Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two

by Brian S. Pratt

  Haunted eyes stared out from beneath thin brows of black. As the riders drew close, a darkening of the skin just below the mage’s right eye became clear. To James it appeared to be a bruise. There was scant time to ponder the ramification of that revelation before the riders came to a stop ten feet back. The leader and the mage rode forward. It was clear the mage was not the one in charge.

  The soldier was in his mid twenties. Hardened lines and several scars gave his visage an ominous appearance. Eyes devoid of mercy roved over those arrayed before him, finally settling upon Scar and Potbelly.

  “What brings you so far south, strangers?”

  Grinning amiably in the hopes of putting the soldier at ease, Scar replied, “We are agents of a newly formed trading house located in Cardri and have been sent to see about the possibility of trading contacts with your merchants.”

  The mage cast furtive glances from Scar, to the soldier next to him, and then to Potbelly before dropping his eyes toward the ground.

  Taking in the barren landscape first to the right, then to the left, the soldier asked, “Do you normally seek merchants in the middle of the desert?” He looked less than convinced.

  Scar shook his head. “Not normally, no.”

  “Then why do you travel here and not upon the road? Merchants are more likely to be found where there are people.”

  “Earlier, we had the misfortune to meet a band of men wearing uniforms bearing an emblem depicting crossed swords within a red circle. They sought to rob us. A number of our comrades fell in the battle that followed. We thought it prudent to avoid contact with locals until reaching Korazan. We had heard the situation was more, uh, stable to the south.”

  A wicked grin broke the soldier’s stony countenance. “How many of Kazan’s men did you kill?”

  Scar matched the leader’s grin. “More than we lost.”

  The leader’s laughter held more malice than mirth. “Good riddance.” His humor was short-lived and his face returned to harder lines.

  “Now, let me see your Letters of Authorization.”

  “Letters of Authorization?” Scar asked, puzzled.

  “Yes; the letters in which your employer empowers you to negotiate on his behalf.” When Scar failed to offer an immediate reply, the leader’s malice-laced grin reappeared. “I thought not.”

  Sensing their story wasn’t going to be believed, James began gathering magic to counter whatever the young mage would do. At the same time, Potbelly began coughing severely.

  James ignored the Pit Master’s plight and instead remained focused on the enemy mage. Less than a heartbeat passed before the mage’s eyes widened and turned to meet James’. He could sense the gathering magic.

  As the mage’s lips parted to speak, his hand suddenly flew to his neck and brushed against the skin as one would should they be inflicted with a biting insect.

  “Looks like we got ourselves some spies.”

  “We are not spies!” argued Scar.

  The leader’s visage hardened further. “Then let me see your Letters of Authorization.”

  “They were, uh, lost in the battle with Kazan’s men.”

  “How unfortunate for you.” Raising his voice so as to be heard clearly by all, he said, “Drop your weapons.”

  “This is preposterous!” Scar exclaimed.

  Holding his hand before him, the young mage looked at a drop of blood upon his fingertip. Lips worked but no sound came forth. He returned a gaze of confusion to James, then his eyes glassed over.

  “Are you going to drop your weapons?” the leader asked. His four crossbowmen raised their weapons. “Or shall I have my mage destroy you?”

  A look of smugness replaced Scar’s indignated demeanor. “If it’s a battle you wish, we’re game.” He laid his hands upon his sword hilts.

  “Fools. Azhan!”

  When after a moment passed and nothing happened, the leader turned wrathfully toward the mage. “Azhan!” Striking the mage forcefully upon the shoulder, the leader’s anger turned to shocked surprise when the young mage toppled from his horse.

  “What…?”

  With the mage out of commission, James focused on the next threat, the crossbowmen. Concentrating on the bowstrings just as he had before, he let loose the magic. This time, instead of explosions that destroyed weapons and men, a series of “twangs” sounded as three bowstrings snapped. A painful cry quickly followed when one snapped back into its owner’s face and took out his right eye.

  “Shorty!”

