent a thrill through his body, and the ache in his loins was like a hot knife.

  “You could join us.” The sorceress’s eyes betrayed mild interest. “There is a darkness in your soul. I see it. I taste it in your blood. You’re not like the others. You are tainted.”

  Finn blinked. He stared at her, confused. What was she saying? “I don’t understand you. I am the son of a noble house, heir to a kingdom. I... I am...” He hesitated, unsure of what to say. He was what? Good? Noble? Brave? He was none of those things, at least not in his own mind. He wasn’t even sure what those words meant anymore.

  The sorceress considered him a moment longer. Finn looked down at the shard of volcanic glass that she held in her hand. Jankayla took a small breath and let it out quickly, her interest fading and a look of irritation replacing it.

  “You are nothing and deserve to die along with all the rest.” She flicked her wrist and Fi
nn was thrown through the air. He sailed off the edge of the dais and struck the floor below. His head cracked against the stone and a flash of white light exploded behind his eyes. Then the darkness overtook him and he knew no more.

  * * *

  The weird shadow swept past him in a blur of motion and a moment later Loth saw it descend, disappearing into the orb at the center of the circle. The floor trembled and he staggered. Grisnal took advantage of the moment, sending an emerald bolt hurtling toward Loth. The elf sprang to one side, narrowly avoiding it.

  “You can’t win,” Grisnal said. “My mistress is too powerful. She will destroy you all.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Loth said. He darted in close, swinging his sword. The blade rebounded off a pale sheen of ruby-colored light as the wizard employed his shield spell once more. Urgency drove him and Loth pounded the invisible barrier with gut-wrenching blows, driving Grisnal closer to the edge of the circle and the doorway to the abyss that was now opening at its center. Every stroke of Loth’s blade rebounded with a bright flash, the wizard beneath wincing from the contact.

  Rage welled up inside Loth. Ignoring the fatigue that gripped his limbs, he redoubled his efforts, pouring all his strength into the hammering blows. The air sizzled and there was an audible pop as the sheen of ruby light was suddenly snuffed out like a candle. The sword slashed the fabric of the wizard’s robe, but missed the flesh beneath it. Loth staggered and nearly fell. The poison in his veins was no longer lethal, but the sickness and nausea it caused could not be completely ignored.

  Loth retreated a few steps, breathing hard. A sudden movement caught his attention and he half turned to see Finn strike the floor at the base of the dais. The boy lay as one dead. Loth’s eyes flashed toward the sorceress who was pulling on her robes once more, returning to her ritual, the eerie chant beginning anew. He had to finish this quick. He had to get to her, had to stop her before it was too late.