Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  Kestrel arrived, bright and chipper as always, accompanied by a sleepy Jeebo and a disheveled Triolyn who was grouchier than usual. For once, there was no bird on Jeebo’s shoulder. He explained that he’d seen the wisdom in Triolyn’s warnings and left the animal in Commander Palavar’s care; enemy territory was no place for his feathered companion, what with all the Korengadi bowmen and mages watching the skies.

  There was little fanfare at the opening of the gates, aside from the few soldiers who gathered round to watch Sir Darion and his three companions exit the keep. When the portcullis was lifted, the four men started across the long flat bridge, its graceful stone arches bearing them over the rippling stream which stretched far ahead of them. Before they were halfway across, Darion could hear the gates grinding to a close behind them.

  “This was a horrible idea,” Triolyn muttered in a groggy voice, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “We must come to terms, or this war will go on forever,” said Kestrel.

  Triolyn gave him an apathetic wave. “That I understand. The bad idea was coming with you. Look at those men back there, up on the battlements. They’re so much happier than I am.”

  “Everyone is happier than you are,” said Jeebo.

  Kestrel laughed. “That’s a good one, my friend. You’re right, you know. He really is a griper.”

  Jeebo laughed with him, pleased at the singer’s approval.

  Triolyn gave them a sour smile and trudged on.

  “Mark me, all of you,” said Darion. “Riders are approaching the bridge. Keep your wits about you.”

  The riders were far away yet, but the red blush of their tabards stood out even at a distance. Darion urged his companions to keep moving and keep their hands off their weapons. When they came to the place where the stone bridge met the west bank, he stopped them. The five Korengadi men-at-arms reined up in front of them. They were clad in chainmail beneath their tabards, and armed with shields and morningstars.

  “This is a meager force for a sortie,” said a clean-shaven rider in a kettle helm and chainmail hood. His accent was so thick it made him hard to understand. The other riders did not laugh at his jest; indeed, they seemed not to understand him.

  “This is not a sortie,” said Darion. “We are come to treat with Rudgar King.”

  “Are you, now?” said the rider, amused. “That is wise. You Dathiri have finally come to your senses.”

  “I do not come on behalf of Olyvard King,” Darion explained. “Nor has Commander Palavar sent me.”

  A smile came and went from the rider’s face. “What good will this do if you speak not your king’s words?”

  “I am the king’s servant,” said Darion. “But I speak for the realms.”

  The rider studied him for a moment. Then he said something in the sharp Korengadi tongue that made the others laugh. “You give us your weapons now.”

  “We will surrender our weapons before we see the king,” Darion said.

  The rider shook his head. “Now.”

  Darion grasped the buckle of his sword belt.

  “Why did we bring weapons if we’re just going to give them up?” said Triolyn.

  Kestrel drew his short swords and presented them to one of the riders, hilt-first. Jeebo hoisted the scimitar off his back and offered it up to another. Darion unbuckled his sword belt and handed it, sheath and all, to the interpreter.

  “You people sicken me,” Triolyn muttered, thrusting out his bow.

  “Arrows, too,” said the rider. “Tell him.”

  “Triolyn,” said Darion. “Give them your quiver.”

  Arrows rattled as the archer shrugged off the stitched leather basket and handed it up.

  “Good,” said the rider. “Now, the hidden.”

  He said something in the Korengadi tongue and gestured. One of the riders dismounted and approached Kestrel. He took the singer by the wrists and lifted them. Kestrel spread his arms and let the man slide hands along his chest, sides, thighs, and ankles. By the time he was done, the soldier had retrieved two knives and a dagger from Kestrel’s person.

  He repeated the process thrice more, liberating Darion and his companions of every last scrap of steel and iron they carried. When the Korengadi were satisfied they had achieved full disarmament, they ushered Darion and the others toward the camp and followed on their horses. The army here was larger by thousands than the Dathiri force behind the keep, so it was a long way to the king’s tent near the back. The Korengadi soldiers along the way did not treat them kindly. Darion was glad he and the others had not worn the Dathiri colors, or their treatment may have been even worse.

