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

by Aire, D. H.

  She sighed, knowing that was the least she could do. As she lay waiting, she wondered what had hit her. She glanced at the blade in the brigand’s hand and focused on the intricately wrought blade and noticed the rune carved along its length, then shivered at the enchanted weapon, which if it had been marked for her would have done more than disrupted her abilities.

  Staff, beware the blade! she shouted mentally.

  ‘Acknowledged.’

  George was out of breath and a bit bruised. He had allowed several of the arrows to strike his cloak. The sight of them bouncing off had disconcerted his attackers, allowing Se’and to catch the first of them completely by surprise. His cloak had momentarily lost the image of brightly dyed wool and revealed the scaled leather of its original form.

  Se’and crept upon the second archer as George marched blithely onward. That archer had targeted Se’and’s image, which faded as the arrows clove it and whizzed past George. The man had loosed four arrows before he realized his companion had not fired a shot. Se’and raised his own companion’s bow upon him and loosed a shaft.

  The man fell, clutching his pierced shoulder. Se’and dropped the bow and raced toward him, yet George stunned him with a narrowed blast from staff before she ever had to use the knife in her hand. The woman had looked at him for a moment as he approached her.

  “He‘s stunned. He’ll offer no resistance for quite some time.” She glanced at the man’s shoulder, “You cauterized his wound.”

  “That arrow will be quite painful to remove but he will live,” George said.

  That at least seemed to please her as they delayed no longer and hurriedly returned to the encampment. George was winded from both the trek and from having had to maintain the energy field.

  Raven’s mental warning to Staff reached George as they cautiously approached the last line of trees around the camp. Staff’s scan focused on the brigand’s dagger, now held at Balfour’s throat. “Se’and, we need a distraction.”

  She nodded grimly then moved off to the left. His enrapport senses probed the runes carved into the blade. He could sense its enchantment, but did not know its true purpose. He had a feeling, though, that they were about to find that out.

  “Back away slowly ladies,” Danvers ordered. “Reesz! Huet! Disarm them!”

  Fri’il knelt to put her short sword on the ground and was pushed forward at sword point to join Cle’or. The other bowman named Huet staggered after, his injury roughly bandaged.

  “If you harm him, I’ll kill you,” Cle’or warned as she warily removed her weapons.

  Danvers grinned, “I’ve no doubt you would certainly try. But fear not, I have no intention of killing him unless you force me to it. The mage is too valuable to waste.” Raven groaned as she stirred. Danvers glanced at her. “Girl, or whatever you are, stay right there!” Raven shook her head as if trying to clear it and struggled to rise. “Tell her to stay right there, I say!”

  Me’oh heard the sound first and quickly shouted at Raven, “Do as he says!”

  Danvers turned in confusion as the horses stampeded into the camp. His men rushed to get out of the way. A blast of energy shot across the encampment and struck Danvers, who gasped even as Me’oh, who was nearest, dove forward and knocked Balfour out of his dazed captor’s grasp. Two more quick blasts flared and struck down his bandit companions as Se’and rode past, hurrying to herd back the unrestrained mounts.

  As he slumped to the ground, Danvers saw a brown cloaked man march out of the trees, his wooden staff ablaze with light. He instantly realized his error; he had confused the elfblood for the mage. Cle’or leapt at him in his lapse of attention even as he cast his enchanted dagger weakly away from him.

  The dagger’s hilt bounced off Balfour’s back. There was an instant flare of magic and Balfour’s eyes closed and he slumped forward without a sound.

  “No!” Cle’or screamed and punched Danvers repeatedly. Me’oh immediately sought Balfour’s pulse, her own heart feeling like it had stopped in fright.

  “Stop her! We need answers that only he may have!” George demanded as Se’and reined back, staring at the scene in horror.

  Raven shimmered as she rose in beast form and charged Cle’or, knocking her backward as George raced forward and came to Balfour’s side. Me’oh rejoiced, hushed, “Thank the first Lords of Cathart, he’s alive. Balfour, wake up. Come on, please wake up.”

