Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  At the castle gates, Kestrel handed Darion’s letter to one of the guards. The two men exchanged words briefly before the soldier gave back the letter and waved them through. They met similar resistance at the castle doors, and again when the castellan came to greet them in the entry hall. In each instance, a glance at the Warcaster’s scroll was all it took to get them moving again.

  Olyvard King was pacing the throne room when the castellan let them inside. There was a silver tray on a small side table, from which the king plucked a handful of grapes every so often as he walked past. Ristocule watched him rear his head back and toss a grape into his open mouth while a white-haired man among his cluster of advisors gave an impassioned speech. The king did not seem the least bit interested in what the man had to say, but was enduring his gibberish all the same.

  When the castellan announced Kestrel, Triolyn, and Jeebo as messengers bringing word from Sir Darion Ulther at the Dathiri Ford, the king’s easy detachment shifted to a brooding obstinance. He summoned the three men forward, then took a seat on his throne and dismissed his advisors from the room.

  Ristocule had waited a long time for this moment. It had been quite a feat to orchestrate an audience with the king from the shoulder of a man who considered him little more than a hunting slave. He had not wanted to appear disobedient, lest Jeebo come to think his training insufficient. Ristocule would eat a porcupine before he underwent that drudgery again.

  The king waited until his castellan had left the throne room through the main entrance doors before he spoke. Now the two soldiers standing guard at the back of the hall were their only company. “You bring news?” the king asked through a mouthful of grapes.

  “Yes, mil—your majesty,” said the singer. He gestured with the Warcaster’s parchment scroll.

  “Bring it here,” the king snapped.

  Kestrel approached the throne, bent to one knee, and lifted the scroll. The king snatched it from his upraised hands, shoving the rest of his grapes into his mouth so he could use that hand to uncurl the paper. Kestrel stood and backed away from the throne, coming to a halt where he had been standing.

  The king gave the singer only a momentary glance, but it seethed with disdain. He chewed as he read the scroll, and for a time that was the only sound. After a loud swallow, the king spoke. “Do the three of you know the contents of this letter?”

  Ristocule swayed on Jeebo’s shoulder as the man shifted nervously on his feet.

  “We do, your majesty,” said Kestrel.

  The king gave them a regretful look. “I see. Then you must also know Sir Ulther for the traitor he has become.”

  No one answered.

  “When last you saw him… was he well?”

  “He was, your majesty.”

  The king wrinkled his mouth. “Perhaps my pathfinders were delayed.”

  “Pathfinders?” said Kestrel, alarmed. “You had him killed?”

  “Not killed. Retrieved. They were to return Sir Ulther to Maergath. That you arrived first leads me to believe they were unsuccessful. Shame. Partridge had been my agent of choice for some time.”

  If the king had sent his pathfinders after the Warcaster, Ristocule hoped he’d gotten the better of them. The Warcaster had endured worse and survived. Yet if the king’s pathfinders did take him, all was not lost.

  “I see three men standing before me,” the king was saying. “Three men and a bird, to be precise. Are these three traitors, or are they men of good faith? Men who serve their king?”

  Jeebo’s mouth was so dry, Ristocule could hear the parched sound it made when he licked his lips. “Above my king, I serve none but Faranion, your majesty.”

  Gods, Jeebo could be a fool sometimes. Ristocule wanted to put a notch in the man’s head, but that might not go well for anyone involved. Instead he gave a loud squawk and flitted across the room to stand on the king’s grape tray.

  “What is that wicked creature doing to my supper? Get him away,” the king demanded.

  “Apologies, your majesty.” Jeebo came quickly, extending a gloved hand to tease Ristocule onto his finger.

  Ristocule had other ideas. He fluttered out of reach again, coming to rest on the high arched back of the king’s throne. Digging his claws into the smooth polished gold, he squawked again and flapped his wings as if to lift the throne off its feet. He was only a bird, though, and he possessed no such strength. When Jeebo climbed into the king’s seat and made a grab for him, Ristocule flapped away and landed in the rafters far above.

