Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3)

by Chris Hollaway

  * * *

  “Dubrath pak-ta!” one of the Dwarven soldiers muttered as one of Carlo’s men bumped against him and almost stumbled into the fire. The other two Dwarven regulars chortled and jostled one another.

  “Accursed runts,” another of the soldiers under Carlo’s command hissed.

  “Stay your tongue!” Alma pointed at the man with a mostly empty ladle, sloshing gobbets of soup on his uniform. “They are here to help us. Far from their homes, out in the open, this cannot be easy for them.” She smoothed her apron. “But you…” she pointed at the dwarf who had spoken.

  “Skooze.” He tilted his head down in acquiescence.

  “Just like children…” Alma sighed. She glanced at the Dwarven Stoneguard, who had sat watching the incident without reaction. “And you…”

  One corner of the dwarf’s mouth turned up in a smile, and Alma couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Ye handled that well,” the Dwarven translator said, sopping up the last of his soup with a crust of bread, and sloshing the wooden bowl through the tub of wash-water as he finished his meal. “Learn the language, ye’d make a fine ambassador.”

  “And deal with this… wonderfully juvenile behavior… constantly?” she asked.

  “Ye’ve got the words of a diplomat already,” he shrugged. “And the ear of our King. A handful of seasons in the Hold, ye’d be a great help te both our peoples.” He shuffled his feet before looking back up at her. “Some might expect fer the sister of the Blademage te be more than a farm wife.”

  “I’ll not mention that affront to the other farm wives I know,” Alma glared at the dwarf. “And what my brother is or is not has no bearing on what I do with my life.” She thought a moment. “Besides dragging me back and forth across the Realm, obviously. Making me consort with dwarves and soldiers, probably getting me mixed up in more magic than I care to think about, eventually. Damnation.”

  “So ye’ll consider it!” the dwarf laughed, and slapped Alma on the back. “We’d be lucky te have ye.”

  Alma shook her head as the translator worked his way over to his countrymen, slapping heads and chastising the soldiers in their native tongue.

  “No luck fishing?” Alma asked as Martin entered camp empty-handed, under the watchful eye of the visible Dwarven Stoneguard.

  “Not tonight,” he answered, flashing empty palms for all in the camp to see.

  “You’ll do better next time,” she reassured him, scraping the last of the thickening soup into a bowl and handing it over.

  “Only another two weeks, at this pace, until we reach Navlia.” Carlo said, depositing his empty bowl in the washbasin.

  “Only.” Martin smirked. “This way is easier on the arms, I suppose.”

  “Enjoy the journey, boy.” Carlo barked. “Destinations are seldom what we expect.”

  Martin shrugged, and sat on one of the makeshift log benches around the fire to eat his meal.

  “He gets like this when things change that he can’t control,” Alma confided in hushed tones as she began washing the used bowls. “I’m surprised it’s taken this long, given the circumstances.”

  “Your brother was the opposite,” Carlo remarked, scooping up a dishcloth and drying the bowls Alma finished with. “Even when he was keeping secrets, he was in the thick of things. The only times he was withdrawn were because of a woman. That’s clearly not the case here.”

  “No,” Alma agreed. “It took more than a year for Martin to adjust to life away from his Master. It seemed like he was finally settling in to the way our lives had turned out,”

  “Then… this…” Carlo finished. “He hasn’t even seen any real action yet. I’ll make sure the others know to keep watch on both of you, should anything happen.”

  Alma shook her head. “Things will happen as they must.”

  Carlo folded the cloth and placed it by the stack of dry bowls. “And rarely as we prepared for them,” he chuckled. “Sleep well.”

  Chapter 18

  “Ahh…” Alanna sat back against the trunk of the tree, one leg dangling off the broad branch that held her. Below, the lowest level of the Elven city moved, all bright colors and graceful rhythm. She stretched, yawning, and her fingers brushed against the longknife at her belt. She whipped it from its sheath, whirling into a crouch, blade inches from the neck of the dwarf that peeked around the corner.

