Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. A pang of emotion swept over him, and he had to bite down hard to stop it overwhelming him. Look at you, you old softy, he berated himself, trying to blink back the tears. He clenched his jaw, unable to speak.

  Lady Alynor’s face took on a look of concern. “Oh, my dearest, I am so sorry. What’s the matter? Are you disappointed?”

  Wordless, Darion cupped a hand around the nape of his wife’s neck and pulled her mouth to his.

  ***

  Darion was whistling a tune when they set out from Eventide early the next morning. He’d barely gotten any sleep, yet he felt more awake than he could remember feeling for quite some time. “I might’ve sent you home, if you’d shared the news earlier,” he had told Alynor afterward, as they lay abed drenched in sweat. “Although I will say I fully expected you to give up and turn back for home of your own accord.”

  She had hit him then, pouting. “You think me such a woman.” She had said the word like something derogatory.

  Darion had laughed aloud. “I used to. That was at the beginning. Is it for good or ill that you’ve proven yourself not to be?”

  Alynor had straddled him and tried to wrestle him down, but he’d only restrained her with his powerful arms and kissed her until she forgot she was ever cross with him.

  The forest road was lit in flecks of sunlight that shifted and swayed with the treetop breezes. Darion turned to catch Alynor’s eye, and they shared a smile. Their three companions followed close behind, appearing one by one through the underbrush which hid the Eventide path from view to the east.

  Their newest companion rode a stout pony the color of honey with a shaggy blonde mane and thick spatted hooves. The mare was several hands shorter than the other horses, but she was a perfect fit for Jeebo. The big white bird on his shoulder was quiet and well-behaved, though its sharp movements seemed to indicate the restlessness of a creature waiting to be set free.

  So far, Darion had found no reason to be as suspicious of Jeebo as he’d been of Triolyn and Kestrel. The falconer spoke little, yet he struck Darion as a contented fellow, and gave none in the party any detectable sense of unease. Half the time he opened his mouth, it was to eat; the other half, to utter some wise proverb or worshipful remark about his god.

  Darion spent the morning and much of the afternoon rehearsing his spells, recalling the sigils and speaking their names without pitching his voice to the proper tones, so as not to inadvertently summon the mage-song. There was so much to remember, and his once-nimble mind felt heavy and sluggish. War loomed ahead, and with the enemies of Dathrond sprouting from every crag and rooftop, Darion had begun to see the futility and hopelessness of the cause. For weeks, he’d felt as though he were learning to joust on the way to a tourney.

  He hadn’t stopped worrying for his wife’s safety since the moment he watched her ride out through the bailey at Keep Ulther. The knowledge that she was carrying their unborn child only multiplied his worries. What will the realms be like by the time this child is born? he wondered. What sort of world will we be bringing him—or her—into, if the threat to Dathrond isn’t stamped out?

  As the gravity of the situation mounted, Darion felt less and less like he was prepared to face what awaited him. His tones and sigils were a perplexing jumble in his head, lost among all the other thoughts of gloom and hope and uncertainty. You were right about me, Sir Jalleth, he thought, bitter memory clinging at the back of his mind. I will never live up to what I once claimed to be.

  “Glory be to Faranion for this beautiful day,” said Jeebo, as the late afternoon sunlight flitted through the treetops.

  Triolyn groaned. “Not only is he a half-breed… he’s a halfwit as well.”

  “Faranion is no object to be scorned,” said Jeebo, “and I’ll not suffer him to be chastised by the likes of you.”

  “I’ve got nothing against your god, nor any other. Only the people who serve him.”

  “Service to one’s god is as noble a pursuit as can be found in the realms.”

  “The pursuit of coin and justice suits me just fine,” said Triolyn.

  “How is it that you can claim to fight on behalf of the oppressed, yet be so intolerant toward the devout?” Alynor asked.

  “I’m the only person I know brave enough to call everything by its name,” said Triolyn. “I think Jeebo here is an ugly, stupid half-breed who’s throwing away his life to a god who doesn’t care and doesn’t listen. Yet I’d fight tooth and claw against anyone who tried to take away his right to do it. My desire for justice will always come first.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense to me,” said Jeebo, “but you make it sound as though it should.”