  No sooner had Jiron shouted the knifer’s name than deadly projectiles took out two of the remaining three crossbowmen.

  The fourth got off a shot sending Potbelly flying backward off his horse. A moment later he fell to another of Shorty’s knives.

  Scar drew both swords, kicked the sides of his horse and bolted for the leader.

  Shock at the unexpected turn of events having worn off, the leader drew his sword and met Scar’s attack.

  “You should have let us go,” Scar said. Coming abreast of the leader, he diverted a thrust with one of his blades then followed through with a swipe with his second.

  Twisting in the saddle to avoid decapitation, the leader’s maneuver was cut short when Tinok raced by behind him and struck with great precision at the base of his neck.

  Without even slowing, Tinok withdrew his knife and galloped toward the two men-at-arms who had been en route to aid the leader. But upon seeing him topple to the ground, they came to an abrupt halt and turned to flee. Tinok failed to allow them such an opportunity.

  They had barely spun about when he was upon them. Slamming his horse into one, he stabbed twice; once in the side and then in the neck before the soldier could even think to defend himself. As the man’s life swiftly departed, Tinok whipped his horse into a gallop.

  The remaining soldier already had a lead on him, but somehow, Tinok managed to slowly close the gap. Both riders kept low against their steeds’ necks as they raced across the scrubland.

  Reins in one hand and knife in the other, Tinok encouraged his horse to even greater speed.

  The Empire soldier glanced back, saw Tinok gaining and drew his sword. When Tinok’s stead came close, he took a swipe at its head, causing it to shy away. His lead increased.

  Undaunted, Tinok kicked the sides of his horse and the chase resumed. When he again drew near the hindquarters of his prey’s horse, Tinok kept directly behind him. In such a position, the soldier would have to extend father backward in order to attempt another attack. Should he do so, he would risk throwing off his horse’s gait.

  The man glanced back toward Tinok and the pit fighter could tell that he contemplated making the attack. When the soldier’s shoulder muscles tightened in anticipation of the attack, Tinok struck first opening a shallow, two-inch gash to the right of the horse’s tail.

  Though not fatal, the blow had the effect of causing the beast to stumble and crash to the ground; the rider was thrown clear. The soldier hit the ground and tumbled for several feet before coming to rest.

  Tinok slowed and leapt from his horse. Drawing his second knife, he advanced toward where the man lay prone. Behind him, he could hear other riders approach. A glance back revealed Jiron and Shorty racing to his aid.

  But help was not needed. As he neared the soldier, Tinok saw how the head laid at an unnatural angle; the neck had broken when the man hit the ground.

  “He’s dead.”

  Jiron nodded as he slowed.

  Shorty surveyed the scene, then the surrounding countryside. “We should get out of here before someone comes looking for them.”

  Wiping his blade upon the dead man’s tunic, Tinok glanced at him and shrugged. “Should they come, we’ll do them the same.”

  Gone was the humor that once had laced his words. Jiron missed the man his friend had been before the death of his beloved Cassie. So senseless a death, and coming on the eve of their betrothal made the wound all the more severe.

  Over the years since
the end of the war, many times had Jiron tried to bring forth the good-naturedness that once had been Tinok’s hallmark, all to no avail. What he had been was gone; it made Jiron sad.

  Shorty turned about and headed back to the others while Jiron waited for Tinok to recover his horse. The horse of the soldier limped off to the side; its tumble to the ground had injured its right foreleg. In such inhospitable surroundings, it wouldn’t last long.

  “Hold still you whiney old woman!”

  Scar held Potbelly’s shoulders in a firm grip while Father Keller worked the crossbow bolt out from deep within the Pit Master’s flesh. Miko knelt next to the trio; the glow of Morcyth surrounded him.

  “Is he going to live?”

  Miko glanced to Jira, gave her a reassuring smile and nodded. “Yes, Jira. It would take much more than a minor prick such as this to kill a man like Potbelly.”

