Changing Of The Guard (Book 6)

by Ron Collins

  “If that’s true, why did you choose this place?”

  “Because the order needs its space, Halsten. We are still strong, but the loss at God’s Tower has shaken our confidence. We need to regroup and build the right skills to finish the job before us. Vapor Peaks is secluded enough that we don’t need to overrun anyone to do that.”

  There were other reasons, too, of course—reasons Halsten had no need to know of. Zutrian had made a mistake by trusting the Koradictines, and it had cost a resounding defeat at God’s Tower. So now he brought the order together in the Vapor Peaks, the land where he had grown up, a land he had spent years exploring, and a land he had once known so well he could determine his location by the mere slope of a hill or the gurgle of a creek full of clear springtime water.

  The Vapor Peaks were central to the plane, a prime place to control the actions he would take in the first wave of his new plan. It was a place where he could oversee the destruction of the Koradictine order, and a place from where he could then spread in any direction that made sense.

  And it would all happen in the springtime.

  But he held these plans close to his vest now because he knew that shared secrets always found ways to slip out of even the tightest of lock boxes. He had no interest in having them discovered.

  “But the village is in the way of my plan,” Halsten said.

  “Then create another plan.”

  “The northern face is perfect for our exercise. It’s open and easily observed from even the lower peaks. I can post my camp there, and watch each of our mages as they work together.”

  “There is land to the south.”

  “It won’t be as useful.”

  Zutrian’s voice grew brittle and his gaze became a single pinpoint. “But it will serve. And, it supports our overall mission better.”

  Halsten dropped his gaze to the floor, nodding. “I’ll get you a new plan, Superior.”

  “Good.”

  The mage turned, his shoulders rounded in defeat.

  “Halsten?”

  “Yes, Lord Superior?”

  “You were right to bring this to my attention.”

  “Thank you.”

  Halsten stepped out. The door swung closed behind him.

  Zutrian rubbed his eyes. The lack of sleep affected him more now than it had just a few years prior. The green elixir sat on the table across the room. He needed to spend more time casting, he knew, if only so he could feel comfortable calling himself a wizard.

  He collected his bowl of oatmeal. It was cold and pasty now, but it still filled his stomach.

  Another knock came to his door.

  “Come,” he said.

  It was Batar, responsible for all the supplies the camp required, be they foodstuff, or mage tools, or anything else.

  “I need you downstairs, Superior.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “No, Lord. It’s important.”

  Zutrian glanced at his breakfast. His stomach grumbled. Standing, he spooned a last mouthful and left the bowl for Arasia to handle.

  Two days later, Zutrian sat on his open porch wearing only a pair of linen trousers and a woolen poncho draped over his shoulders. The morning sun was brilliant against the cold bite of the mountain air. The stone was warm against his tailbone and the back of his crossed legs, though, a remnant of his recent spell work.

  “Superior,” a voice came from behind him.

  It was Halsten, of course.

  The mage shifted uncomfortably.

  “What is it,” he said, not turning from his meditation.

  “I wanted your approval to release the first Koradictine raid.”

  A spike of anger shattered Zutrian’s calm and destroyed his magic. He turned to the man, standing, and suddenly experienced the sharp pain of the balcony’s true temperature.

  “I ordered that party to leave last night.”

  His lieutenant started to say something, then stopped.

  “Did I, or did I not meet with you and the rest of the commanders until the moon had fallen last night?”

  “Yes, Superior. You did.”

  “And was I, or was I not clear about my expectation that the operation against the Koradictines should commence?”

  Halsten’s lips drew to a straight line.

  “So, tell me again why you felt the need to interrupt one of the few moments I have to myself?”

  “I’m sorry, Superior.”

  “If you’re trying to gain my notice, you’ll find there are better ways.”

  “Yes, Superior.”

  A blast of cold mountain air struck Zutrian full in the chest. He strode into his chamber, where a fire’s heat greeted him. Halsten was like most of his commanders. They were all power hungry, anymore. Maybe it was because he was getting older—nowhere near “old,” of course, but older. Discussions were sure to be happening, rumors and petty little power struggles inside the order as members jockeyed for position underneath him.

  Let them struggle.

  He had no plans to leave this post for a very long time.

  Halsten’s footsteps noted his return from the balcony. The door shut.

  “Make the operation happen, Halsten. I want the Koradictines completely hamstrung on this side of the plane throughout the winter months. Report again in a week.”

  “Yes, Lord,” the commander said, bowing, and then leaving Zutrian’s chamber.

  Zutrian Esta removed the poncho and rubbed his arms before the fire. He was more tired than he could ever remember. But it would pay off. He had the entirety of his Lectodinian order housed in the Vapor Peaks, now.

  One-by-one, he would pick off the Koradictines.

  By the springtime, they would all be gone.

  That would leave only Garrick, and his rag-tag Torean order.

  And for them, he had other plans.