  “That foul creature needs a few more feathers,” said Triolyn, thumbing the bowstring at his chest. “Say the word, your majesty, and I’ll mount its head on your wall.”

  Jeebo slid off the royal seat and whirled. “Oh no you won’t. And if you don’t stop threatening him, I’ll hack off your draw fingers and see that you never shoot another arrow again.”

  “Lads, lads,” said Kestrel. “Let’s remember whose presence we’re in, please.”

  “Will someone fetch that damned bird and get these meddling imps out of my sight?” the king shouted.

  His guards moved to obey. It was a long distance from the throne room doors, so the singer had time to say, “Wait, your majesty. We must inquire after Lady Alynor. May we see her?”

  “I am afraid you may not,” said the king. “Now. Get that winged scourge down from my rafters, or I’ll take your archer up on his offer.”

  “Why can’t we see her? Where is she?”

  “She is under my protection and is not seeing visitors at the moment.”

  “I bring word from her husband,” said Kestrel. “Word that she must hear at once.”

  “Wait.” The king lifted a hand to halt his guards. “Give it to me. I shall deliver it to Lady Alynor myself.”

  Kestrel made a brief move for the letter in his pocket, but remembered Darion’s warning. Deliver this to her yourself, if possible, and do not tell the king you have it. “There is nothing to give, your majesty. Sir Darion simply asked me to tell her something. It is for her ears only, I fear.”

  From Ristocule’s vantage point above, he could see the black marks on the floor, spread out like the four corners of a cloverleaf. So it is here the king plans to bring about the destruction of magic, then, he thought. The ritual is set, but for its participants…

  Ristocule could not remember when he had gained the understanding of men and the knowledge of the mage-song. To him it seemed he had always been this way. Yet somehow, he knew he must be here when the ritual took place. Without magic, the world was destined to be ruled by brute strength and the weight of gold over all else. That was exactly the kind of world the King of Dathrond wanted, chiefly because his kingdom possessed more of both than any other.

  “I assure you, I shall deliver Sir Ulther’s message to Lady Alynor on your behalf,” the king said.

  “I promised Sir Darion I would look after his lady wife,” said Kestrel. “A promise between friends. I am sorry, your majesty, but that is not a promise I am willing to break, whether Sir Darion is traitor or not.”

  A smile flickered over the king’s face. “I see. Most unfortunate. Guards, get these men out of my sight. And fetch my finest crossbowman to dispatch with the bird.”

  “Why will you not tell me where she is?” Kestrel shouted as the soldiers shoved him away.

  Jeebo was clucking his tongue and rubbing his fingers together, trying to call Ristocule down to his gloved fist. “Here, lad. Here, Ristocule. Come to me.”

  With some hesitation, Ristocule flapped down and landed on his servant’s wrist. He could not stay in the great hall, he knew, lest the king have him shot down. But he would be watching, oh yes. Whenever Jeebo sent him on a hunt or let him fly free for a time, Ristocule’s sharp eyes would be on the castle and its king, watching and waiting. And when the time drew nigh, he would return.

  “What are we to do now?” Jeebo said when the soldiers had expelled them from the castle.

  “I don’t know,” said Kestrel,
brushing himself off. “His majesty all but ignored Sir Darion’s letter. It’s clear he’s keeping Rylar Prince captive somewhere. And Lady Alynor as well.”

  “Is it?” said Triolyn. “That’s not the impression I got. The prince and the lady might both be dead, for all the king told us. We might’ve gotten more out of him if not for that stupid bird.”

  “I told you never to talk about Ristocule like that,” said Jeebo, his greenish skin reddening.

  “He didn’t mean it. Did you, Triolyn?”

  “Of course I did. I never say anything I don’t mean.”

  “Well then, keep it to yourself for now. We have some work to do, the three of us.”

  “Oh, do we? And what did you have in mind?”

  “We’re getting back into that castle.”

  “How and why would we do that, exactly?”