  “Put yer knife away,” Kylgren-Wode admonished her, sitting on the side of the branch that had a living railing woven from smaller branches and vines. “I had te get out of the middle of that,” he grumbled, indicating the bustle below. “And I don’t fancy going much higher.”

  Alanna sheathed the weapon, but remained crouched as she turned to survey the scene below. “I found the pattern,” she commented.

  “The what?” the Dwarven ambassador’s face scrunched in annoyance.

  “The shadows. Some elves cast them, some don’t. I found the pattern.”

  “Oh. Ahem. That pattern. Yes?”

  “Some of the commoners, a few of the children, more of the nobles,” Alanna explained, “But all of the hunters.”

  “Well, that makes…”

  “And the younger children,” Alanna interrupted, “Flicker. Shadows like sputtering candles, some of them. As if they haven’t learned to control it yet.”

  “It would be useful fer hunting, sure,” Kylgren-Wode commented. “Traipsing through the woods, no shadows fer the game te see, or enemies, at that.”

  “It may be a requirement to be a Hunter,” Alanna mused. “It makes sense.”

  Neither spoke for several minutes.

  “Miss your cave?” Alanna asked.

  “It’s a Hold!” Kylgren-Wode huffed. “Not a cave. Fer the love of…”

  Alanna winked and allowed a partial smile to writhe across her lips.

  “Wait. Yer…”

  “Not even I am immune to this place,” Alanna sighed. “Certainly not with… Well, maybe they’re still there.” She stood, and helped the dwarf to his feet before jogging across the branch and stepping up to another. “Hurry.”

  Sunlight sparkled through the glade, the near-noonday light brightening the entire clearing. Rhysabeth-Dane sat under a tree at the far end, near papers and books spread on a flat rock, trying to eat an apple. She threw the apple, her curses lost on the breeze, and reached into her satchel for another.

  Two bites in, the three unicorns who’d chased after the discarded fruit returned, and began nuzzling the Dwarven librarian once more. Another thrown apple, and the only phrase that remained intact from across the meadow was ‘unicorn stew’. When the unicorns returned, Rhysabeth-Dane scratched their muzzles a minute before waving them off and sitting down to resume her research. Looking over her shoulder to make sure they were gone, she pulled an apple out of her cloak pocket, and continued eating.

  “I think she’s adjusting better than the rest of us, they won’t even come near me,” Alanna admitted.

  Kylgren-Wode said nothing, eyes locked on the small figure in the distance.

  “When are you going to tell her?” Alanna asked, poking the dwarf in his ribs.

  “Ye don’t understand,” Kylgren-Wode grumbled. “Things are done differently in the Hold. I’d need permission fer…”

  “We’re not in the Hold,” Alanna interrupted. “We’re up in a tree, on top of a mountain, on an island between two realms that each have people looking to kill us. We’re kind of living by our own rules.”

  She looked to the sky. “It’s almost noon. I’ll… go watch Kevon’s treatment, if you go talk to her.”

  When the dwarf made no movement, Alanna grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and spun him to face her, lifting him to his tiptoes and bending down to look into his eyes. “She is awake, and able to hear you. Not everyone has that luxury. Shall I drop you over the edge, or are you going to climb down yourself?”

  “Climb! C-climb!” Kylgren-Wode gasped, grasping at the vines on the railing.

  “Good luck,�
� Alanna whispered, kissing the dwarf on his forehead before releasing him. She turned and trotted down the skyway toward the center of town.

  “Crazy…” Kylgren-Wode trembled, both hands clasped tightly around the railing for a few moments longer before he spotted a climbing path down a nearby tree.

  * * *

  Alanna moved between the milling elves, making her way toward the ivy-covered dais. Kevon had already been deposited on the smooth wooden table at the center, the litter he’d been transported on lay off to the side. Relaniel and Aelion stood nearby, watching the sky, waiting for the proper time.

  She slipped past two shadow-less hunters, toward the front, where mostly the children gathered. Despite their spritely appearances, Alanna noted that each of them did indeed cast a shadow, making the unlikely scene before her the most comfortable one she’d witnessed in days.

