Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Knighthood is not easy,” Sir Jalleth was saying now. “Being a caster is even harder. I would understand if you don’t feel you’re cut out for one or the other.”

  Darion blew the hair out of his eyes. His mother had never let more than a few months pass without taking a shears to his head. Since he’d left home to become Sir Jalleth’s squire, the old knight had never said a word about it. “I’m cut out for both, and more,” the boy said.

  “Good. Then show me.”

  Darion began chanting the sigils, imagining each one in turn. Malm in the second tone; a right-handed crescent with two pins through its thickest side. Kresna in the fifth tone; the top two sides of an inverted pyramid overlapping two quarter-circles joined at the bottom. Cargh in the seventh tone; four vertical lines with a curved side-slash through the middle.

  The boy had never cast this spell before. He had never cast any spell with the potential to harm another living creature before. Years later, he would remember this as the first time he had ever killed anything. He would learn to recite these sigils and speak their tones in a fraction of the time it was taking him now. He would use spells much like this one to kill time and again.

  Frijk in the first tone; a four-pointed star intersected by two diagonal lines in the upper left quadrant and one in the lower right. It was the last sigil. He lifted his hand to take the mage-song blooming at the edge of his grasp. It was there; it was his.

  He found his target, and he awakened magic into the world.

  ***

  Steel rang through the foothills as Darion’s sword clashed with Kestrel’s. The minstrel made a midriff cut with his second blade. Darion stepped aside, and the blade’s tip scraped across the plackart at his waist. He flicked his longsword about and backed off a step to give himself more room. Kestrel advanced without hesitation, striking and stabbing with both short swords as Darion waded backward through the tall grass, knocking away each blow as it came.

  Kestrel danced dexterously in the late afternoon sunlight while Darion lumbered beneath the weight of his armor, a detriment Sir Jalleth had taught him to use as an advantage. So long as you know your points of weakness, you needn’t mind the rest, the old knight had told him. Nothing can touch a man in good plate, save a well-placed blade or the forces of magic. Therefore you must guard yourself against the mage-song the same as you guard the weak points in your armor.

  Lady Alynor sat on a hillock a short distance away. From the corner of his eye, Darion could see her hands worrying over the hem of her dress. She hated watching him fight, even if it was only sparring. She could never stand to look when the garrison at Keep Ulther was training at swordplay. She would watch the archers practice at their targets, even clapping whenever they hit a good bullseye. But two men hacking at each other made her anxious.

  “Your lady wife likes the way I move,” Kestrel said softly amidst his dance.

  “She won’t like watching me free your swollen head from your shoulders, but I’ll not let that stop me,” Darion taunted back.

  Kestrel drove his sword straight at Darion’s gut, where it struck the armor and glanced away. “You’re too slow, old man,” he said. “If not for your armor, you’d be dead.”

  “If not for a thousand gold pieces,” Darion said between breaths, “you’d be rich.”

  Their swords crossed with a clangor. Darion shoved Kestrel’s blade away and punched him in the shoulder with a gauntleted fist, hard enough to throw him off balance. Kestrel stumbled backward, giving Darion an opening to go on the attack. His longsword was swift and light, but it was also large, and he swung it with such force Kestrel had to do more dodging than parrying to keep himself whole.

  Soon Darion was making wide slashes with both hands, side cuts and overhand chops and upward thrusts that left Kestrel lurching and swaying to escape him. The singer raised one of his short swords to defend himself. Darion turned the blade and gave it a flick to send it flying end over end into the grass.

  “Yield,” Kestrel shouted. “I yield.” He dropped his other sword and lifted his hands.

  Darion sheathed Bloodcaller and removed his helm. “You fight like you sing,” he said. “Poorly.”

  “The mage-song thinks I sing well enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I ought to find my sword before it gets dark.” Kestrel sheathed the blade at his feet and began sifting through the tall grasses as if they were hairs on a jötun’s head.