  Rudgar King’s tent was larger than Commander Palavar’s had been, a double-domed affair with a crenelated awning in front. The king was already standing when they entered, having been notified in advance of their coming. Darion had always considered himself a large man, but Rudgar King stood half a head taller than he, so that when they locked forearms in greeting, Darion found himself staring into the beaded braids of the king’s copper-colored beard. He was sharp-eyed and broad-chested, edged in furs and antler spikes, but with the tired look of a man on the cusp of old age.

  The king welcomed them in his own tongue, and the rider who had met them at the bridge echoed him in the language of the five realms. Darion and the others responded in kind. The king bade them sit on the fur-lined bench along one side of his table, then sat in his chair at the end and began to speak.

  “Rudgar King is pleased that you have finally agreed to hear him out,” said the interpreter. “He has been awaiting the chance for some time now.”

  Darion bowed his head to the king. “Tell him we are also pleased. Tell him we hope to arrive at a resolution that will strengthen the bond between Korengad and the realms.” He waited for the translation.

  Rudgar’s face stiffened. He looked at Darion, anger in his eyes. When he began to speak his words were a loud staccato, keen as a blade.

  “His excellency says that no resolution will be possible until you return him his son,” said the interpreter. “He says… that if you do not free Rylar Prince and deliver him within three days… he will storm your gates and lay waste your kingdom. He will not rest until he has destroyed the realm of Dathrond and its allies.”

  Darion was shocked. “What does he mean return him his son? Ask him.”

  When Rudgar King heard the translation, he shot to his feet. He began to shout so loud the veins stood out on his forehead.

  “Do not play me for a fool,” said the interpreter. “Do not think me… so ignorant that I would not know what you are doing. You—” The interpreter broke off, which Darion presumed was an effort to avoid repeating the king’s slurs and curses.

  “I was not even aware Rylar Prince was in Dathrond,” Darion said. “Perhaps some trouble has befallen him, and that is why he has not returned home.”

  “Olyvard King has imprisoned my son,” said the interpreter. “He will answer for his betrayal.”

  “If Rylar Prince is in captivity, who leads the attack from the north?” asked Kestrel.

  “What attack?” the interpreter asked, without translating the question for the king.

  “Silence, singer,” Darion said. “This is trying enough a negotiation without your cutting in where you’re not needed.” He had been wondering the same thing, truth be told. But it would not do to let the Korengadi know Olyvard King had sent a large portion of his army to Desparr. Still, without the help of some diviner, the enemy could not know the size of the Dathiri force behind the Keep on the Ford. Best they think it a large one, Darion decided. “We’ve heard rumors that a second Korengadi force was inbound from Desparr. We assumed Rylar Prince was in command of such a force.”

  The interpreter gave the king a long explanation.

  Rudgar gave a disdainful smirk, then replied.

  “He wants his son,” said the interpreter. “The whole of his armies are here, as you see them. I will suffer no more of your tricks, he says. Nor w
ill I leave these shores without my son. For the sake of you and your people, you had best deliver him alive.”

  For all Darion knew, Rudgar King’s denial of a second army might be some trick on his part. Darion was inclined to believe him, though. He had demanded no gold, no lands, no hostages. The only thing he seemed to want was his son. A man did not sail halfway across the world for anything less than love or conquest. If Rylar Prince truly is being held captive at Castle Maergath, what is Olyvard King’s aim in all this? Darion wondered, not for the first time. Furthermore, how did he manage it? A Warcaster as powerful as Rylar would not be kept in a cell so easily.

  It was clear Olyvard meant to hide the prince’s imprisonment as long as possible by spreading lies and misinformation; giving orders to prevent negotiations with the Korengadi. There was a reason for it all, but Darion hadn’t quite puzzled it out. “I do hope Rylar Prince is alive,” he said. “But I do not know. Olyvard King has misled us all, it would seem.”

