Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “A spell can be taken by someone other than its caster?”

  “Only one meant for sharing the past or the future. Otherwise, touching another caster’s spell is a sure way to destroy it. Lo and behold, the prince’s spell was a powerful augury of some sort. A future-telling. And it told me about you.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said you were the one who was going to get him out.”

  Alynor was baffled. She was going to get the prince out of here? She’d never heard anything so absurd in all her life. She found herself lost for words. It must’ve been plain on her face, because after a moment Geddle said, “I wouldn’t pay that any mind, milady. Magic’s finest prophecy is seldom more than a guess by the time it comes around. Besides, I’m here, and I’ve a mind not to let that happen. Rest yourself easy on it.”

  “Tell me, what was the prince’s crime?”

  “Matters of guilt and innocence do not concern me, milady. I’m only the jailer.”

  “Are you the jailer for the whole dungeon, or just this room?”

  Geddle cackled. He tapped his nose and pointed a knowing finger at her. “Getting a start on your jailbreak already, are we? Well, there’s no fooling old Geddle the Wise. I know. I’m him.”

  Alynor sighed. “Don’t you think it’s wrong to keep a man imprisoned like this if he could be innocent?”

  “No Korengadi is innocent, if you ask me. But that’s none of my concern, as I told you. I’m tasked with keeping him here, and that’s all.”

  There was movement in the prince’s cell. He lifted his head to stare at her as if waking from sleep. The blank expression on his face turned to one of subtle recognition, then amazement. He stood with some difficulty and came over to grasp the bars of his cell. When he spoke, the words were like nothing Alynor had ever heard before.

  The Korengadi tongue, she knew, though she understood it no better than Geddle did. “Why did Olyvard King lock you in here?” she asked.

  The prince spoke again in those rough, jagged sounds. His eyes were drawn and tired, but he spoke with conviction, as if trying desperately to get through to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, frustrated. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” She scuffed to the back of her cell and threw herself down to sit against the wall. This is hopeless, she thought. I’ll never get myself out of here, let alone him. Unless Darion manages to evade the king’s men and comes back to get me, it appears I’m stuck here the king says differently.

  Chapter 19

  “I suppose this is where we part ways.” Young Sir Darion sat astride his dappled roan just inside the gates of Maergath city, his belly full and his saddlebags loaded down with Orynn King’s gold.

  “We may have won the Sparleaf back for the realms,” said Sir Jalleth, sitting beside him on a brown mare of his own, “but this war is far from over. I wish you wouldn’t go.”

  Now that it came to it, Darion was not so sure he wanted to go. And yet, this was his decision, and he would not be dissuaded from it. “I must. The realms have the war well in hand. With you, they’ve no reason to fear.”

  “Much of that is thanks to you,” said Sir Jalleth.

  “And much of who I am is thanks to you. You’ve been the father I lost.”

  “Stop that. There are commonfolk watching, and you’re liable to make a blubbering fool of me.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Sir Jalleth laughed. “I hope you’ll continue to do good, Darion. Wherever your journeys may take you. Keep doing good, no matter the cost. The mage-song will never fail you, so long as you use it to make the realms better.” He extended a hand.

  Darion took it, but he felt something resting between their palms. When their grips parted, the old knight’s panpipes were there in his open hand. “I have my own.”

  “You have these as well,” said the old knight. “A token of our adventures together.”

  Darion produced his panpipes and tossed them to Sir Jalleth. “A token indeed.”

  “A fair trade,” Sir Jalleth said, putting them away. “Take care of yourself, Darion.”

  “And you as well, Sir Jalleth. Until we meet again.” Darion spurred his roan through the gates of Maergath.

  They hadn’t met again. That was the last time he had ever seen Sir Jalleth, and he had never forgiven himself for it.

  ***

  The Sea of Maergath had been strangely calm these last few days. The old fisherman, whose name Darion now knew was Cwil, said it was unlike the sea to remain calm so far out from shore. They were very far from shore, indeed. The Mountains of Driftwater had vanished days ago from the horizon behind them, and the lands surrounding the sea were flat and unmarked by hill or rise. At times Darion could not see land at all from the deck of the small fishing boat.