  “We can assume Rylar Prince is in the dungeons, if he’s still alive. But we’ve no idea where Lady Alynor might be. The king may have her locked in a tower somewhere for all we know. Wherever she is, she’s bound to be guarded.”

  “There’s no way we’ll ever get to her now. That castle’s crawling with Dathiri soldiers.”

  “Are you daft? We’re Dathiri soldiers, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “I hadn’t. So what?”

  “So, we report to the barracks as transfers from the ford and get ourselves into the guard rotation. We’ll be able to explore the castle unimpeded.”

  “Waste your time standing behind a spear if you like,” said Triolyn. “I’ll be at the Dune’s Shadow, enjoying my next drink. Don’t know why I came back with you lot. I was perfectly happy at the ford, feathering Korengadi scum from the battlements.”

  “No you weren’t,” said Kestrel. “You complained every time you had to use two arrows to kill one man.”

  “Aye, and complaining makes me happy. Just as a great big foaming mug of ale will do in a few minutes’ time.”

  “When first we met, you said you always fought for the oppressed. A kingdom oppressed is a kingdom in need of my services, you said. Knowing what we’ve learned about Rylar Prince, have your notions not changed of who is the oppressor and who the oppressed?”

  “Somewhat,” said Triolyn. “I’m still deciding. A decision best accompanied by a mug of ale.”

  Kestrel gave a frustrated grunt. “And you, Jeebo?”

  “I am no soldier. I can swing a sword, maybe, but I haven’t the mind for warfare. My place is with Ristocule, on the open skies.”

  “Now the half-breed thinks he can fly, too,” Triolyn said with a laugh. “Something goes wrong in the mind when you breed one race to another, I swear it.”

  “You quiet down, or that will be the last you ever slander me,” Jeebo said.

  “I suppose I’m to go on alone, then,” said Kestrel. “Is that what the both of you are telling me?”

  Triolyn folded his arms. “We’ve done what we could. We tried. But the king is the king, and we’re not. You would do best to remember that.”

  “Sir Darion is trying to save this kingdom,” Kestrel said. “Frankly, so am I—this one, and all the others. Our fate is sealed if the Korengadi break through the ford. Would you stand by and watch it happen? It isn’t just Alynor who needs our help, nor Rylar Prince. It’s our homes. Our families. I’ll be the first to admit war is good for business. But not when it means the death of everything and everyone we hold dear. The Dathiri army will never rise against its own king. The people are too scared to lift a finger. That leaves us. The three of us. If anyone is going to save the realms from the outbreak of this new war, it’s you, and you, and me. Right now. What say you?”

  Jeebo and Triolyn were silent for a moment. Ristocule, for one, would not stand by while these imbeciles squandered their only chance. He flapped his wings and climbed high into the air, leaving a startled Jeebo behind. With the wind at his back, he stretched his neck and gave a shrill so loud it echoed through the mountains. Then he dove, slowing to land lightly on Kestrel’s shoulder. He screeched at Jeebo, then turned his head toward Triolyn and screeched again.

  “It seems your bird is on my side,” said Kestrel, trying to hold still though he was visibly uncomfortable beneath Ristocule’s claws.

  Jeebo was puzzled. “It seems he is. Well then. I’m with you too.”

  Triolyn pulled his folded arms tighter across his chest. “I’m not. I can’t stand either of you. I’d rather be back at the ford, fighting.”

  “You can’t stand most people,” said Kestrel. “But if you help us, you needn’t go all the way back to the ford for a fight.”

  Chapter 25

  When Darion woke again, he was no longer at sea. He was still lying on rough wooden planks, bound and gagged, but now he could smell horse sweat, hear the clop of hooves, and feel the jostling of stony ground beneath him. When he lifted his head to look around, the three hooded men were seated near the front of a two-wheeled cart pulled by a pair of draft horses. Night was coming, and the horizon ahead was bleak and mountainous except for one thing: the looming gray form of Castle Maergath.

  “He’s up,” said one of the hooded men.

  The driver glanced over his shoulder and gave a grunt of acknowledgment.

  “Shall I put him back down?” asked the first.