  Rudgar spoke.

  “What kind of a king lies to his people?” the interpreter said.

  “All of them. Or so I’ve always believed,” said Triolyn.

  Darion leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table and think. “Is the prince your only reason for coming to the five realms? Ask him that.”

  The interpreter asked. “I left my kingdom in the hands of a man not of my blood,” he translated. “I would never have done this thing, were it not for my son.”

  “And if Rylar Prince were delivered to you, you would end this siege and return to Korengad?”

  “His excellency says that Olyvard King must do two things,” said the interpreter. “He must return Rylar Prince alive. And he must abdicate his throne.”

  Darion couldn’t believe it. “Abdicate his—is this some jest? Is that truly what he said?”

  The interpreter gulped. “Yes.”

  “Olyvard King will never abdicate. And I do not mean that as a threat. Admittedly, I know the man only passing well. What I do know is that he will begrudge the man who delivers him that suggestion.”

  The interpreter cleared his throat when Rudgar began to speak again. “Nonetheless, those are our terms,” he said, with a hint of trembling in his voice.

  Darion shook his head in disbelief. “He wants all this in three days, you say? It’s at least four days back to Maergath by sea, and longer still by land. Even if I left now, or sent a messenger in hopes his majesty might agree to your demands, it could be ten days or a fortnight before we heard back.”

  “In three days’ time,” said the interpreter, “I will lead my attack on your river fortress and bring the full might of my armies to bear against Maergath. Dathrond will be mine unless my terms are met.”

  Olyvard King is a bigger fool than I imagined, thought Darion. “Then return us safely to the ford, that we may bear your terms henceforth to the king.”

  The interpreter spoke. This time, Rudgar King said only a few words in reply.

  “Bear them quickly. Or the realms will burn.”

  Chapter 22

  The mage-song was hovering just inside the bars of Alynor’s cell. She concentrated, but the sigils and tones of her movement spell would not come to her. She’d thought she was casting it correctly several times already, but nothing had happened when she’d finished. What am I doing wrong? she wondered.

  Alynor had never performed well under pressure. When Master Knollwood, her father’s castellan, had taken her and her sisters sailing on the Greenshore for the first time, she’d nearly run their small sailboat aground. Knollwood had reassured her afterwards, but her sisters had been cruel. They’d never let her forget it; in fact, they still brought it up from time to time, on the rare occasions when they were together anymore.

  This was the cruelest fate, she decided; to be down here in this dungeon and powerless to escape. She had never felt so useless in all her life. Marrying Darion had at least helped her escape her sisters for a time. Yet now she would rather have been anywhere else—even at that wedding in Laerlocke, with all of them staring and whispering about poor Lady Alynor and the husband who did not love her. Who would never love her.

  There was no time now for self-pity. A commotion was already building elsewhere in the dungeon. She could hear the rush of footsteps growing louder, a scuffling from beyond the door where the Dathiri guard lay with a spear through his back, groaning and struggling to rise. The man Rylar had stabbed near his cell lay face down and motionless.

  When her casting failed to wake the mage-song yet again, Alynor backed away from the bars of her cell, suspecting she might be too close to Rylar Prince’s zone of magical exclusion. Meanwhile, Rylar’s spell wore off, and the mage-song which had been floating before her dissipated. She waited for him to cast it again, then redoubled her efforts. No sooner had she begun to cast than Rylar was waving his hands and shaking his head.

  “What is it now?” she asked. “What am I doing wrong?”

  There was a thud at the door. The handle clicked. Someone tried to push it open, but the soldier on the floor stopped it after a few inches. Two gloved hands appeared around the door’s edge and pushed harder. The soldier on the floor gave a grunt, trying to lift himself out of the way but finding little strength to do so.

  Rylar looked at Alynor. He took a deep breath, then sang a smooth, clear note. He shoveled a hand toward her.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, growing more frustrated by the second.

