Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Messenger to see you, milord,” said Halan, a young brown-beard with broad shoulders and keen blue eyes.

  “Very well. You may take your leave,” said Sir Darion.

  When the guards were gone, the Dathiri soldier bent to one knee and gave him a deep bow. “I am most honored to meet your acquaintance, Sir Ulther.”

  “That’s enough of that. Rise, and speak.”

  The rider produced a roll of parchment, which he unfurled and began to read. “To the honorable Sir Darion Ulther, Champion of the Realms, Lord Protector of Orothwain, Goblin’s Bane of the Cloudspears, Dragonmaster of Kriia, Grand Ironbreaker of Korvane, Commodore of Blacktide Bay, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Yes, yes… get on with it.” Sir Darion waved an impatient hand, though he knew of only one man who might refer to him by those titles in particular. No, he told himself. That isn’t possible.

  No sooner had he finished the thought than the words fell from the messenger’s mouth like the answer to a prophecy. “Olyvard King of Dathrond, Son of Orynn King before him, requests your presence in his royal court at Castle Maergath.”

  “Castle Maergath?” Sir Darion laughed. “Whatever in all the realms for?”

  The messenger furled the scroll and spoke of his own accord. “A fleet of Korengadi warships sails for Shadewood Sound, milord.”

  “Fools. What do they expect they’ll do when they arrive—float through the Bogs of Desparr like mudflies on a corpse?”

  “That is why we believe they’re making landfall at the bogs—to make sure no one is waiting for them. They make for the Dathiri Ford, and, after that… Maergath. The king expects their arrival in a month or less.”

  “And he expects me to drop everything and rush north to stop them?”

  The messenger glanced around. “You wouldn’t be dropping much, by the look of it… if you don’t mind me saying so, milord.”

  “I do. And you’ll mind your tongue, lest you wish to return home without it.”

  “Apologies, milord.”

  “With what army does the king expect me to march so soon? Half my garrison is at the Greenkeep, fighting ogres for Lord Mirrowell.”

  “No army, milord. We haven’t the time for that. The king has requested that you come without your garrison, so as to travel more quickly.”

  “Hah,” Sir Darion scoffed. “What kind of call to war is that? Who’s to say I’d make it in time?”

  The man brightened. “Do I take that to mean you’ll come, milord?”

  “Take it however you like. I’ll not stop you.”

  “I must advise the king whether to expect you…”

  “Of course I’m not coming. The Korengadi would shamble from the swamps, stinking and fetid from a week’s hard marching, long before I’d arrive.”

  “It’s true there isn’t much time, milord… but Olyvard King said you’d find a way.”

  “Eh. I’ll find a way, alright. High time I found my way to the privy. Begone with you.” Sir Darion wobbled to a stand and started off toward the keep.

  “But, milord—”

  “Begone, I say. I’m done for knights and kingdoms and battles and evil lords. This is my home, and I intend to enjoy it without being subjected to such groveling. And if you must know, I’m bound for a different destination entirely. My wife and I make for Laerlocke in a week’s time. If it’s war you want, have Mrs. Lindell in the kitchens fetch you some of last winter’s fruit preserves. Your stomach will be warring with the rest of you from here to Eventide.” He chuckled.

  The messenger did not join him in his jest. “I’ll just leave this here, milord,” he said, setting the scroll on the table. “In case you change your mind.”

  “Leave it. Take it. Makes no matter to me, so long as I don’t see you here when I come back. My mind’s made up.”

  “As you will, milord. Shall I… tell Olyvard King you’ve refused his summons?”

  “Tell him I’m dead, if you must. Mayhap the young whelp will leave me be. Wait here; I’ll send the men out to fetch you in a moment.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  The messenger bowed low once more, remaining there for a long, awkward moment while Sir Darion trudged up the hill toward his keep.

  Darion was out of breath by the time he reached the postern gate and made his way into the high hall.

  “Who was that?” asked Lady Alynor, perched in her seat by the window, knitting.

  Sir Darion grunted, waving her question away as he passed.