  Taking a deep breath, George probed his friend’s unconscious body. He seemed unhurt, even smiled ever so slightly.

  ‘George, look at his eyes. He’s in REM.’

  George asked surprised, “He’s asleep?”

  ‘And having rather pleasant dreams.’

  Breaking the contact, George opened his eyes and glanced away from his friend, “Me’oh, it’s apparently only a sleep spell. Any ideas about how to break it?”

  She looked at him long and hard, then glanced at Danvers, “He must know.”

  George nodded and rose to confront their unconscious prisoner.

  “Let me go!” Cle’or raged, throwing off the tawny beast.

  Se’and intervened, “Cle’or, he’s alive! Didn’t you hear them? It’s only a sleep spell!”

  Gazing back at her slumbering lord, Cle’or seemed to slowly regain her wits, then angrily cried, “Let me kill that barbarian!”

  “No,” George said, noting that Fri’il was watching in shock. “We need answers and he’s our best source.”

  Cle’or glared at him and slumped her shoulders, “I failed.”

  “No, you did not. Balfour lives and while he lives the house endures,” Se’and replied.

  Taking a deep breath, Cle’or nodded.

  George turned to her and offered her his arms, feeling her inner turmoil, seeing bits of recent memory. “It’s all right. They were no match for you,” he whispered to her softly.

  She tried to hide her sudden tears as he softly hugged her. She remembered the brigand’s filthy touch but took solace in what she had done to him, knowing he would likely limp for the rest of his life. Perhaps, Cle’or was right. Perhaps she should have killed him.

  George turned her face toward him as if he had somehow heard her thoughts. “Fri’il, permanent harm to another can mar your life.”

  Pity him, but not yourself, whispered a strange voice in her mind, which she realized was the Summoning. You are strong. Believe in yourself.

  Raven heard that voice and shimmered, returning to human form. Worried and uncertain, she gazed at their despair.

  Danvers woke bound and hanging from a tree. His clothes were gone and there was no sign of his men. His head ached, filled with images of the tavern where he had accepted the commission for his now failure, and taken the enchanted blade.

  His host had smiled, when he gave him the commission and said, “The full bounty for the mage alive. This dagger will spell him asleep, nothing more. Kill him and you get half. Either way, you and your friends make a profit.”

  “You really think he will come this far north?”

  “Perhaps, who can be sure? There are only a limited number of ways to reach the Empire. The old Gate at Niota, though rarely traveled, is still an option for them. Yet know you are not the only troop to be hired. They will not be permitted to escape.”

  “If they come through my stretch of forest, I shall be the only one to collect your bounty.”

  The man smiled. “Just bring him here. Leave the rest to my master.”

  Danvers nodded and finished his drink, wondering at the strange light that seemed to dance before his eyes. A black liveried woman stood before him. “I told you that if you hurt my lord that I would kill you.”

  He felt as if he were floating from his memory as he beheld a dagger in her hand. She cast and he groaned in pain as it struck. She cast another and another as he screamed.

  Horror overcame him as he woke bound and hanging from the tree. His head ached as he realized he was unhurt. He briefly remembered his bargain at the tavern, then there was lig
ht and the black liveried woman suddenly stood before him once more. “I told you that if you hurt my lord that I would kill you.”

  He gaped in horror as she cast the dagger, then another and another.

  His scream echoed through the night as Cle’or rode beside Me’oh who rode double, holding her sleeping lord soundly in her arms. She smiled.

  Fri’il glanced at George. “Would not death have been better?”

  George did not at first reply. He then answered, “And what lesson would have been learned?”

  “His men would have learned fear.”

  Frowning, he said, “I am more concerned about the lesson you and I would have learned.”

  Se’and thought that perhaps her human mage husband may have understood more about being Cathartan from her tale of the Shattered House than she had dared hope. The screaming echoed once more as they rode throughout the night.