  Alanna began to wonder when the sun was going to reach its apex, when the entire assembly of elves fell silent at precisely the same moment.

  “We begin,” Relaniel said, glancing past Kevon’s sleeping form to where Alanna stood.

  Alanna peered left, where the elf’s gaze had alerted her to Mirsa’s silent arrival. Less concerned with the Mage than usual, she returned her attention to the dais.

  Aelion, back turned to Alanna, raised his arms and began speaking in the harsh dialect that he used for the ceremonies. Relaniel spread her hands wide, as if embracing the entire gathering.

  “This is new,” Mirsa whispered as two decorated hunters approached from one side, and two nobles closed in on the dais from the other direction. One of the nobles had a shadow, but it flickered fitfully, and disappeared as they approached and joined arms with Relaniel.

  Arms woven together like cords of thick ivy, the crescent of elves shuffled toward Aelion, reaching out to him while he continued the ritual, unaware.

  Mirsa jumped as the elves on the ends of the crescent made contact, and completed the circle. The caged Light magic in the area crystallized in her mind, her own personal illusion, as she reached out for it, but could not make contact with its surreal brightness.

  Alanna witnessed only the visible portion of the event; the brightening of what should have been shadows beneath those gathered around Kevon, the stretching and fusing of those energies into a pulsating band around the table.

  Then the shadows of the Elven children ahead of her began to wink out. Twisting her head from side to side, she noted the elves gathered nearest to the center had all thrown their arms wide, their backs arched, faces tilted back toward the sun. The ground all around her glowed, obliterating both hers, and Mirsa’s shadows. The occasional flicker in a fold of cloth on Mirsa’s robe was the only evidence of shade that reassured Alanna that they had not been completely bewitched by the ritual.

  The light from the bystanders pulsated inward, building a bright front that stretched in toward the whirling ring of light already building to an uncomfortable intensity. The inward flow met the outer boundary of the inner circle, and fused with the brighter light.

  The pulsating energy swelled. Mirsa gasped, and felt the life in each ripple. Each heartbeat of every contributor surged their energy forward, filling the container constructed by Aelion and his acolytes. Pulses quickened, riffles of light leapfrogging each other in a bizarre race toward the center of the mystical vortex.

  In moments, the construct in the center was nearly full, the only visible protrusion of light was between the circle and the group of Elven children ahead of them. Giggles erupted from several of them as the last wisps of brilliance squeezed into the center, and the wobbling circle snapped into a calm, warm-looking disc.

  Aelion raised his hand over Kevon, and the disc of light rose from the floor, unimpeded by the legs of the table that held his unconscious body. As it rose through the tabletop, the edges of the formed light softened, curling inward to envelop and surround Kevon, molding to his shape. Currents in the light-casing mirrored the inner workings of his body, blood circulating, organs pulsing, and for a few moments the effect made him appear translucent. The pulsing light settled inward, and was gone.

  The five elves joined with Aelion staggered back, releasing each other. Only Relaniel stayed, the other four melting into the dispersing crowd. Aelion’s assistant leaned against the table to steady herself.

  After a minute, only the two elves remained in sight, leaving Mirsa and Alanna to approach the table to see to Kevon.

  “I’ve never seen it so deserted,” Alanna commented. “Even at night.”

  “Everyone that was here has just given of their lives to attempt this,” Relaniel explained. “It is taxing, to say the least.”

  Mirsa noticed wisps of gray at Relaniel’s temples, and recoiled.

  “Fear not, our life forces are much sturdier than yours. The children, especially, look forward to these rare occasions.”

  “There is nothing more I can heal,” Aelion announced. “Sleep and food are the only things that can help him now, besides…” He trailed off, and shook his head.

  Alanna opened her mouth as if to ask what the elf had meant, when Mirsa cried out.

  “Mmmph…” Kevon mumbled, eyelids fluttering, but never fully opening. He tried to whisper, but choked on the words.

  “Water?” Alanna asked, looking past him to the well at the edge of the clearing that surrounded the Grand Dais.

  Kevon shook his head, lips moving again. Alanna leaned in closer to listen.

  “Outhouse.”