  It had been the singer’s idea to fight without spells. Darion wasn’t sure whether these sparring matches of theirs would’ve been easier or harder with the mage-song at his disposal. He had been rehearsing his tones and sigils every chance he got since Rivermont, spending long hours reviewing the books and scrolls he’d stowed in his bags. Sigils long-unused were slowly coming back to him, as were the sequences he had once practiced week after week. It was harder now to recall them as quickly as he once had. Magic is not a boon for the old, Sir Jalleth had often told him. It is a tool for the young, whose minds may be sharpened to its forms. An old man forgets much, and the mage-song requires a great deal of remembering.

  Darion trudged over and, with a grunt, eased himself to a seat on the grassy hillock beside Lady Alynor. He had a good idea where Kestrel’s sword had landed, but he was content to watch him search for it.

  “Aren’t you going to help him?” Alynor asked.

  “Do I look like I’m going to help him? He’s a grown man… though some might disagree.”

  “His sword is right over there,” she said. “He’s looking too close to where he was standing.”

  “He underestimates my strength,” Darion said with a chuckle.

  Alynor waved to get Kestrel’s attention so she could point out the location to him, but Darion lifted a hand to stop her. “Leave him. Allow me some small measure of enjoyment.”

  “Why do you bully him so?”

  “The fellow does not wish to be coddled, I assure you. Besides, it was him who issued the challenge to start with. He yielded, fair and proper. Now he’ll pay the price… small though it may be.”

  She gave a grunt and folded her arms.

  “Here we are. Found it,” Kestrel yelled a minute later. “No need to worry.”

  “I wasn’t,” Darion muttered.

  “Shall we make for Vale?” asked the singer as he came toward them. “If we hurry, we’ll arrive before they close the gates.”

  “Yes, let’s,” said Alynor, standing.

  Darion reached for her hand. “Help me up, will you, my lady?”

  “You’re the one who sat down in a full suit of armor,” she said smartly. “Now you’ll pay the price… small though it may be.” She turned and strolled toward the horses, swinging her hips more than usual.

  “What was that all about?” Kestrel asked.

  “Buggered if I know,” Darion muttered. “Say, give me a ha—”

  Kestrel headed toward the horses as if unhearing. He and Alynor were both mounted by the time Darion got to his feet and came over.

  “What’s the delay?” Kestrel complained, giving his reins a flick. “We should hurry if we’re to make it in time.”

  “Indeed we should,” said Alynor, starting after him.

  Darion mounted Kalo and followed them, grumbling all the way.

  Vale was a city girded for war. Located at the only significant break in the Red Range Mountains between the Breakspire Fork and the head of the Seasight River, the city stood sentry over the border between Orothwain and Dathrond. Through the centuries it had remained a key strategic point and a linchpin of near-constant conflict. Its smooth whitestone walls towered above Grimlir Pass, a mirrored pair of gentle ovular curves bordering the river on one side and the distant valley floor on the other. A massive waterfall tumbled from the cliffs beyond the western battlement to form the head of the Greenshore’s largest tributary.

  The plains south of Vale had a fresh, airy smell to them—one which Darion had always loved. The unimpeded valley winds carried with them the scent of
sweet grass and wildflowers, a perpetual cleanser for the grime and horse-stink within the city walls. He inhaled one last time before they rode through the looming south gates and into the city proper.

  The interior walls, sheltered from the wind, were of rougher stone. Orothi guardsmen patrolled the cobbled streets in knee-length tabards of Deepsail blue, the embodiment of Orothwain’s longstanding control over the city. Darion saw checkered Dathiri soldiers pass from time to time, but their purpose in Vale was always something other than policing its thoroughfares. A few times he saw Dathiri chatting casually with Orothi, but by and large the soldiers of the two kingdoms kept their distance from one another. Peace between the five realms was not without its tensions.

  They found a pair of rooms at the Jarl’s Jötun, a stone edifice built into the face of Vale’s northern wall. Many such structures adorned both walls, with the look of new stone over old where they had been destroyed and rebuilt over the years. The Jarl’s Jötun was a Dathiri establishment if ever Darion had seen one. Shields and banners hung on the walls, bearing the emblem of Dathrond’s high houses both ancient and contemporary. They sat at the bar spanning one long side of the dining room and waited for the proprietor to come over.