  The soldiers were pushing through now. She saw a mailed leg slip past the doorframe. Half a torso followed.

  Alynor was confused until she recognized the note the prince had sung. Of course, she realized. It was the first tone. He was correcting me. She’d been intoning her sigils in the wrong key, thrown off in her fervor. She supposed she ought to have stowed her panpipes in the bodice of her morning gown before leaving her bedchamber all those days ago, but she couldn’t have known the king would lock her away then. Now in the mage-song’s true pitch, she began to cast again.

  The soldier squeezed the other half of his body through the door, hopping on one leg to let the other trail through. He bent over and dragged the wounded man out of the way. The door flew open and soldiers poured into the room.

  Alynor spoke her last sigil. The mage-song woke. She reached out for it and took hold. The soldiers flooded in, shouting their warnings and threats, scraping the points of their spears across the bars of her cell. She never lost her concentration until she saw who had followed the soldiers into the room.

  Geddle the Wise was casting a spell of his own.

  Alynor focused on the prince’s mage-song, floating where he had awakened it, and pushed. She felt the movement leaving her fingers, sensed the prince’s spell as it slid through the invisible barrier of his ward. Rylar stepped forward to take it, but the soldiers were waiting.

  The butt of a spear shot through the bars of his cell and drove into his gut, doubling him over. A second struck him in the face with a crack. Rylar’s head snapped back as the force of the blow knocked him off his feet.

  Alynor backed into the corner of her own cell and tried to move the prince’s mage-song closer to him. Before she could do a thing, Geddle’s spell washed over her in a wave, muffling all sounds in the room as if she’d plugged her ears with damp cotton. The soldiers’ shouts echoed as if from leagues away. When Alynor tried to spend the last of her mage-song, it was gone.

  Geddle ordered the two wounded soldiers carried away, then called off the dozen-or-so who remained and posted them throughout the room. The old jailer came over to Alynor’s cell and began to speak. She could hear him, but his voice had the same muffled quality as all the other sounds. “You are clever, milady. That’s to be sure. Imagine you, a caster all this time, and me none the wiser. I did warn you not to misbehave. It brings me great displeasure to have been interrupted while about his majesty’s business. So I’m afraid you’ll have to answer for what you’ve done.”

  Alynor had committed
no crime against the king, yet she felt guilty all the same. The soldiers’ blood stained the hard earthen floor, reminding her of the part she’d played in Rylar’s attack. Had it been wrong to help this foreign prince try to regain his freedom? What if he was guilty of some crime she had yet to learn about? One thing was certain; now that Geddle knew she could cast spells, her chances of escaping were grimmer than ever.

  “Now I’ve got to keep two wards going day and night,” the old mage was saying. “Granted, the one was no challenge. A bit boresome, really. You lot are in for a treat.”

  Geddle produced a thick leatherbound tome and thumbed through it. Holding the open book in one hand, he studied the page before clearing his throat. When he was done casting, he thrust out his arm to send his spell at the prince.

  Rylar, who was still lying on his back, clapped his hands over his ears and began to writhe. Geddle cast the spell again and extended a hand in Alynor’s direction. The hollow, echoing sounds in her ears catapulted in volume and pitch until her whole head rang like a thousand rusted blades scraping over rock.

  The clamor compelled her to cover her ears, but that did little good. Her legs robbed of their strength, she collapsed to her knees and curled up on the ground. She had long since stopped caring about the cleanliness of her dress; now she longed for nothing but silence.

  “Let that be a lesson to you,” she heard Geddle say, though his voice was fainter and further off than before. “I cannot promise you won’t suffer worse when his majesty hears what’s happened down here.”

  Alynor’s mind was a blur. She could not speak, could not see, could not think. No matter how she struggled or how hard she pressed her palms to her ears, the noise would not lessen.

  The spell lasted so long she began to think her head would split open. When it finally dissipated, she opened her eyes to find it was dark outside. She was exhausted, her body sore and tired from hours of tense struggle.