  “The rider who was speaking with you,” she asked again. “His cloth was of Dathrond. Who was he?”

  “A pest.”

  “And what did he want, this pest?”

  Sir Darion turned, a rage flashing in his eyes. “Something I have neither the means nor the desire to give him. Now mark me, woman—you keep to your affairs, and I’ll keep to mine. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, my dearest.” She returned to her knitting.

  Darion looked at the floor, ashamed. “Forgive me, my lady. I’ve not been myself of late. There are things I haven’t yet come to understand about my station here. I’ll see you tonight for supper.” He left the hall and went to summon his guards without waiting for a reply.

  When they sat down to supper that night, Sir Darion was so lost in thought it took him several minutes to notice the roll of parchment beside Lady Alynor’s plate at the opposite end of the long table. He let out a groan and reached for his ale.

  “This is a summons from Olyvard King,” she said, picking it up. “Do you intend to ignore it?”

  Sir Darion slammed the horn onto the table before he’d taken a sip. “I most certainly do. Would you have me ride east at this hour? We leave for Laerlocke in short order, if you remember.”

  “This letter says war is coming to Dathrond and Berliac. Is this true?”

  He shrugged. “Olyvard King is no more a liar than his father was, which isn’t to say much of him. Even if it is true, it’s not my war to fight.”

  Lady Alynor nodded somberly. “If Olyvard King wishes to be like his father, he’ll learn to fight his own wars. Though I’d think his prospects the brighter for having you at his side.”

  “I fight at no one’s side, my lady. Those days are done.”

  “I see. Just as well then, I suppose.”

  The two ate in silence. The only sounds were the clinking of silver on the plates and the occasional thump of horns on the thick oiled planks of the long table. They shared not another word between them until much later that night, when they had retired to their bedchamber.

  Before she blew out her candle, Lady Alynor turned to him and said, “My dearest… I keep thinking about that letter. I’ve been trying to forget about it, but I can’t seem to.”

  Sir Darion rolled away from her. “Bah. I’ve done nothing but think of it since that fool messenger got off his horse.”

  “If you feel you must go to Dathrond, I would understand…”

  I’ve no doubt you would, he wanted to say. You’d probably enjoy having rid of me for a while. “This is my life now. I’ll come with you to Laerlocke. I needn’t answer a summons I don’t wish to, no matter which king or lord it is who’s summoned me. Isn’t that the whole point of fame and wealth? Leastwise, how much difference could I make? I am but one man, after all.”

  “A powerful man,” she said. “Wealth may grant you a reprieve from your duties, but fame seldom does. Goodnight, my dearest.”

  Lady Alynor blew out her candle, and the chamber went dark.

  Chapter 3

  Sir Darion was still snoring when Alynor slipped out of bed the next morning. She donned her morning dress and left the bedchamber, failing to disturb him from his slumber even when the door creaked heavily. She was tired. She’d lain awake for hours the night before, thinking about the scroll and the message it contained.

  At first she hadn’t intended to read the scroll for herself. Curiosity had gotten the best of her though, and she’d wanted to know how the messenger
had made her husband so irritable. She’d sent for the parchment after the guards came to escort their Dathiri visitor through the postern gate. She was glad she’d read it, though doing so had only served to anger Sir Darion. News of war in the east would’ve arrived sooner or later, but the urgency of the king’s message meant they likely knew before anyone in the surrounding townships—possibly even Laerlocke. If so, the news would make a choice conversation piece at the wedding.

  War had not come to the realms in some twenty years—not on any grand scale, leastwise. When the barbarous armies of the Galyrian Ogrelord had last attacked Orothwain’s southern shores, Darion had been the man to defeat them. Legend had it among the commoners that he had won a great victory at the mouth of Palemoon Bay, turning back the coming hordes with a powerful spell before they could invade a single city.