  “What’ll it be for you this evening?” asked the sharp-eyed man through his wiry gray mutton chops.

  “News,” said Darion.

  “And a round of your sunniest mead for my friends and I,” added Kestrel.

  “Not for me,” Lady Alynor said. “I’m not thirsty.”

  The man nodded and filled two tall pewter steins with frothing amber liquid. “News, you say? Well now, surely the Korengadi invasion was old news by yesterday.”

  “What can you tell us of that?” Darion asked after a long swig.

  “I hear the Korengadi fleet made landfall at Belgard not three days past.”

  “Belgard?” Darion was surprised. “I was told the fleet was headed for Shadewood Sound.”

  “Now that would’ve been a mistake,” said the innkeep. “An army that size would’ve had a terrible go of it through the Bogs of Desparr.”

  “What do they mean to do… lay siege to Belgard?”

  The innkeep laughed. “Why, I should hope not. Word is, Lucien King of Berliac has extended the Korengadi a cordial welcome.”

  “An alliance? That cannot be.”

  “It is, I fear.”

  Darion sat back on his barstool. “Does Lucien King intend to add his strength to that of the Korengadi army?”

  “Some of it, apparently. They marched from Belgard with a host in purple and gold at the tail end of their column.”

  Darion did not understand how this could be. “Why would Berliac ally with Korengad?”

  “They were allies in the first of the Serpentine Wars,” Kestrel pointed out.

  “United against a common foe,” said Darion. “At the time, it was appropriate. But uniting against Dathrond now, in a time of peace? Who would’ve expected that? Not Dathrond, surely. There was no word of this alliance when the message came to me.”

  “What message was that?” the innkeeper asked.

  Kestrel began one of his grand introductions. “It so happens that the man sitting before you is none other than—”

  “Enough, singer,” said Darion. He met the innkeep’s eyes. “We are bound for Maergath. I have been summoned to Dathrond’s aid in the war effort.”

  The innkeep lifted his brow. “I knew you were a good Dathiri man from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  A bearded patron in worn leather armor looked over at them from down the bar. “Best ye not take the north road, if Maergath is your aim. A host of Thraihmish dwarves from beyond the Whitebranch holds the Elûnor Bridge.”

  “For whom?”

  “For Korengad, of course.”

  “Ice Dwarves, so far south?” said Kestrel.

  “Aye. And you know what else strikes some as odd… they say Rudgar King of Korengad is the one leading his host to war.”

  “The King of Korengad endured the voyage across the Forscythe? That’s a strange thing indeed,” said Darion. “I’ve never known him to visit the five realms before. What’s more, he would’ve been better off leaving the invasion to his son. Rylar Prince is a Warcaster, and a finer strategist than Rudgar King has ever been.”

  “There’s no telling what that’s about,” said the innkeep. “The wars of kings are seldom within our capacity to explain.”

  Darion was befuddled. Not just one kingdom against Dathrond, but three. And a host of dwarf-kind already in the Grey Teeth. We’re heading into a conflict larger than I knew. I should’ve followed my instinct and left Alynor behind. “What’s the cause of all this? Have you had any word about that?”

  “The kingdoms are always vying for power. Squabbling over border territories and arguing about trade. It’s nothing new. I’d wager it’s something along those lines.”

  “Aye,” said the patron in leather. “I’m with him. Wars have their reasons, and them scarce for common men like us to understand.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Kestrel. “This man is no commoner.”

  “I thought I advised you to hold your tongue, singer,” Darion said.

  It was too late.

  “Not common?” said the innkeep. “Who might you be, then?”

  “Sir Darion of Ulther,” Kestrel announced proudly.

  “Darion Ulther, is that it?” said the bearded patron. “I know who you are. You’re that sod what burned half the Sparleaf to the ground during the Battle of Fengate.”

  “Half the Sparleaf?” said Darion. “A few trees are hardly half the third-largest forest in the realms.”

