Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  She smiled joylessly. “You forget… they say my husband is the greatest Warcaster in the realms.”

  “Was,” he corrected her.

  “A man who was once the greatest must have greatness in him still. Surely it would follow that such a man is capable of protecting his fair maiden from whatever dangers an adventure such as this one might contrive.”

  Sir Darion grunted. That would require having a fair maiden to protect, he thought, but dare not say. “I must needs warn you, my lady. This journey will be nothing like one of your foppish carriage rides on the Hightrade. I shall travel no road unless it falls along my path; I shall take no time to stop and rest during daylight hours. The way will bring me through mountain passes and deep forests, over wide rivers and across plains of high summer grass beneath the beating sun.”

  “My husband has a knack for poetry,” Alynor said with a smile.

  He frowned. “My only aim is to caution you that this will differ from your accustomed mode of travel.”

  “I understand,” she said, gesturing for Goam to hand her the reins to her gelding. She mounted and spurred the horse from its stall. “I’ll try to keep up.”

  She favored Darion with a sweet smile. Then, with a shout, she gave the reins a lick and bolted through the stable door.

  Darion watched her gallop through the bailey, where the guards had already raised the portcullis and lowered the drawbridge. “Goam, have this brought to my bedchamber,” he said, pointing to the near-empty sack at his feet. “And don’t dare look inside. I’ve warded it to turn the first person who does into a garter snake. Horses don’t like snakes. Hard for you to do your job that way.”

  “Milord,” Goam said, taking the bag hesitantly.

  Sir Darion made sure Kalo was calm before he mounted again. “Confound it, woman,” he muttered to himself as he watched his wife take off down the road. Yet even as he gave the stallion his heels and started after her, he couldn’t help but smile a little.

  Chapter 5

  Darion overtook Lady Alynor a league east of the castle. He was winded when he reined up alongside her, though her appearance was little better. She had slowed her gelding to a canter and was trying not to show her exhaustion, but he could see the perspiration soaking her hairline.

  “Are you mad, woman?” he gasped between breaths.

  “Not as mad as you look in that ridiculous costume, my dearest.”

  The way she was smiling made Darion want to ride on without her, despite his better judgment. “It isn’t a costume, it’s a—never mind that. It’s not safe out here for a woman alone. There are foul creatures in these wilds that would sooner eat you than look at you. If you’re to accompany me, let me do my part to protect you.”

  “Your chivalry is appreciated but unnecessary,” she said, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “I’m more than capable of surviving a jaunt through the countryside.”

  Are you now? he wanted to ask. Is that what this is? A jaunt? Alynor was always making comments like that—comments that made him feel useless to her, as if she only kept him around for vanity’s sake.

  They slowed to a trot and continued on together, heading east along the edge of the Breezewood toward Fenria Town. It would be another two days before they arrived, but this country was easy going; a broad and beautiful land shaped by hillocks and gentle slopes as far north as the eye could see. They rode all day and into the evening, keeping the trees to their right and the open fields to their left, before they made camp beside a small stream running through the wood.

  “I’m off to gather sticks for the fire,” Darion told her. “Stay here and set out the bedrolls for the night. Don’t you go wandering off while I’m gone. Yell if you need me. I’ll be close.”

  He heard Alynor mutter something under her breath, though he couldn’t have said what it was. She’ll give up on this ride soon enough, he told himself as he trudged into the forest. I’ll hire out a few of Lord Kerring’s men to escort her home from Fenria Town and that’ll be the end of it. I should never have allowed this folly in the first place, more the fool me.

  The Breezewood was lush with southern greenery, and Sir Darion didn’t have to wander far to find kindling aplenty. He’d only been gone a short while and his arms were nearly full when he heard his wife scream.

  He dropped the bundle of firewood and took off toward the camp with abandon, tripping and stumbling through the undergrowth in his cumbersome armor. His sword was half-drawn by the time he exploded through the treeline. He found Lady Alynor on her horse, sidling back from the edge of the forest, her face pale as a sheet.