  “Minor prick?” Potbelly said with sarcasm then followed with a final, painful exclamation that announced the emergence of the bolt’s head.

  Father Keller held up the bolt. “You are still alive, are you not?”

  Scar chuckled. “To hear him, you’d think Death had come to take him away.”

  “I have been grievously wounded,” asserted Potbelly. Eyeing the blood-coated bolt, he closed his eyes and laid back.

  Miko motioned for Kip to kneel next to him. “Healing is a fine art, one that as a novice should not attempt without guidance.”

  Kip nodded and watched as his High Priest placed a hand over the gaping wound. The glow radiated outward from Miko’s palm and suffused the area with healing magic.

  “Morcyth supplies the magic, but we are the ones who direct it in its use. Do it incorrectly, and you can inflict great suffering.”

  “Is it the same as what the Dark Mage does?”

  Miko shook his head.

  “No. Magic that comes directly from the gods is different than what a mage would use.”

  Kip glanced to James. “How could that be?”

  “Not a clue. All we know is that it just is.”

  Lines of pain creasing Potbelly’s face gradually diminished as Miko worked to heal the wound.

  Kip watched and wished he too could do such magic. One day, he told himself. One day.

  Scar eased his grip on his friend’s shoulders. “I think you’re going to survive.”

  Potbelly didn’t reply.

  The glow vanished and Miko raised his hand. Where a gaping, angry wound had once been was now a patch of pink, healthy-looking skin. Turning his gaze to Scar, Miko said, “It will probably ache for several days. See that he takes it easy.”

  Scar nodded. “I will, and thank you.”

  Miko grinned and stood. Turning to James he said. “It would do him good if we could remain here for the next couple of hours.”

  “Not a problem.” James then turned his head toward where Father Vickor kept an eye on the enemy mage. The priest had the mage’s robe off. A multitude of bruises intermingled with scars of wounds long healed marred the lad’s skin from the waist up. In naught but his small clothes, he looked quite harmless. But James knew otherwise.

  “Scar, what did you do to him?”

  It wasn’t the bruises that prompted the question, rather the way the mage had failed to use magic and fell from his horse prior to the onset of battle.

  Finding James staring at the mage, Scar removed a small tube from his tunic. “A little something we cooked up to deal with a mage who kept interfering with fights. We remembered how you had been laid low with a bit of Berac.” Scar grinned. “Thought it might come in handy.”

  “A dart?”

  “Needle actually. It has a hollow tip that contains a single drop of distilled Berac. We found it works quite well, for a short time.”

  “How long will he be affected?”

  Scar shrugged. “The effects usually last an hour. Time enough to deal with a cheater; or in this case an enemy mage.”

  “Want me to handle this?”

  James glanced to where Jiron and Tinok had just ridden up and shook his head. He had a good idea what Jiron meant by “handling.”

  “No. I want to talk to him first. Miko, would you mind helping me?”

  “Certainly. What do you want me to do?”

  “I know you can tell when someone lies.”

  Miko nodded. “Certainly.”

  “Then let’s see if he knows anything about the mage that attacked my island.”

  The lad’s eyes were sluggish in turning toward James as he approached.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  His expression remained blank.

  “I am The Dark Mage and I have a few questions for you.”

  Still nothing.

  James glanced to where Scar sat next to Potbelly.

  “He should be able to talk,” Scar said. “The effects are mild, just enough to disrupt their magical ability.”

  Tinok pulled his knife and before anyone knew what he was about, grabbed the mage by the hair, yanked his head back and set the blade against the lad’s throat. He then spoke in the Empire’s tongue.

  Whatever he said produced a result. Eyes that had hitherto been vacant and unresponsive, widened. Darting back and forth among those arrayed before him, they finally settled upon James. There was fear in his eyes. Tinok asked a question and the lad replied, “Azhan.”

  “His name is Azhan.”

  James nodded. “You speak their language?”

  Tinok’s only reply was a nod.

  “Ask him if the Empire was behind those that attacked my island.”