  Sir Darion had long been an ally of Olyvard King’s father, Orynn of Dathrond. Alynor was curious why he would ignore a summons that requested him by name, if indeed he had aided the Dathiri King in the past. Maybe he wants to go, but I’m keeping him from it, she thought. Perhaps I’ve put a burden on him by requesting his company at this wedding, when he would rather be fighting for his old friend’s kingdom.

  Lady Alynor breakfasted in the high hall. The message scroll was still lying where she’d left it, on the long table beside her place setting. She read it again. The list of titles after her husband’s name was sufficiently long to bore her to tears before she reached the meat of the message. Your presence at court is requested at once, for the good of the realms and all its peoples, read the letter’s closing. It was signed Olyvard King of Dathrond, with a signature in the king’s own hand.

  Uncertainty halted her. Darion appeared to have no interest at all in this summons, or the war to follow. But what if he was only being kind to her? Trying to do right by her instead of serving the realms? If the eastern kingdoms were truly in peril, surely he would want to be there. All it would take was for Dathrond to fall, and Orothwain would be next…

  She pushed the thought aside for a moment. No, I mustn’t entertain this idea any longer, she told herself. We’ve already committed ourselves elsewhere. But try as she might, she could not keep herself long from thinking about it. If she were honest with herself, this wedding was sure to be one of the most laborious ordeals she had ever endured. Another week of preparation, followed by weeks more of travel. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. They wouldn’t know true anguish until they arrived.

  There would be the obligatory whispers about Sir Darion; how far the great hero had fallen, and what a shame it was. In a moment of drunken impropriety, some unruly guest might let slip some insult, veiled or otherwise. Alynor had wanted so badly to impress everyone; to exude the image of perfection in every aspect of her wealth, marriage, and happiness. She’d spent the past month obsessing over every detail.

  The more she thought about it now, the more bland and meaningless it all sounded. This was not about improving her reputation; it was about parading the most famous man in a generation before a pack of hungry wolves desperate for a morsel of gossip. There’s nothing so tiresome as keeping up appearances for distant relatives who don’t matter, she admitted to herself. She was certain Sir Darion felt the same.

  I’ll speak with him as soon as he wakes, she decided. We’ll get to the bottom of his hesitations. Perhaps he’ll opt for Maergath instead.

  No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she was running away with it in a thousand different directions. Of course they would go to Maergath. She could parade her husband before a gaggle of wedding guests, but what better way to show them his valor than to ride with him to war? Shouldn’t the great hero be found where danger was thickest? And to have his lady wife by his side—what a grand statement that would make. Once Sir Darion had shown his prowess and seen the realms emerge victorious… Let the naysayers speak then, she thought. We’ll have the final word.

  By the time she’d finished breakfast, her mind was made up. Rather than ask her husband what he wanted, she would surprise him with the news. There was much to be done in the meantime, so she sent for Albur Appleby at once.

  Her excitement began to build with the anticipation of pleasing Sir Darion. Part of her wanted to please him more than anything, but so far she’d seen little success in that regard. This time would be different, she knew.

  When the keep’s castellan arrived, Lady Alynor explained the last-minute alterations with fervor, going so far as to expound upon her reasoning behind the decision. Appleby would more readily see the wisdom in it that way, she predicted.

  “Are you certain this is a good idea, my lady?” Appleby asked when she was done. A look of utter incredulity burdened the man’s long pink face.

  “Of course I’m certain, Master Appleby. Haven’t I been articulate?”

  Appleby scratched his slender nose and grimaced. “Most articulate, my lady.”

  “Well then, what’s all this reluctance about?”

  He made as if to say something, but thought better of it. “No reluctance, my lady. You mean to leave today, I presume?”

  “Yes, today. Ready my coach and teamster. We’ll need enough provisions to get us to Fenria Town. If you’ll arrange for the equipment and supplies, I’ll speak to Mrs. Lindell and see to the rations myself.”

  Albur cleared his throat. “If I may speak frankly, my lady…”

  “How else would you speak? Go on.”

  “The journey to Castle Maergath is a long one—and by the sounds of it, this is to be a hasty one. I doubt a coach is the best course, my lady. To Laerlocke along the Hightrade, a coach would do. But the way to Maergath crosses rivers and mountain ranges and forest roads. You and Sir Darion would both be better served on horseback.”

