Highmage's Plight (Highmage’s Plight Series Book 1)

by Aire, D. H.

  The strain of the rapport was taking its toll; George’s respiration became ragged. He knew he could not keep this up much longer. There was only one thing he could do. He dropped the barrier and the bird abruptly flew over them.

  Fri’il, awakening more fully, reacted to the great bird preparing to attack them hastily grabbing the fallen weapon beside her. Se’and threw herself across their lord’s vulnerable body, even as the staff he held rigidly in his grasp fired a blast of light.

  With but a single squawk the bird fell helplessly to the floor with a terrible thud. Its body shivered as George groaned. Se’and shook him, “Je’orj! Please wake up!”

  His eyes opened faintly. She gasped, seeing not human eyes, but those of a bird.

  George found himself elsewhere, his staff glowing wanly in his hands. He looked about carefully and concluded he was standing in a spell-enwrapped web. Thick strands clung to everything around him. This was not at all what he had expected. At this moment, he should have been one with the shape changing creature’s every thought, not disassociated from it.

  He could sense the were-bird’s convulsions. Curious, he pushed past the nearest strands that blocked his path. His progress was slowed as the web drew tighter before him until finally he reached a solidly woven wall of strands. Using his staff as a torch, he peered more closely and discovered there were faintly glowing elvin runes. The characters shimmered with the were’s life energy and will.

  George swung the staff high over his head then struck the entwined strands with all his might. The were-bird went rigid with shock and George paled as the world around him quaked and a scream of rage echoed around him. He smiled grimly, knowing he had succeeded. The runes here no longer functioned as intended. The were was no longer without free will.

  Exhaustedly, George closed his eyes and hoped he had not been away from his physical body for too long.

  Cle’or gasped in pain on the floor beside Balfour. He knelt and closed his eyes in concentration as Me’oh stood over them defensively. Reaching out with his senses, he probed the deep burns on Cle’or’s shoulder and upper arm. She was in excruciating pain. He dealt with that first, deeply concentrating. She moaned with relief as her pain abruptly eased.

  Accessing the injury further, he focused on redirected the flow of blood then repaired the damage to her blood vessels. The healing process was slow; he dared not hurry. Since apprenticing to George, his training had relied on Staff’s knowledge and ability to augment his talent. Precious minutes passed. The burns slowly faded and the flesh became whole once more. Balfour leaned back against the wall and sighed, clearly exhausted.

  Cle’or blinked her eyes wearily and glanced at her former injury, seeing pink skin where the burn should have been a raw wound.

  “The others. We must go to them.”

  Me’oh glanced at Balfour, “Are you strong enough to bring her, m’lord?”

  “Give me a moment,” he muttered as he mentally reached out to George and his staff, but found himself blocked. He struggled to help Cle’or to her feet, knowing something was desperately wrong in the next room. Me’oh cautiously led the way.

  George awoke, feeling half frozen. He realized that he was lying upon the bed, buried beneath layers of blankets. He was not alone. Two bodies clung about him, sharing their warmth.

  Noticing he was awake first, Fri’il clung tighter and exclaimed, “Thank the Lords!”

  Se’and breathed a sigh of relief. Tears in her eyes, she leaned closer, kissed him, then shouted, “Don’t do that again! We thought you were dead!”

  Fri’il turned her head and looked over her shoulder, “Master Balfour, it’s working!”

  “Can’t a person get any bloody sleep around here?” he replied blearily, propped up in a chair Me’oh brought from another room.

  “Do try to be quiet, all of you,” Me’oh said as she rose from her post by the remains of the doorway. “Cle’or needs to rest and that bed, doubtless, cannot take much more strain.”

  George glanced past Se’and and noticed the prone form beside her, then lay back and muttered through numbed lips, “Report.”

  ‘Your respiration is increasing to normal levels, heart rate is still weak, but improving. Monitoring functions were temporarily suspended due to the depth of our rapport. Passive conscious memory indicates that Balfour authorized current emergency revival methods. No long term damage indicated.’