  Now he woke from his memory-dream and rose to his feet, shivering against the cold east wind. In the light of the early sunrise, he could make out the mouth of the Maergath River, a wide, deep waterway joining the sea to the Bogs of Desparr along Dathrond’s northern shores. Halfway between the sea and the marshes stood the Dathiri Ford and its keep, the only crossing adequate for an army of any significant size.

  Cwil called out from the tiller and gave his son a signal. Cale pulled a rigging line to make the sail go taut. The boat caught a sharp gust and slanted into the wind.

  Both men had proven fine sailors, though Cwil could be a wry companion. Cale’s youthful enthusiasm charmed Darion at times and irritated him at others. The lad had a knack for history, and seemed to think Darion enjoyed hearing about all the other heroes who had graced the realms over the last several centuries. That was just as well, though. He seemed to know certain tales about Darion better than Darion knew them himself. It was amusing to hear the embellishments, and Darion was most often satisfied to let them go on being embellished.

  They reached the mouth of the Maergath River a few hours after daybreak, leaving the sea behind in favor of calmer waters. The river narrowed until both banks were in sight at once. The Keep on the Ford loomed in the distance, a monument of stone built from the river itself, dauntless with its thick square towers, high walls, and the long narrow bridge which spanned the distance from its gate to the river’s west bank. There, legions of Korengadi in crimson tabards camped before a field of white canvas tents, strewn across the unbroken expanse of the Eastgap plains. Darion saw flecks of purple and gold among them, fragments of the contingent of allied soldiers from Berliac.

  “Those are the armies you claim you’re able to defeat?” said Cwil, unbelieving.

  “Whether I could defeat them all, I do not know,” said Darion. “That I can turn the tide in our favor, I am certain.” For Sir Jalleth, and his memory, Darion told himself. This time, I will not fail the realms. This time, it is I who will save them.

  “What if they have wizards?” asked Cale.

  “Wizards are of some concern,” said Darion. “But I’m told we have Warpriests of our own, so the forces should be well in our favor.”

  “Father, can we stay and watch the fighting?” Cale asked. “I want to see Sir Ulther win the day and defeat the evil armies of our enemies.”

  Cwil shook his head. “Too dangerous. Besides, we’ve some fish to catch. This little voyage has put us behind for the season.”

  “We’ll have the gold to make up for it soon enough,” said Cale, sounding too young for the almost-grown body he inhabited. “This could be one of the greatest battles in history.”

  “I won’t stand by while casters fling spells about. We’re like to be sunk by a magic boulder, or our sails burned with bluefire.”

  “It wouldn’t be the worst thing,” said Cale. “We can both swim.”

  “There are far worse things that could happen than we lose our boat.”

  “We’ll be fine, father,” Cale insisted.

  “We’ll be better when we’re away from here. As soon as Sir Ulther is safely ashore, we’re headed home, and gods be with us all.”


  Cale inhaled through his teeth, then gave a loud sigh. He turned and stalked off toward the front of the boat.

  “Have you any children, Sir Ulther?” Cwil asked.

  Darion hesitated. “My first is on the way.”

  “Then I pray the gods give you the patience and wisdom to face what lay ahead of you. Even should you end this war, peace will not be what awaits you afterward.”

  “Thus have I been advised,” Darion said.

  “Your advisors are worth their weights in gold.”

  “Speaking of gold… I believe I owe you some.”

  Cwil gave an agreeable nod. Darion fished out the coins and dropped them into his waiting hand.

  “This is more than—”

  “Say no more,” said Darion. “Only, promise me one thing.”

  “Aye?”

  “That you will remember you are the only father your son will ever have. The times when you feel neither his love nor his respect are when it is most important to show him the quality of yours.”

  Cwil gave him a patronizing smile. “Wise words for a man with no children.”