  Chapter 19

  “We should see yer island ahead, any day now,” Britger-Stoun remarked, wiping dribbles of water from his beard.

  “I wish I had your faith,” Bertus answered, gazing toward the horizon, grip tightening around the railing-post he clung to. “At least we have the wind again.” He shuddered, thinking of the two days they’d spent becalmed, drifting on the northeasterly ocean currents.

  “It would be nice to spend more than an hour on shore this time,” Bertus griped, recalling the brief excursion in the southern port town. Only Britger’s quick thinking had saved them from being marked allies of Kevon and the others that were accused of nearly burning down half the town and slaughtering a handful of innocents. The dwarf had denounced the actions of his brethren, and offered coin to all who could detail their crimes. After learning of their cargo and violent escape, they’d returned to the ship and set sail for where they thought the Glimmering Isle might be.

  “Wait… there’s…” Fear gripped Bertus, causing the words to catch in his throat. Even though the winged figures wheeling through the bright midmorning sun in the distance could not be imps, his nightmares pushed to the forefront of his perception. “Gulls…” he whispered, relaxing, then scrambling to his feet, crying out.

  “To the north!” he yelled, waving and pointing to the soaring specks against the horizon.

  “Not te the South, like we expected?” Britger-Stoun laughed, the jagged line that divided his face writhing in his merriment. “Let’s hope ye spotted the right place!”

  Bertus moved to a corner of the deck where he could avoid the increasing activity of the deckhands, but still keep an eye on their destination. As the ship turned to the North, it lost some of the more westerly wind. The crew continued to turn the ship with the wind, then edge back North, working their way slowly around the leeward side of the now visible island.

  * * *

  Hours later, the wind blocked by the island, sails furled by the crew, the ship drifted slowly toward the harbor to the east.

  “Seems ye’ve pointed us in the right direction,” Britger-Stoun commented, peering ahead to where another ship bobbed in the evening light.

  “We’ll see if we make it by dark,” Bertus mused, listening to the commotion below as the crew prepared to unship oars and row. “No moon, and the anchor hasn’t caught. It wouldn’t do to drift all night.

  “One day away from the mountain is the same as another,” Britger-Stoun grumped, “But the sooner ye find yer friends…
”

  “Agreed.”

  * * *

  “The big one is bad enough,” Britger-Stoun griped, “But this one rocks like a child’s toy!”

  “Sit down, and it will rock less,” Bertus admonished the dwarf. They’d begun to launch the longboat as soon as the morning had brightened enough, later than he liked because of the island blocking the majority of the sunrise.

  They’d verified that they were in the right place by shouting across to the other ship before dropping anchor the night before, though the other crew had been wary of them at first.

  “Bend yer back into it, lad,” Britger-Stoun teased Bertus as the longboat began moving toward shore.

  The Warrior looked past the ship’s crewman that manned the other set of oars in the boat to the two Stoneguard seated at the rear of the vessel. “And they are…?” Bertus asked over his shoulder.

  “Ill-suited fer most labors,” the King’s nephew laughed. “As ye will no doubt discover.”

  One of the Stoneguard locked eyes with Bertus, and mimed an exaggerated rowing motion. He elbowed his companion and burst into rolling laughter, further disturbing the balance of the boat.

  A longboat from the other ship awaited them on shore, and what, by all appearances, seemed to be the captain of the vessel greeted them, helping pull their craft up onto the beach.

  “Friends of Kevon?” Yusa asked as soon as all of the passengers had disembarked.

  “Yes, I’m Bertus, and this is Britger-Stoun,” Bertus clasped arms briefly with the newcomer.

  “Yusa, captain of the fine vessel moored out yonder. My men will be returning there shortly, but I can help with introductions to our other friends,” he said, gesturing to where the three Elven Hunters stood, only half-blending into the trees at the end of the beach.

  Without so much as a word, the bearing of the two Stoneguard changed from that of good-natured bullies to professional soldiers. From their limited nonverbal communication, Bertus was able to spot two other Hunters stationed apart from the rest, better hidden than the ones near the obvious path up toward the center of the island.