  “Why, thank you,” Triolyn said with a nod.

  A tree branch whipped out and knocked Jeebo off his horse. His bird screeched, flapping its wings and settling to rest on the saddle. Next Darion knew, there were shapes crashing through the underbrush all around them.

  Stunned, Jeebo pushed himself to his feet and reached for the thick curved falchion on his back. He had just taken the hilt in hand when a slithering green appendage wrapped itself around his waist. Two more shot out to join the first, coiling around neck and calves and twisting him off his feet.

  Darion saw then that the tree branch had not been a tree branch at all, but the arm of a tentacle-like vine which moved with eerie precision. He drew his own blade, but more vines came to snatch it from his grasp and entwine his wrists and ankles. Behind him, the others were facing the same predicament.

  Triolyn cursed and struggled as the vines carried his bow and quiver away from him. Alynor was screaming and kicking while they lifted her off her gelding. Kestrel seemed to be trying to sing his way out of the situation, but it didn’t take Darion long to recognize the spell he was casting.

  The vines holding the singer began to brown and wither. They shuddered and pulled back, releasing him long enough so he could draw his swords and begin hacking away at them. No sooner had he severed a handful of vines than half a dozen more shot forward to grab the weapons and reverse his advantage.

  This battle will not be won with swords alone, Darion thought. I may be out of practice, but I am a Warcaster nevertheless. He closed his eyes and began his own spell, one he had been practicing not an hour before. He ignored the noises around him, even as he felt himself being carried off the road and into the underbrush. Leaves and branches caressed his face. The vines creaked against his armor as they coiled. He could feel them trying to constrict his limbs, but the steel was too strong for them.

  The sigils came like flashes of light. He spoke each in its tone. Kfeil. Saiul. Ruum. Jod. Joj. Urit. Loqua. Tokh. Baug. The spell took shape. The mage-song awoke like the first strains of a haunting symphony.

  With some difficulty, Darion slipped his left hand free of its gauntlet to snatch the bright sphere of mage-song hovering before him. He touched the vine still wrapped around his metal glove. The plant’s sinuous contour began to stiffen. The coils loosened, dropping the gauntlet into the brush.

  Darion reached across himself to grasp the vine coiled around his other arm. This proved unwise, however; the vine released its grip, dumping him forward to hang by his feet and lower body. It was from this inverted point of view that Darion caught his first glimpse of where the vines were taking him.

  From the ground beside a nearby tree sprouted a large pointed cylinder which looked to him like the bud of a closed flower. Fleshy green bands ran from base to tip, like strips of wood on a barrel. As the vines carried him closer, the bud began to open. The strips separated from one another and spread wide with a slippery peeling sound. Their insides were velvety pink ribbons stippled with sliver-thin spines as long as a man’s finger. At the base, a gaping maw, deep crimson, opened into blackness.

  A wave of terror ran through Darion. A deathcreeper, he knew. Those spines were oozing poison strong enough to render him paralyzed in seconds. All they would have to do was find the smallest gap
in his armor. With the spines covering the inner petals like hair, he had no doubt they would.

  Darion’s spell was not yet spent. He tried to bend at the waist, reaching for the vine around his thighs, but the weight of his armor was too much. When a new vine slithered toward his neck, he grabbed it and sent the horrid thing twitching away from him, hardening.

  From the depths of the maw came a hissing sound.

  The pink ribbon-strips convulsed, rattling their spines like bony teeth.

  There was no time to look around for the others. Darion saw Bloodcaller float by and took his chance, swinging out to clutch the vine with his bare left hand and catch the sword as it fell with his still-armored right. He pressed his exposed palm to the hilt and felt Bloodcaller take the spell.