  The fear in the lad’s eyes turned to outright terror as Tinok spoke. Shaking his head violently, the lad replied in a rapid string of words, the last of which he practically screamed.

  “He says that he has no such knowledge.”

  James eyed Tinok and wondered what exactly he was saying to the boy. He glanced to Miko who nodded. “He spoke truth.”

  “Does he have any knowledge of the mage?”

  After a brief interchange, Tinok shook his head.

  “If there was a mage of such power from the Empire,” Father Keller said, “he’d know about it.”

  “That would stand to reason.”

  Miko took a step toward James and in a low voice asked, “If not from the Empire, then where?”

  James shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

  “Ask him about other mages in the area,” Jiron suggested. “And how long we have until another patrol arrives?”

  Tinok spoke to the young mage, his knife still laid against the lad’s throat. When he finished, the knifer said, “The nearest mage is a day’s ride to the east, another is to the west. Both are riding with patrols. Seems they have five such bands roaming Cytok’s northern border. One of the more powerful mages is located in Korazan. He’s there to aid any of these border mages should they prove not up to the task.”

  “What about patrols without mages?”

  “A patrol of twenty roams south of here, another of equal size lies to the east. He is not certain of their exact position but doubts if they are closer than several hours. If we can cross the Ti-Migala River without encountering either, we’ll be okay.”

  James took in the mage in greater detail. Most of the bruises looked old, but one on his left shoulder appeared rather fresh. There was a haunted look in his eyes as he answered their questions. Unlike the mages he had encountered in the past, the ones that had wielded power and commanded respect, this young one looked like a pup that had been abused by its owner.

  Interrupting Jiron’s detailed questioning about patrols, their routes and numbers, James signaled for Tinok to move his knife away from the lad’s throat.

  “I don’t think he’s going to try anything.”

  Tinok kept the knife where it was.

  “We can’t be too careful where a mage is concerned,” Jiron argued.

  “Move it…away.”

  Tinok glanced to Jiron who nodded; the knife moved to th
e side. The mage visibly relaxed.

  Coming toward the lad, James knelt in front of him. The lad’s eyes widened and fear clearly etched itself upon his features.

  “Tell him I won’t hurt him.”

  Tinok’s words of assurance had little effect.

  James caught the young man’s eyes and held them. “I won’t hurt you,” he reiterated slowly and clearly.

  Tinok translated his words.

  From where Scar sat with Potbelly, he snorted. “You’re not going to convince him of that; you can see it in his eyes. Best kill him now and be done with it.”

  James shook his head. “No.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” Jiron asked. “Let him go? By sundown the whole world will know you are back. Scar’s right, we have no choice.”

  Glancing to his friend, James replied, “There’s always a choice.”

  Jiron spat. “You’re aversion to killing is going to get our families dead. We can’t let him go.”

  “Then we’ll take him with us.”

  Father Vickor laughed. “Take an Empire mage with us? Are you mad?”

  “He will give us away,” warned Father Keller.

  “No, he won’t.”

  James turned back to the mage. Fear still ruled the youth’s features, but it had softened somewhat. He nodded to Tinok then met the mage’s eyes once again. As he spoke, Tinok translated.

  “I am the Dark Mage.”

  Raising both hands into the air, he summoned magic and the wind began to blow.

  In a voice deep and haunting, James intoned, “Servants of Glerhan, hearken to my call.”

  Several feet away, a tiny voice whispered, “Glerhan, Father?” which was followed by Jiron’s quick “Hush, Jira.”

  Terror was clearly etched upon the young mage. Trembling, he tried to back away, but Tinok held him fast.

  Rising from the ground, two creatures of nightmarish proportions took shape. Each the color of earth, they were vaguely man-shaped. Their mouths were filled with razor sharp teeth and their eyes were solid ebony and full of hate and malice. In lieu of hands, these creatures had claws with but four taloned digits.

  Both wielded spears the height of a man and crested with a wicked, jagged blade. When they finally took shape and solidified, they towered over everyone in attendance.