  Chapter 21: Aslumber in Trelor

  They paused and dismounted several miles from the edge of the woods. The short-haired Raven walked into the trees and, a moment later, tapped the special clasps at her shoulder. Her livery, which was the only thing she was willing to wear, dropped to the ground. She began running free and spread her arms and shimmered, changed. Raven, in the form of a large falc, burst upward into the air.

  The blonde haired Fri’il retrieved Raven’s livery, dusted it off, carefully folded it, and shook her head with a wistful smile. Her other companions began changing into the ragged clothes they had recently liberated from their previous owners.

  Everyone was changing, that is, except for the snoring elfblooded Balfour, slumped with his hands and legs bound to his horse’s saddle and stirrups. Me’oh paused, triple checking that the reins for his mount were secure. She had been riding behind him and couldn’t help but think this was her fault.

  Raven cawed as she saw the crossroads in the distance. George glanced up, then closed his eyes and saw what the were did. The sign on the road read “Trelor Six Leagues.”

  "Are you sure about this, Je’orj?” asked Se’and, setting her sword down and donning the jerkin over her black bodice.

  George tossed his cloak to Me’oh to put on his sleeping friend. “Of course,” he replied.

  ‘George, based on her biometrics, she knows you’re lying,’ the staff in his hands whispered in his mind.

  He grimaced. He didn’t believe himself either. After all, in the world he found himself, elvin magery ruled and only those with elvin blood could do magery. So why would anyone think for a second that a human could do magic? Well, try explaining that to people who didn’t understand technology and science, as warped as they became in this place. Hence the bounty hunting bandits’ mistake in targeting his elfblooded friend as the mage they were sent to collect.

  George’s plan was to walk into the lion’s den to find the mage who enchanted the bespelled dagger that put Balfour to sleep. He aimed to trick him into revealing how to break the spell. All he had to do was pretend to be a bounty hunter come to seek his reward.

  ‘You don’t even know how you’re going to break the spell once you find the mage, George.’ Staff said to him across their mental link.

  It’s not like you’ve come up with a better idea, he thought, gripping his computer staff harder.

  ‘I’m a computer. What do I know about magic?’ it replied. It flashed the odds of success across his mind.

  “Oh, thanks,” he muttered.

  ‘Just trying to be helpful.’

  “Don’t,” he grumbled.

  Se’and frowned as Cle’or and Fri’il, braided their hair and pulled it up under the worn and foul smelling caps the brigands who ambushed them had sported. They looked less feminine and wondered if their conscious adopted lord was having one of his spells again.

  It was hard enough dealing with the dilemma of their sleeping elfblooded lord by bond, who Cle’or in particular felt was the easier to protect. George, with his worse than foreign ways, seemed intent on making things difficult. This was a task he should be letting her deal with. She smiled thinly at her own skills with a blade. She’d make the mage that had cast the spell reveal his secrets, magery or no.

  George shook his head, having no doubt about what Cle’or was thinking. Since falling through the elvin gate, he’d learned how focused these bodyguards he had inherited were. No matter, they felt the bond made them family, and having the ladies watching his back was not as bad as he'd first thought…but he wasn’t going to tell them that.

  Cle’or argued to be allowed to deal with this herself as a matter of honor.

  Cathartan honor be damned, George thought. Those moments of conflict made him miss working a dig. It had been so much nicer imagining life in a distant time and place rather than living it.

  ‘If you discount the magic—’

  “Stop listening to my thoughts, Staff.”

  ‘Sorry, lowering rapport level.’

  George nodded, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they reached the outskirts of the city-state, at which point he hoped his Cathartan bodyguards wouldn’t have to kill anyone, nor would he.

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  Lower the damned rapport level another fifty percent.

  ‘You’re no fun, George.’

  Raven flew toward the dilapidated sprawl of buildings before the walls of Trelor. She couldn’t help but think that should the city ever face attack it would be the city’s poor, living outside the protection of the walls, who would suffer the most for it.