  With a pair of upward swings he cut himself loose—first one leg, then the other. He landed on his shoulders with a painful thud and flopped onto his back. Vines came at him from all directions as he clambered to his feet and lifted his blade in front of him. His slashes were labored, but all it took was a touch from the spell to render the vines stiff and brittle. When the affected tentacles tried to coil around him, their grips were weak and lethargic.

  Darion scanned his surroundings until he saw Jeebo floating through the trees a short distance away. He shook off the languid vines and charged in, the success of his spell giving rise to a surge of confidence within him. Bloodcaller was deft in his hands, and it wasn’t long before he’d cut away Jeebo’s vines.

  When they dropped him, the falconer landed in a crouch, graceful as a cat. His falchion was in his hands an instant later, and he was cleaving vines in two and watching them slither away, oozing greenish fluid.

  Darion did not stop to help him. Instead he pressed on in search of his next-closest companion, which happened to be Triolyn. By the time he arrived, Kestrel was there, cutting the archer loose with his blades and driving the remaining vines away.

  “Where is Lady Alynor?” Darion asked.

  Kestrel gestured toward the road. “Not to worry. She’s safe and sound.”

  Darion didn’t stop running until he’d burst through the trees to find his wife in the clearing, rubbing Lana’s withers and speaking to the gelding in a soft voice. Alynor’s hair was a tangle of twigs and brambles, her cheeks and forehead red with thorn scratches. Otherwise she appeared no worse for the wear.

  “By all the gods in the heavens, my lady…” Darion said, breathless. “How did you get free?”

  She hurried over to him and accepted his steel embrace. “I didn’t,” she said. “Kestrel cut me loose.”

  “How? I saw them take his swords.” It wasn’t that Darion wished the singer had failed. He only wished he’d reached Alynor first. He would’ve liked to rescue her; to show her he was truly capable of protecting her.

  “They did take my swords,” he heard Kestrel say. “That’s why I also carry a knife or two, along with a few useful spells.”

  The three men emerged from the forest, brushing themselves off and sheathing their weapons.

  “What were those things?” Alynor asked.

  “Spinevines,” said Jeebo.

  “Spinevines? I’ve always called them deathcreepers,” said Triolyn. “I’ve never seen them planted so close together before. And I’ve never heard of them hunting as a synchronized group.”

  “Me neither,” said Darion.

  “Why didn’t they take the horses?” Alynor asked. “Or the bird, for that matter?”

  “I don’t know,” Darion said, “but it seems something strange is afoot in these woods. Best stay on your guard, all of you.”

  Kestrel clasped his hands together and gave a sweet smile. “Oh, how splendid. Our brave Warcaster really does care for us.”

  “Shut up, you.”

  Jeebo held up Darion’s gauntlet. “This yours?”

  “It is. Thank you.”

  Jeebo tossed it to him, then lifted an arm to make a perch. His bird flitted over and settled on it. “There you are, Ristocule. That’s a good lad.”

  When they were back on their horses and headed down the road again, Alynor came alongside Darion and said, “You must teach me your magic, and you must begin at once. I will not accept any answer but your full and wholehearted agreement. I’ve heard your growing-up stories. I know how hard it is; how often you wanted to quit. Nothing could’ve prepared me better than hearing about your struggles. Teach me. I want to learn; not because I wish to become a legend, like you. But because you and I are a family now, and if we’ve got something to pass on to our children we’ll be all the stronger for it.”

  “Bravo, milady,” Kestrel shouted from the back of the line. “Well said. If he won’t teach you after a speech like that, perhaps I will.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss this later,” Darion suggested.

  She shook her head. “This is important to me, Darion. If I’ve ever asked you for anything, it was nothing compared to this. I’ll keep asking until you say yes.”

  Darion thought for a long moment. “Then I suppose I ought to say yes.”

  Alynor grinned from ear to ear. Her smile might’ve brightened his mood in any other circumstance. In this one, however, it only served to fill him with dread.

  Chapter 13

  By nightfall, the last trees of the Sparleaf had fallen away, and a vast meadow filled with wildflowers spread out before them as far as the eye could see.