  “True, I have no children,” said Darion, “but I had a father once.”

  Cwil and Cale guided their small boat into the shallows along the eastern bank of the river. There was a dock ahead, but the Dathiri soldiers guarding it made Cwil hesitant to approach too close. Darion thanked them and said his goodbyes before hopping over the side to wade through the knee-deep water toward shore.

  No sooner had he reached the bank and turned to wave the fisherman and his son farewell than a group of Dathiri soldiers was bursting through the rushes, shouting and pointing their spears. Darion raised his hands and halted. He heard young Cale shout something from the deck of the boat, but he was too far away to hear.

  “Get down on your face,” were the first intelligible words Darion could decipher amid the yelling. He was standing on a slip of muddy sand, a substance he did not particularly want anywhere close to his face. Yet he could scarce blow these soldiers off their feet as he’d done beside the postern gate at Castle Maergath, lest the army perceive him as an enemy.

  “My name is Sir Darion Ulther,” he shouted back. “I am a servant of Olyvard King of Dathrond. I’m on your side. Now, if you’ll kindly lower your spears…”

  One of the soldiers complied. “You’re Sir Darion Ulther?”

  “I am.”

  “Show us some of your magic.”

  “Don’t let him cast a spell,” said another. “He’ll kill us.”

  “I am not here to kill anyone except those loathsome Korengadi scum.”

  “Show us, then. Go on.” The soldier gestured with his spear.

  Darion sighed. This routine had grown stale twenty years prior. Another reason he seldom identified himself to the commonfolk while traveling. Yet if it was this or the noose, it would have to be this. He drew Bloodcaller and intoned the same light spell he’d used to astound Cwil and Cale. The spell proved less brilliant at midday than in full darkness, but it got the point across.

  “You’ve come,” said the awestruck soldier. “I can’t believe it. You’ve finally come.”

  Darion was surprised. “You’ve been expecting me?”

  “There’s a minstrel at camp who’s been singing about you. He plays at the fireside every night. Never goes without a song or two about the Champion of the Realms. He keeps saying you’re going to save us all. Now it’s finally happening.”

  “We can end this war and go home,” said another man.

  The soldiers lifted up a glad shout, clapping Darion on the back and hoisting their fists in victorious salute.

  That fool singer has made a mockery of me for the last time, Darion promised. “Bring me to the camp. I would speak with your field commander.”

  “As you say, your… champion… ship.”

  “Sir Ulther will be fine.”

  The soldiers led him toward the keep through the thick stands of rushes along the riverbank. The last time Darion looked over his shoulder, Cwil’s fishing boat was little more than a speck on the horizon. I’m not likely to see them again, he thought. I’ll have to find another way back to Maergath after this is all over.

  The smell of cooking fires greeted them on the river winds as they passed beneath the shadow of the keep. It was not an enclosed castle like most, but a single length of wall spanning a thousand fathoms along the east bank, with crenelated towers at fixed intervals. There were windows along the back side, through which Darion could see parts of the interior chambers within the wall itself—living quarters, kitchens, storage depots, and supply rooms where the regular garrison lived and worked. He had not been here since he was a young man, and never with this many soldiers around.

  The tents of the Dathiri camp were spread only a short distance behind the wall, not nearly so numerous as Darion had been expecting. Faces turned to watch as the soldiers guided him through the camp, past men slurping stew from tin pots or napping in their armor. Darion felt as if he were the centerpiece of some great procession, though his escort was fewer than ten in number. He could hear the clangor of swordplay from the practice yard. From the battlefield beyond the river, though, there came only silence.

  A soldier approached Darion from the side, breaking through the loose circle of escorts surrounding him. Darion tensed when the man lifted an arm. Next he knew, the soldier had spun him round to wrap him in a tight embrace. Darion noted the flaxen hair and the thin frame, both familiar.

  “You made it,” Kestrel exclaimed. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned us.”

  “Don’t do that,” Darion said, arms planted at his sides.