  “What is it, Alynor? What’s wrong?”

  She was pointing toward the trees, where the bedrolls were spread side by side on the ground. “Spider,” she said. “I saw a spider. A huge one.”

  “Where? Where is it?”

  “There, by our things.”

  Darion scanned the treeline but saw no sign of a giant spider—or any other threat, for that matter. “Never fear, my lady. If there’s something out there, it won’t find its way past me.”

  “There it is,” she shrilled, pointing. “Look, there. Just beside you.”

  Darion backed off a few steps, sword at the ready.

  “No, not there. Down there.”

  He followed her aim and saw, with some measure of relief, the creature scuttling across her bedroll. It was indeed a spider, but one no larger than a man’s closed fist. He sheathed his blade and turned to her in disbelief. “That’s it? That’s what you’re up in arms about?”

  Lady Alynor was no less alarmed. “Don’t stand there like a fool, Darion. Kill it. Kill the thing.”

  Darion wanted to laugh, but her fear was so genuine he doubted she would see the humor in the situation. He knelt and scooped the spider into his gauntleted hands. It was a rather large spider by any account; not one you’d want sharing your bedroll. It might’ve startled him had it crept up when he wasn’t expecting it. “It’s alright, my love,” he said. “Come down and have a look at it up close.”

  She shook her head and stayed where she was.

  “So be it. I’ll bring this fellow where he belongs and gather the wood I left behind. Won’t be more than a moment.”

  “Don’t leave,” she begged him.

  “Alynor, the firewood is just there, a few paces through the treeline.”

  “Stay here. And for the gods’ sake, will you please kill that thing so I don’t have to worry about it crawling all over me while I sleep tonight?”

  “As you say. But you must allow me to retrieve the firewood, unless you’d prefer to sup on cold pork pies in complete darkness this evening.”

  She huffed. “Very well. Go on. But don’t be long.”

  Darion trudged into the woods and located the scattered bundle of sticks he’d dropped. He found a spot further on, where he knelt to set the spider on a bed of dry leaves. “There we are. You’re back home, now. No reason to be frightened of that scary woman out there. She frightens me sometimes, too.”

  The spider hurried off without reply.

  Darion returned to the camp and got a fire blazing in minutes. He eventually persuaded Lady Alynor to come sit beside him, but only after the smells of supper were ripe and beckoning to her. Darkness fell, and the forest awoke with nighttime sounds. They had just finished washing their pots in the stream and settled down with full bellies when Darion heard a rustling in the woods.

  Alynor’s head snapped to look. “What was that?”

  He shushed her. “Still, my lady. Quiet and still.” He produced the short hunting bow he’d brought from his armory, an item replete with aim-enhancing mage-song. He’d never been much of an archer, preferring bow to sword only when he was on the hunt. Elsewise, a weapon in the hand was quicker getting the job done.

  Darion plunged a handful of arrows into the soft earth and stood, pulling the first to his bowstring. The thicket rustled again. A shadow bounded into the clearing, skinny and quick. Darion drew an
d held. The creature stopped, lifting its head to reveal a stately crown of antlers.

  “It’s a deer,” Alynor whispered.

  “Yes I know. Hush up.”

  “Why don’t you shoot it?”

  “We’ve crossed into Lord Kerring’s lands, and I don’t think he’d appreciate us poaching game from his forests.”

  “Ah. Well of course you mustn’t, then.”

  “On second thought, maybe I’ll take the thing anyway. It’s not as if I can’t pay whatever fine he wishes to impose.”

  “Have it your way. But if he tosses you into his dungeons, I can’t promise I’ll be able to get you out.”

  “He’ll toss you in with me. You’re an accomplice to the crime.”

  “Then for the gods’ sake, don’t shoot it.”