  “I’ve always wondered why they call this place Marlana’s Clearing,” Kestrel said. “Anybody know?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “The name sounds peaceful enough,” said Triolyn. “Names can be deceptive, though. All manner of unsavory creatures lurk among those tall grasses. There are no mountains to hide in round here, as there are in Orothwain and western Dathrond. They stay in the woods and fields, preying on each other and any unsuspecting travelers who might be stupid enough to attempt a crossing.”

  “Like us?” Jeebo asked.

  “That’s right, falconer. Like us.”

  “These look like good hunting grounds,” said Jeebo, stroking Ristocule’s white-feathered breast.

  Triolyn wiggled his fingers, ready to draw an arrow. “Then fly that bird and watch me bring it down.”

  “I’ll cleave your head in twain if you so much as think about it,” said Jeebo.

  “I’ll hogtie you both and strap you to your saddles if you don’t stop your bickering,” Darion said. “You think those deathcreepers were bad? They’re nothing compared to what lives out there.”

  It was hard to tell how tall the grasses were out across the fields, but Alynor guessed they might’ve risen chest-high on a stallion, even one as tall as Darion’s.

  “I found the vines quite manageable, actually,” Kestrel boasted, giving Alynor a smirk.

  “It’s not as bad as you say, old man,” said Triolyn. “Better we cross the clearing than follow the road north to Falcon Falls. That town is downright eerie. It’s enough to make any superstitious man quake in his boots. I’d sooner risk the wildest predators than face the restless spirits of that unhallowed place.”

  “Faranion will protect us in either course,” said Jeebo.

  Triolyn grunted. “Better we arrange our own protection, says I.”

  “We make north for Falcon Falls,” said Darion. “That’s the safer way.”

  “And the slower,” Kestrel said. “From there, it’s a long ride down a slow river. If we take the clearing, we can cross the river at Forandran and be done with it.”

  “Faranion’s holy city,” Jeebo exclaimed. “Yes. I would travel there, if my vote were counted.”

  “It’s counted,” said Kestrel. “That’s three against one, Sir Ulther. The lady has a say, of course, though it would seem the odds are stacked against her.”

  “You’re right,” Alynor said. “It sounds as though we’ve decided to cross the clearing, with or without my vote.”

  “You three have at it, then,” said Darion. “My lady wife and I
will take the north road to Falcon Falls and arrive at Maergath by way of the Dathiri River. Fare thee well. Come, my lady.” Darion gave them a cursory wave before flicking his reins and starting down the road into the dusk.

  Alynor ignored their half-hearted protests and hurried to catch up with him. “You can’t mean to leave them,” she said. “Not now.”

  “Now. Later. What does it matter?”

  “It matters very much,” she insisted. “Have you no sympathy for those who need you?”

  He laughed. “They have no need of me.”

  “I wasn’t talking about them.”

  He reined up. “They’ve chosen their way, and we’ve chosen ours. I’ll not be ordered about like some serving wench. I’ve had enough of being told where to go and when. With each passing day, hope falls further from our grasp. The river may take longer, but the distance is shorter, and our safety will be in far lesser jeopardy.”

  “Aren’t we all safer with each other than without?”

  “Not if they would be such fools as to risk life and limb needlessly. Which it would seem they are.”

  Alynor opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, something caught her eye that made her forget what she’d been about to say. From behind a stand of trees across the open field, amidst the mighty gale wakened by the flapping of its great bony wings, rose a young dragon, green-scaled and plated with barbs from head to tail. Their three former companions wheeled their horses and beat a hasty retreat. With the beast coming from the forest edge, they had nowhere to run but up the north road toward Alynor and Darion.

  “My dearest,” she managed, and pointed.

  Darion turned. “Gods. Go north, my lady. Go.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Were you not aware your husband was the greatest Warcaster in all the five realms? Run, and don’t stop until you’ve found a place to hide.”

  “But—there’s nowhere to hide for leagues,” she cried.

  “Then leagues you must ride,” he said. “Night is falling. Let the darkness cover you. Now go. I won’t tell you again.”