  “Leave him,” the driver croaked. “His majesty will want him awake. Look sharp. Someone’s coming.”

  As they neared the end of the mountain road, one of the men unrolled a thin brown blanket and tossed it over Darion, covering him from head to toe. Even against the dusk, he could see a grainy picture of the three men through the blanket. He saw the driver give a friendly wave to someone passing by.

  Soon Darion felt the rocky path smooth to sand. He began to hear townspeople milling about. He could smell their supper fires and the dung of their animals. Twice along the way, the cart stopped while the hooded men spoke with others outside. Darion saw the walls of the castle rise before them. He heard the gates open and close as they entered first the outer ward, then the inner.

  He did not try to escape. For the first time in what must’ve been days, he could feel true awareness returning to him. He would take all the time available to him and gather his wits for whatever was coming. Olyvard King had not wanted him to leave the castle. Nor would his majesty have sent the hooded men to retrieve him unless he felt it was of dire importance. Why the king had lied about the Korengadi Prince, Darion could not guess. That much, he intended to find out.

  With the gates closed and the cart stopped, the hooded men peeled back the blanket and hauled Darion to his feet. They cut the ropes around his ankles, but left his hands bound and his mouth gagged as they escorted him up the steps. Castellan Carthag gave Darion a condescending look before leading them down the long corridor and into the great hall.

  Olyvard King was waiting on his throne, tapping his fingers on the golden armrests. When they entered, he shot to his feet as if unable to restrain himself any longer. “Traitor,” he bellowed, coming to meet them halfway down the long carpet. “Snake.”

  Darion tried to speak, forgetting the gag. One of the hooded men untied it at the king’s consent. Darion spat out a few cloth fibers and cleared his throat. “There is a snake in your castle. But I am not he.”

  “His sword, your majesty.”

  Olyvard waved to a servant, who accepted a sheathed Bloodcaller from the hooded man and leaned it against the throne’s armrest. “Won’t this make a nice addition to the collection of trinkets my men retrieved from your chambers. Thank you, Silam. Now, if Sir Ulther tries to cast a spell, break one of his fingers. Do not think to test my pathfinders, Sir Ulther. They are every bit as loyal as I once believed you to be. As it happens, you are the very snake I speak of. I did not send you to the ford to make alliances with the Korengadi, yet I come to find this very day that you have returned their spokesman.” He held up the scroll Darion had sent back with Kestrel and the others, its seal broken.

  “I went to the ford to
fight for you, your majesty. I would’ve done, too, if these ruffians hadn’t dragged me back against my will.”

  “They dragged you back because it was my will. Any true servant knows to put his master’s above his own.”

  “I was your servant,” said Darion. “Before your will turned to madness. What have you done with Rylar Prince of Korengad, whose fate you’ve kept secret all this time?”

  “He is locked in my dungeons,” the king said easily. “Under a spell. A very important spell, as it happens. Or rather, part of a very important spell.”

  Darion was relieved to hear the prince still lived. Perhaps there is hope yet, he told himself. “Why? Why did you do it?”

  “Well, that’s just like you, isn’t it? Prying into matters which do not concern you.”

  “The well-being of the realms concerns me,” said Darion. “Your abduction of this prince seems to be the cause of much concern, and not just mine.”

  The king faked a smile. “Ah, Sir Ulther. You poor, simple man. You are beginning to witness the first blossoms of seeds I planted years ago. Soon everything will be made plain, and you shall understand you’ve been part of this from the start.”

  “I’ve done nothing unless it was by my own choice,” Darion said. “Nor will I.”

  “Perhaps,” said the king. “But if you doubt I arranged every piece in its proper place, you underestimate me. Makes me wonder how well you really knew my father. After all, he taught me everything I know.”

  “Your father was a nobler man than you’ll ever be.”

  Olyvard laughed loudly. “Nobler, yes. Not nearly so successful as I am about to be, however. I have waited a long time for this, Sir Ulther. Now we stand on the eve of my greatest triumph, and it is you who shall help me achieve it. Master Carthag?”