  “Status of our new friend here?” he asked the computer.

  ‘Unconscious. A state I am maintaining through the link we forged. Balfour has been checking it as well at intervals. He concludes that there is no danger of the creature awakening. All outside links to the will of its former master have been severed; although, it is still bound by enchantment.’

  Fri’il rose and poured a glass of water, then urged him to take a few sips. It soothed his parched lips. She had to hold it for him ever so gently. He lay his head back exhaustedly, wishing he could untangle himself from his two caretakers as Fri’il set the glass aside and snuggled close. Yet her thoughts were dark. She had trouble understanding this man that she had been bonded to by Se’and’s brother, Vyss, who had originally been intended to be her husband.

  They effectively held him pinned between them and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Through his rapport, Staff commented, ‘These are not particularly unpleasant sensations.’

  George sighed, wishing that when he had fallen into this world he had not been clutching the computer staff quite so hard.

  ‘I heard that.’

  Yet beyond his vengeful humor, his condition frightened him more than he dared to consider. George had never imagined the reality of going so deeply into rapport that the computer would have been unable to monitor his physical condition, superseded by his total absorption with other matters. He cleared his throat and asked what had happened.

  Se’and uncharacteristically buried her face against him, sharing Fri’il’s concerned look as he weakly muttered to himself in two timbres as if two people were talking to one another. Fri’il glanced at Balfour as he knelt to examine George.

  The elfblood smiled, “No need to worry. I know both of them well enough to know everything is alright when Staff needles him like that.”

  Fri’il glanced at the wanly glowing staff, her lord still terribly cold to the touch. She wondered if she had chosen wisely. She could not forget the moment he had pulled her backward, preventing her attempt to protect him from the dark mage's sorcery.

  Perhaps, she wondered, I would have been better off choosing to bond the elfblood.

  It was darkest night when Cle’or awoke in surprise. She vaguely saw Fri’il rise from the bed off to her right. The young woman glanced back at her deeply sleeping lord, then put on her livery, checked her weapons and crossed the room.

  Faint light lit the hall, where Me’oh stood on guard. The older woman turned as Cle’or rose and in startled realization touched her upper arm. Her bodice had been burned away at the shoulder and her skin felt incredibly tender but no more.

  Me’oh whispered, “Sister, rest, all is well.”

  Yet she rose nonetheless, too quickly and her head pounded, her headache slowly abating.

  Me’oh came over to her. “Have you scouted the building?”

  “No, I’ve dared not leave all of you alone like this. Yet I’ve heard no sound of movement in the inn, either. I think us safe enough.”

  Cle’or looked about and saw her weapons. She knelt, donned her livery and strapped her weapons about her. She unsheathed a dagger and pushed past Me’oh, who moved to delay her. However, the older woman recognized the look in Cle’or’s eyes and knew it would be no use.

  “You need rest!” Balfour rasped as he stirred, then hurried over to them.

  Cle’or glared back at him and touched her shoulder, “Why did you heal me so?”

  He frowned, not understanding.

  Exasperated, she stated, “I am a House Champion. I’ve earned many sca
rs, yet healing me like this? You dishonor me!”

  Angrily, Balfour responded, “You could have lost use of that arm, then what kind of champion would you have been?”

  “One who bore an honorable disfigurement earned in trying to protect her ungrateful lord’s life!” He was left speechless, and she brushed past him and out of the room.

  Fri’il moved out of her way and glanced at Me’oh, who whispered to Balfour, “Should there be a next time, leave her a scar.”

  Cle’or warily explored the hallway. The only sign of their attackers had been a burned piece of dark fabric, not unlike that worn by the mage that had attacked them. She went cautiously down the stairs.