  But such was life in the Crescent Lands, home to a number of city-states arching from the northern ridge of the Barrier Mountains to the ocean in the south, where lay the largest and wealthiest city-state, Hollif. However, Trelor had a rather unsavory reputation, and the flags flying over the city augured worse. If at that moment she had been human, she would have soured her expression.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Staff asked through their mental link.

  She made no answer as she flew toward the nearest flag flapping in the breeze. It was not the flag of Trelor. She soared upward and scouted the city patrols, whose soldiers wore sashes over their chainmail. They were sashes with the same sigil as on the new flags flying over the city.

  The well armed man in nondescript garb kept to the shadows and observed the tavern from the alley. Fenn du Blain had taken up residence here. It was an unlikely embassy but Fenn liked playing with his food, which for some reason made those he ruled a bit uneasy. A blindfolded and shackled young woman was dragged to the rear entrance of the inn with the tavern on the main floor. She wasn’t the first. He had seen children dragged inside the day before. That’s how he knew Fenn was here.

  The guards didn’t dare hit her, but yanking her about served the guardsmen’s purpose just as well. Fenn liked taking his time torturing his victims and a guard’s body had been dumped outside unceremoniously just that morning. Apparently the guard had either shown signs of sympathy for Fenn’s most recent victim or perhaps laughed a second too late for Fenn’s liking.

  He shook his head, knowing there was nothing he could do for Fenn’s latest victims other than do the one thing he was destined to do: take back what was rightfully his. When he assured himself of his purpose was when he saw the falc flying overhead. His eyes widened for he knew such a sight was rare. Falcs were creatures of the Northlands. They roosted in the Imperial Cliffs and throughout what was termed the Gwed Mountains, which were actually the northern tip of the Barrier Mountain Chain that sheltered the border of the Eastern Northlands and the northern Crescent.

  The Demonlord’s minions seemed loath to disturb falcs. He didn’t blame them. The birds were resistant to elvin magery and had very sharp talons. Only those who bonded to falcs, which most considered an act of madness, lived in harmony with their ilk. He watched the falc circle the tavern inn and couldn’t help but think it an omen. The old banner of Gwed had been a falc rampant.

  It was bad enough that du Blain’s standard fluttered above this suborned city-stat
e as it did above Gwed itself. And, if Fenn du Blain had his way it would grace every city across the Crescent and the Northlands. He would create an empire that would rival Aqwaine but with darker goals since the one thing du Blain worshipped was the Demonlord himself.

  So the falc, he thought, was the sign he had been waiting for. Tonight he would avenge his family, his people, and retrieve his stolen birthright.

  Truthsayer stared as the prisoner was brought into Fenn’s rooms. He did his best to ignore the piteous cries and moaning from the figures already tied face down upon the blood drenched bed.

  “Well, well,” Fenn said as the guard captain finished explaining how the prisoner had walked up to them and surrendered herself. “You can leave us but as a reward, take whomever pleases you downstairs. The night is yours.”

  “Thank you, m’lord!” the captain said, leading his men back outside.

  Fenn’s servant pulled off the woman’s blindfold. She blinked and said, “As it is foretold, I come before you, Fenn du Blain.”

  Fenn glanced at Truthsayer, who nodded.

  “Seeress, you’ve returned to your city at long last, I see,” Fenn said with a cruel laugh.

  “The time is now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I must do as the vision demands, Fenn,” she replied.

  “His title is Lord Fenn, Woman!” the servant shouted, kicking her and knocking her to the floor.

  She grunted, “Is that what those children call you?”

  Fenn chuckled, “Sayer, is she speaking the truth?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” he replied.

  “Well, Seeress, since only these children are foolish enough to rebel against me, I’ve been teaching them that those who love their skin follow me absolutely. Perhaps you’ll enjoy the same lesson?”

  The young woman’s green-eyed gaze narrowed. She possessed the merest touch of elvin ancestry. She did not reply as Fenn gestured to his servant, who ripped the clothing off her back as Truthsayer begged his leave.

  “Always so squeamish, old friend.”