  “But I’m just so glad to see you,” said Kestrel. He fell into stride with the escort and threw an arm around Darion’s shoulder. “I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

  “Who let you wear the Dathiri colors?” Darion asked.

  “War is bad for a soldier’s health, as it turns out. By extension, uniforms are in healthy supply.”

  “And what of Jeebo and Triolyn?”

  “Triolyn stands guard on the heights even now. He’s feathered a good few Korengadi, by his count.”

  “His count differs from everyone else’s, I’ll wager.”

  “Jeebo also wears the colors, though his role has become quite different. He’s found service under the field commander himself. Palavar has a taste for finer fare than the gruel they feed us here. Jeebo and Ristocule hunt for his table.”

  “Surprises abound. I was sure the first thing I’d see when I arrived was you three swinging from a post.”

  “Haven’t you learned by now, Sir Darion? I’m a hard man to refuse.”

  “You’re a hard man to tolerate.”

  Kestrel tipped his helm in appreciation of the remark. “Depending on who you are. How is your lady wife?”

  “She is well… I hope.” Darion lowered his voice. “I did not tell her I was leaving the castle.”

  Kestrel was shocked. He lowered his voice in kind. “What? Why?”

  “I did not wish to implicate her in my disobedience to his majesty. Had she known, the king might’ve had grounds to accuse her of treason. She is innocent in all this, and I would prefer she stayed that way.”

  “You mean to say that Olyvard King did not send you here?”

  Darion glanced around. “His majesty has plenty of personal guards. He did not need me. Yet he would not send me, for some reason. I left without his leave.”

  “I knew you’d come,” said Kestrel. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

  “One of these men told me you’ve been singing songs about my exploits. Telling everyone I’d show up to win the war for them.”

  “Of course I have. I told you I knew songs about you the first time we met, remember?”

  “Yes, but… why haven’t you told them the truth about me?”

  Kestrel smiled. It was the first time Darion had ever seen him smile without a trace of cunning or conceit. “Somet
imes people don’t need the truth. Sometimes, they need hope.”

  Chapter 20

  Geddle the Wise was, perhaps not so wisely, asleep. Alynor supposed the old man must need sleep sometimes, but to let himself doze off while one of the most powerful Warcasters in the realms was only a few fathoms away seemed foolish. In truth, she was nearly asleep herself. She would’ve been, if not for the periodic screams she could hear from other parts of the dungeon, cries often as unintelligible as they were disturbing.

  Something stung her leg. She flinched, rubbed it away, and resumed trying to fall asleep. A moment later, something else stung her in almost the same spot. She sat upright to examine her leg and found two small red marks. There were a handful of tiny pebbles on the floor beside her. She looked up. Rylar Prince was standing at the bars of his cell, looking at her, a finger to his lips.

  “What?” she mouthed, giving him an irritated shrug.

  He held his hands palm-outward. Wait. Then he began to cast a spell. She could hear the low throaty sounds of his intonation, soft and smooth. She glanced over at Geddle, who shifted in his seat, but did not open his eyes.

  Prince Rylar finished his spell. Instead of waking in front of him, the mage-song came to life just inside the bars of Alynor’s cell. She could feel the familiar gathering of unseen force, an essence floating at arm’s length, just beyond the domain of vision and hearing. She reached out to take it as if it were a spell of her own.

  A jolt ran through her.

  She was no longer in her cell, but in Olyvard King’s throne room. His majesty was coming toward her. He shook her hand and kissed her on both cheeks. Only Alynor was not Alynor, and her vision was dark and smudged around the edges, as if she were looking out through a tunnel. Was this another of the prince’s foretelling spells, like the one Geddle had mentioned?

  Olyvard King spoke. “Ah, Rylar Prince. It is good to see you well. I am so glad your journey was a safe one. I have been awaiting your arrival with great anticipation. I very much look forward to our discussions to come. In time, I am certain our two kingdoms will come to an accord in which both our interests are preserved.”