  The inn seemed abandoned. She glanced out one of the windows and noticed that there was no sound of dogs or evidence that anyone had come to investigate what had happened. That bespoke either a powerful spell, fear, or perhaps both. She headed toward the kitchen. Pots and pans were strewn upon the floor. She paused to take a much-needed deep breath, momentarily feeling dizzy, and noted the cellar door. She crept closer and tried the knob. Finding it locked, she eased her dagger blade between the jam and unbarred the door.

  The faint light of the kitchen revealed bleary-eyed frightened faces. She recognized one and smiled, “Innkeeper, our rooms are in need of some airing out.”

  He stared up at her as if she were an apparition and fainted.

  The innkeeper hesitantly came up the stairs with Cle’or, holding a lantern. The portly man looked at the damage and destruction with growing horror. “My inn, my poor inn,” he muttered. “How will I pay for all this?”

  Balfour met him as he surveyed the room. “Was anyone with you hurt?”

  “Hurt? No, no, when the first acolytes appeared, the guests and my staff fled with me to the only safe place I could think of. There, in the cellar.”

  “Acolytes?”

  The innkeeper shivered, “From the Dark Temple.”

  Staring at him, Balfour gasped.

  George opened his eyes and thought at his companion. Who are they?

  Balfour thought back. A cult to the Demonlord, He Who Dwells In The North.

  George thought about that, having a sinking feeling as he realized the presence of the cult in these human lands boded ill. The nightmare that had awoken him now made greater sense. The Summoning had been trying to warn him.

  “Has the city gone mad to raise a temple to the Elfking?” Balfour rasped.

  Lowering his head, the innkeeper replied, “Our city has fallen on dark times. The elvin witch who is their master came here only a few years ago. She promised prosperity and used her magery to help many. Those with the merest elvin blood flocked to her. The temple has risen in power ever since.” The innkeeper noticed the stilled bird lying on the floor and hastened to flee the room.

  Cle’or grabbed him from behind and put a knife to his throat. The innkeeper felt as if he were going to faint once more. “Now, now,” she whispered in his ear.

  “How? How have you done this?” he cried. “We have no mages who can defeat such as the witch and her minions!”

  Balfour smiled grimly, “You do now.”

  At that the innkeeper blinked in realization. “I must see the council. They must know of this. But it is useless, the inn is likely being watched.”

  Cle’or smiled. “Do not concern yourself about that.”

  The innkeeper glanced at her and roused his courage. It would not be easy, but he just might be able to notify his patron, Lord Gerig.

  Back in the broken, still smoldering room, George awoke, feeling stronger and not quite as cold. He slowly tried to extricate himself from Se'and’s sleeping embrace. Yet she instantly awoke and gripped him painfully between the legs, then to his complete shock she kissed him.

  He gasped and quickly learned his lesson. Staff chose wisely not to comment as he settled back unresisting.

  She released him and whispered wryly, “My, you must really be feeling better.”

  He turned his face away from her and sighed. That took the grin off her face. This world offered him too much, and deep in his heart he knew he must return to his own. He would go to the Empire and find his way home.

  Despite George’s incessant explanations she did not understand and would not willingly understand. She shivered and huddled closer to this strange man that she was bound and pledged to protect, the core of her Cathartan house by bond.

  It was too long a time before any of them fell asleep.

  Chapter 15: Protecting an Unwilling Lord

  Pale sunlight lit the room through the broken window. Balfour finished his examination and said to George, “Take a hot bath, then I will decide if you are indeed hale and hearty.”

  Se’and had risen and dressed, spelling Fri’il at guard duty while Me’oh slept. The young woman removed her livery and made preparations in the adjoining room. Fri’il readied the tub as Cathartan tradition demanded. Once satisfied that the water was just right, she went back into the main room and announced, “Your bath is ready, m’lord,” then offered to help him rise.

  Acutely embarrassed, George asked for his cloak, which he used to robe himself. He felt dizzy as he accepted Fri’il’s arm and left the room. She helped him into the steaming bath and, before he could protest, removed her bodice and offered to bathe him.