  Darion felt the arrow’s fletching brush against his cheek. He lined up a spell and hummed the tones discreetly to himself. It came out wrong, though, and the spell fizzled. I’ll have to take this shot without magic, he decided.

  He set his sights and loosed.

  The deer spooked and bolted off across the fields.

  The shot went wide.

  By the time he’d notched his second arrow, the animal was gone, vanished into darkness.

  Beside him, Alynor expressed her umbrage with a snort. “Why did you do that? I told you not to.”

  “It slipped,” he lied.

  “It’s a good thing you’re an ill shot. This Olyvard King will refuse your aid altogether if he hears you’ve turned outlaw.”

  I could’ve done with such a refusal to begin with, Darion reflected. The spell he’d tried to cast would’ve let him take the deer. Maybe it was best he hadn’t.

  He returned his arrows to their quiver and settled down for the night, he in his bedroll and she in hers. The night was clear and cool, and when the fire burned low the sky swelled with stars behind a waxing half-moon.

  “Tell me something, my dearest,” Lady Alynor said beside him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Anything. Whatever it is you’d like to tell me. I should enjoy hearing one of your stories.”

  “I’ve told you I don’t like stories.”

  “Yes, I know. But I do. And you have many to tell, if the rumors are true.”

  Many I could tell. Few I will, he thought. “Rumors are seldom worth the time required to hear them.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Why must you be so taciturn? I know so little of who you are. That armory of yours is only a small piece of it. You’ve got an entire past about which I’ve heard only whispers. It’s startling, really. Startling and rather upsetting, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  When have you ever let my minding dissuade you from your saying? he might’ve asked. “You want a story? Alright, then. I’ll tell you a story. I was born the middle child of five boys in a village near Linderton, at the mouth of Blacktide Bay. My father was a glass merchant; my family was well-to-do, as commoners go. I still remember the way he looked at me when thieves broke into our home and slit his throat in broad daylight. I was eight, and the only one home at the time to see it happen. Were it not for the town guard, the thieves would’ve done for my mother and me as well. Instead they only had time to savage her and force me to watch before they ran off. There were four of them. Torrel Partridge, Marko Sylar, Aren Lofield, and Faigan Breakwater.”

  “You knew the thieves by name?” Alynor interrupted.

  “Not at the time. Years later, when I became a Warcaster, I tracked them down one by one at great personal expense. I caught and tortured each of them. The first one lasted a few hours. The next two lasted more than a day. One, I kept alive for nearly a week. In the end I slit each man’s throat to be sure he was gone for good. When I told my mother, she cried and called me a fool. She said unless I had found a spell that would bring my father back from beyond the grave, I’d wasted my time. She hanged herself from a rafter in her neighbor’s barn the next evening. Needless to say, I spent years searching for just such a spell, knowing full well that none existed. So yes, the rumors are true, my lady. I have many stories to tell. If you’re looking for one with a happy ending, perhaps you should ask someone else. Goodnight, Alynor.”

  The following day passed without incident. The weather was warm and bright, and they made good time as they rounded the northern border of the Breezewood. Lady Alynor made no mention of their exchange the previous night until they were lying in their bedrolls with the fire burning low. Darion was half-asleep when he heard his wife’s soft voice whispering his name.

  “Yes, Alynor. What is it?” he replied.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you. To your family. It’s terrible.”

  “I don’t need your sympathy,” he said. “I only told you the story to make you to see that some things are better left alone. My past is one of them.”

  “I understand if the memories are too painful. I would never see you put yourself through such pain. But I still want to know your story, Darion. I still want to know you. I don’t care about happy endings. I wouldn’t expect everything to be sunshine and roses. I am your wife, Darion. Regardless of how or why we were thrown together, perhaps we ought to be more than acquaintances who share a table and a bed. The rest of our lives are going to be intolerably dull otherwise. And I’d like you to know that if we should come to love one another in time, then for me, it will be despite anything in your past, and anything that may happen in our future.” She paused. “That’s all I wanted to say. Sleep well.”