  “It was more than a few trees. I was there. Saw it with my own eyes, youngster though I may have been. A village and three acres burned that day.”

  “You fought in the Ogre Wars?” asked Darion.

  “Aye, and lived… your best efforts notwithstanding.”

  “You fought for the Ogrelord…”

  “I fought for gold, and for justice. Nor have I ever done otherwise.”

  “What’s your name, sellsword?”

  “Triolyn Dorr, though some call me the lightning hand. And I’m more apt to sell my bow than my sword.”

  “An archer for hire,” said Kestrel, amused. “And I suppose you’re the best there ever was, like every archer in the realms.”

  “Only when I have to be,” Triolyn said.

  “And who’s paying your way now?” Kestrel wanted to know.

  “I’m a free agent, as it happens. I’m bound for Maergath, like yourselves.”

  “You’d lend your bow to Dathrond, eh? That’s a surprise. Shouldn’t you be fleeing north to join the Korengadi? They’re the ones with the advantage in this rivalry.”

  “Sure victory is of no interest to me. I fight for the dark horse. That’s why I sided with the ogres all those years ago. A kingdom oppressed is a kingdom in need of my services, as I see it.”

  “A kingdom oppressed?” said Darion, feeling himself flush with anger. “Those ogres were running rampant across Orothwain and Dathrond—”

  “Rampant, aye, if you consider the killing and maiming of countless Galyrians at the hands of Orynn King an act unworthy of retribution,” Triolyn cut in. “The Ogrelord’s outrage was justified.”

  “And yet now you would pledge your bow in the service of Orynn’s son?”

  “New war. New king… new cause. I’ll never let a grudge get in the way of good coin.”

  Kestrel nodded contemplatively. “I can see the logic in that. Why don’t you travel with us?”

  Darion turned on the singer, his anger rising to a boil. “Much as I’ve thoroughly enjoyed being followed around by the likes of you, I must ask who you think you are, inviting others to join our party without my leave?”

  “I’m certain our new friend here can follow behind as I’ve done,” Kestrel said with a grin. “You’re no great feat to keep up with.”

  “Why yes, I thi
nk it would be lovely to have an accomplished archer along,” Lady Alynor agreed. “After all… you could use a few pointers where archery is concerned, my dearest.”

  Outside, the sun was setting. Darion heard the distant grinding of the gates as the city guard cranked them shut for the night. He could see there was no arguing with his companions. It was his own fault for letting Alynor come, and for letting Kestrel join them after that. Now he was outnumbered, and the odds against him would only strengthen with the addition of this ogre sympathizer.

  “I plan to head east for the Fengate Fords on the morrow,” Triolyn said. “After Brynhalter, the forested marshes along the Sparleaf borderlands are the only obstacle on the way to Forandran.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Darion. “We mean to take a different route; the north road toward Barrowdale. The Grey Teeth are much faster going than your Fengate marshes, and a boat downriver from Falcon Falls will deliver us to the foothills of the Mountains of Driftwater without a backbreaking slog through the Dathiri desert.”

  “That may be true,” said Triolyn, “but you forget… the Dwarves of Whitebranch hold the Elûnor Bridge.”

  “I have not forgotten,” said Darion. “And you’d do well not to forget who I am.”

  “At long last, a bit of hostility directed toward someone besides me,” said Kestrel, watching with interest.

  Triolyn’s stare was calculating. “Fine. I’ll go your way. Let’s see what the great Warcaster, persecutor of the innocent, can do to get us past two thousand dwarven soldiers.”

  “First light tomorrow, then,” said Darion. “Don’t be late. The moment you hold us back, we leave you behind.”

  Kestrel leaned toward the archer and whispered. “He’s been telling me that for weeks.”

  “Your mouth is like to get you into trouble one of these days, singer,” said Darion.

  “It’s kept me out often enough.”

  “Your lucky streak won’t last forever.”

  “Nor will your grumbling. I’ll cheer you up yet, I will.”

  “I’ll wager that’s the truth. Nothing would cheer me more than your buying the next round.”