  Alynor was stunned. “Surely there are sufficient roads to carry us from here to Dathrond. Why else do they build roads, if not to be traveled by coach?”

  “There are roads, my lady. However, the only route passable by carriage requires a long diversion to the north, and I should think that far from the most expeditious.”

  Alynor considered this. She was out of practice on horseback and hadn’t kept up with her riding lately the way she’d intended to. Her heart was set on going though, and she wouldn’t let a simple thing like the lack of a carriage deter her. “Two horses, then, saddled and bridled for distance. I want my gelding Lana, and Sir Darion will want that foul-tempered black beast of his, I’m certain.”

  “As you will, my lady,” Albur said with a bow. “Will you require a retainer?”

  “The men are to stay behind,” she said. “No time to ready them now. Sir Darion and I will travel alone.”

  “Very well, my lady. Was there anything else?”

  “There is one other thing. My husband will want his best armor and a good sword along for the journey. We are going to war, after all. If you would be so kind as to open his armory for me, I shall choose the requisite items and have them carried down. No sense in delaying our departure on that account.”

  Albur gave her a knowing look. “I should remind you, my lady, that neither I nor any other servant in this keep possesses a key to your husband’s armory.”

  “Nonsense, Albur. This is no time for charades. I shall not be delayed—”

  “Lady Alynor,” he interrupted. “Apologies. I’ve not misled you, nor would I. You’ll have to confer with Sir Darion on the matter. If he’s to be armed and armored, it’ll be by his own volition… not yours or mine. It would be a wise course, since you mean to brave the wilds. One wouldn’t want to stumble over a dragon’s tail without a good sword at the ready. Dragons have always fascinated me, yet I’d hesitate before traveling through wild country where such a beast might be found. In any event, I am certain Sir Darion will bring what he needs.”

  I shall have to convince him of what he needs, Alynor decided, unsure she was capable of that. “I understand,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other arrangements to make.”<
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  “My lady.” Appleby bowed once more and took his leave.

  Her visit to the kitchens was a brief one. When she had apprised Mrs. Lindell that the lord and lady would take a light lunch on the road, but that they should also require three days’ rations for the trail, the cook gave Alynor her dirtiest look accompanied by her most cordial agreeance. On her way out, Alynor enjoyed her last smile at Mrs. Lindell’s expense for what was sure to be quite some time.

  Having decided to bring her needlework along on the journey, Alynor gathered her knitting from the high hall and gave it to Mina for packing. How ruffled Mr. Malchaeus will be when he arrives at week’s end bearing two dresses, only to see them sent to my wardrobe to languish for months, she thought with amusement. At least these socks won’t go for naught.

  Chapter 4

  Sir Darion rose late that morning, as was his custom. He stumbled to the window, where he made water into the courtyard far below. The morning sun covered him in its soft warm rays, and a servant unfortunate enough to have been passing by sent up a shout. Sir Darion yawned and gave himself a shake, then stepped into his morning clothes and trudged to the high hall to break his fast.

  The memory of last night’s dreams returned to him as he ate, glimpses of a man trapped in a high tower; of cruel, dark creatures swarming over the land like insects. He brushed the visions away in favor of hungry thoughts, shoving plump tarts and savory meats and buttered porridge down his gullet until he was so full he couldn’t eat another bite.

  What shall I do today? he wondered, lumbering down the hall toward the den. And where is my lady wife? Alynor was nowhere to be found in any of her usual morning haunts, so Darion made his way down to the inner ward. Paiten, the captain of his levy, was organizing the men for the day’s training.

  “Have you seen Lady Alynor this morning?” Darion asked.

  “Can’t say I have, milord. Have you tried the gardens?”

  “I shall,” said Sir Darion, smiling. He gave the men a cursory nod and took his leave. There were brash voices ahead as he turned the corner into the lower yard. Curious, he sidled up along the wall to listen.