  “Ah, no, that will be quite unnecessary, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  She paused then sat on the edge of the bath. “Do I displease you?”

  He looked at the young woman in surprise. “No.”

  Sighing, she shook her head. “I do not understand your ways. I tried to defend you last night and you prevented me. You could have died doing what you did. Yet Se’and and I helped save you! How is it you still do not see that you need us?”

  George closed his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, feeling chilled once more even in the steaming bath. He could feel the Summoning stir. It so often drew him, forcing him to travel west, always toward the Empire. Yet this time it urged him to be here in this moment, to hold the young woman tight and embrace all this world offered. He felt conflicted, but knew he had to find a way off this world and quickly. He couldn’t allow this world to claim his soul and his free will. She handed him the soap. He stared at it then sighed.

  Staff bespoke him a few minutes later finishing his bath, rising from the tub as Fri’il handed him his towel and helped dry him off. He winced.

  ‘George, sorry to disturb you, but Balfour wants to know what's taking you so long. I have told him. He says to tell you that in that case he certifies you now hale and hearty.’

  In the adjacent room, the were’s shape had softened. It no longer looked like a terrible bird of prey. It had become a falc, a keenly intelligent bird that was a legendary harbinger of change. Their group had already come across one such creature on their travels together and this worried Balfour to no end.

  George dressed then approached the were creature, staff in hand. Closing his eyes, he concentrated. The staff glowed brighter as the rapport deepened. The falc trembled and began to awaken, then shimmered and changed. They gaped.

  “I’ve heard legends that speak of using a person’s hair to create a binding, but never have I heard of anything like this,” Balfour said as he knelt beside what was clearly forming into a girl, who looked to be about eleven years old.

  Her hair was black and had grown so long that it was entwined about her body, so tightly woven that it covered her like a second skin. The girl looked up at them clearly frightened. Se’and tried to smile, to comfort the child, who had plainly been held in the vilest of enchantments.

  George slowly reached out and gently caressed the girl’s cheek. He sought to discern her facial features wrapped in hair while allowing his staff to examine the bespelled patterns of the mask. His head began to ache at the complexity and the increased level of rapport the computer required.

  “She is probably much older than she appears. Closer to Fri’il’s age is my guess,�
�� Balfour offered.. “I have no idea of how to break this enchantment.”

  Fri’il frowned, looking over George’s shoulder, “What are you going to do?”

  Se’and gave her a withering look, “They will do what must be done.”

  Nodding, George replied, “If there is anything to be done. If there is it must be done soon if we are to have any hope of not being interfered with.”

  “Unlikely, m’lord,” Me’oh stated. “The Dark One himself will likely aid his Priesthood to prevent freeing its creature.”

  With a groan George said, “Let’s hope not. Power of that nature would be rarely granted, if what Balfour’s told me holds true. The Elfking may not even suspect that I survived crossing the Great Waste.”

  Se’and touched her dagger hilt and caught George’s gaze, her meaning plain. He adamantly shook his head as he went to look through his things. George quickly found the strange blade of discolored metal and returned with it to kneel beside the girl. Me’oh, having seen it used before, shivered at the sight of it.

  “You did not really get that in the Great Waste?” Fri’il muttered, stepping closer.

  “It really was a gift from, ah, a very large friend as I’ve told you,” he said.

  Se’and shook her head in disbelief, “No one lives in the Waste any longer…other than the Dark One’s ilk.”

  Balfour had once believed the same until George reached the Winome Clan on the Barrier Mountains, which overlooked that barren wasteland. The elfblood now believed a great many things that should have been impossible to credit.

  “Is it enchanted?” Fri’il asked.

  “Anything but,” George replied. At the looks of incomprehension, he explained, “The alloy was developed to not be effected by elvin magery. It was a weapon used against Elfdom during the Great War between the human colony and the elves.”

  "But all human lore was lost at Battle’s End, when mankind was defeated,” Se’and said, remembering well the lessons she had learned at her Mother Shaman’s knee.