  He lay thinking. He began to prepare a response, but nothing he could think to say felt right. Moments like these were rare, but they made him realize how little he knew of his wife. Her past was less a mystery to him given her penchant for reminiscence, yet he suspected Alynor had only scratched the surface.

  She had been a natural match for him, the daughter of Hallard Mirrowell, one of Orothwain’s most prestigious lords. Sir Darion’s alliance with Lord Mirrowell was one of obligation, as had been his marriage to Alynor. He did care for her. Though if he were honest with himself, he felt more appreciation than attraction, in the way a rare animal trader admires the prized specimen behind the bars of his cage. The duties of husband to wife, and vice versa, were where their relations ended. Perhaps it was time to change that.

  Darion propped himself on his elbows. “Alynor?”

  “Yes, my dearest?”

  “If you want to know the stories of my life, I’ll tell you.”

  In the red shadow of the waning embers, Darion could see the sleepy smile on Alynor’s face. “I’m so glad,” she whispered. He thought he saw the brief glint of a tear, but she rolled over before he could be sure.

  “I’ll start tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll tell you a new story each night, for as long as you’re with me.”

  She lifted her head. “As long as I’m with you?”

  I shouldn’t have said it that way, he reflected. She would be hurt to know I doubt her resolve. “I meant each night until we arrive at Castle Maergath,” he corrected himself.

  A look of uncertainty passed over her face. “Very well. Why not start tonight?”

  “Because tonight, it is your turn. Tell me a story, my lady.”

  Chapter 6

  Alynor learned quickly that she was in no condition for the road. She had awoken sore each morning, stiff from sleeping on the ground instead of the feather bed she was used to. She ended each day’s travel exhausted and sweaty. The last thing she wanted to do after a day’s hard ride was hobble the horses, or gather firewood, or make camp, or cook. She had never cooked for herself a day in her life, so she’d left that part up to Darion. Perhaps we should’ve brought a manservant, she often thought with regret, though I suppose we could hire one in Fenria Town. There were fresh blisters on her hands and feet every night when she removed her riding gloves and boots, until even her blisters had blisters.

  She nev
er complained. She never spoke a downcast word to inform Sir Darion of her discomfort. The moment she broke stride with her husband would be the one in which she proved him right—proved she wasn’t cut out for this trip. If she gave up now and returned home, she wouldn’t see Darion for months. Years, if the war lasted that long. For all she knew, he might never come back. Then she would never get to hear his stories. She would never come to know the man he had been. Perhaps an equally frightening thought was that he would never know the secret she’d yet to tell him.

  They joined the Breezewood Road in late afternoon on their third day out from Keep Ulther, turning northeast to escape the summer heat for traces of shade along its forested paths. Soon they saw smoke rising from distant chimneys and could make out the telltale scents of early suppers being cooked. Alynor could hardly wait to arrive, so ready was she for a hearty meal, a hot bath and a soft mattress.

  Fenria Town was nestled in the convergence of forest, field and mountain, its buildings a jumble of gray cliffstone and thatched roofs. Alynor had always found it a quaint little town, though the intervening Breakspires made it a challenging destination from her childhood home. She was studying glimpses of the town through the trees when she detected movement from the corner of her eye.

  In the forest to her right, a ways off, there were figures scurrying through the underbrush. They were short and dressed in ragged clothing. Armor glinted where sunlight spotted through the forest canopy. Alynor got Darion’s attention and pointed. He reined up and watched them for a moment.

  “It’s naught but a band of goblins on the hunt,” he said, as if reporting on the weather. “Bringing home a fresh kill, by the look of it.”

  Alynor drew the knife from her belt. “Say the word, and I’ll run for it.”

  Darion looked at her strangely. “Run? Whatever for?”

  She couldn’t believe his apathy. First the spider, and now this. Goblins were dangerous. Didn’t he know that? “Will you not cast a spell on them? Or ride them down and hack them to bits?”