  Chapter 2

  Halsten lead his team of five Lectodinian mages through a wooded glen. He was anxious, but certainly pleased to be doing something, even if it was just a simple precursory cleansing. A dusting of snow lay on the ground, and the horses’ breath billowed with each exhale. The morning sun hugged the horizon behind them. The smell of a wood fire came from ahead. A house built of log, mortared with clay and soil, stood nestled into the hillside across the shallow gully. It was a sleepy house, he thought. Poorly built. Appropriate for a Koradictine. Served the mage inside right.

  He raised a gloved hand to bring his own mages to a halt, then turned to Marcus and motioned him to go around the far end of the property.

  Marcus’s head was wrapped in a heavy scarf that revealed only his brown eyes. He nodded and turned his horse to the north. Trae and Martin went with him. They had been over the plan in detail late into the evening last night, sitting in Halsten’s tent and drinking tea warmed over an open fire. He wouldn’t mind a bit of that fire right now. He rubbed his hands together, then stopped when he realized the motion created an unnatural noise.

  No excuses.

  He had reminded everyone of that fact as they prepared to break camp.

  No excuses for failure.

  By the time they returned to the Vapor Peaks, the Koradictine order would lie as dead in this region of the map as if it were a physical body, a Lectodinian stake jutting from its chest. And he would own a part of that stake.

  That should be enough to draw Helena’s attention. He was sure she would be his once she saw what he was prepared to become. Waiting, and sitting silently on his mount, he thought of regaling Helena with the tale of the exercise. It would be warm there, wherever they were. They would share a mug of spiced ale, and Helena would gaze at him with those green eyes of hers that could make a man shudder from all the way across the room.

  He smiled at the image, despite a blast of cold air that made his teeth hurt.

  A film of frost clung to a brown vine of ivy at the bottom of an elm. The morning bit at his lips, and his ears hurt despite being tucked into a cap worn under his woolen hood. He pres
sed against the hood to make sure they were still covered.

  No Koradictine was worth losing part of an ear to frostbite over.

  They would wait until Marcus was ready, then descend upon the log cabin silently.

  Xavi-dar, the Koradictine, was inside.

  Their order knew Xavi-dar from the magewar. She had come to this ranger's cabin after the order scattered, apparently having been injured. The ranger had taken her in—no surprise there. Xavi-dar needed no elixirs or love totems to attract a mate.

  Halsten couldn’t help fantasizing for a moment on what condition she might be in when they sprang their trap.

  She was smart, though. Sharp and quick of wit. Her magic was strong if she could collect herself, but took a long time in its concoction. If they could surprise her, he had no doubt of the outcome.

  An owl’s call came from the other side of the glen.

  He counted.

  At five the call came again.

  He clicked his tongue twice, pointing Regith and Forsyth to their positions. Halsten, himself, took the middle path, pulling on his link to the plane of magic and casting his spell before him. His wizardry met with that of the others. A shimmering blue net drew down over the house as they advanced.

  Closer, he said to himself. Closer. He held the magics of each mage together. If he let them go too soon, Xavi-dar could wriggle away.

  He guided his horse onward, holding the spell firm. The animal nickered and pulled his head to the left, but Halsten brought him under control.

  They came to the rolling hill at the foot of the house, emerged from the woods, and rode past a work shed that was lined with a pile of freshly cut kindling. The net drew tighter as the ring of mages closed on the house. The smell of Lectodinian magic covered the ground like morning mist.

  There was a fire in the hearth. Halsten felt it against his chest. He felt the warmth of two bodies sleeping, too.

  One stirred suddenly, and moved about.

  The net gave a cobalt glow as the mages poured more energy into it.

  A muffled voice echoed from inside the building.

  The door flew open. Xavi-dar held a robe about her. She was chanting and pulling what energy she could from her link. But, it was too late.

  Halsten dropped the net and felt the fire go out inside the house. Crystals formed in mid-air. Xavi-dar froze in mid-sentence, and her spell died on her lips.

  Ansel slipped silently into the booth next to Yaragath, a man who had certainly seen better times. It was a move he knew well, a move he had done many times before though he was still quite a young man, an elementary motion for a lithesome mage who was used to living at the edge of shadow. The moon had been up for hours, and a cold wind blew outside the tavern. A candle of fatty paraffin burned with black smoke at the center of the rough-hewn table. A still smoldering pipe lay sideways against the tray the other man was using to catch ash.

  “What do you want?” the man said, hunched over a ceramic mug. His voice coarse and phlegmy.

  The Koradictine was even older than he looked. The man’s skin was soft and yellowed. He smelled of drink. His eyes were veined with crimson, and his wolf skin coat smelled like it hadn’t been washed since before it came off the animal.

  “I wanted to say hello,” Ansel said.

  Under the table, he slipped a dagger from its sheath. The blade was balanced to perfection for his hand. He closed his fingers expertly around the grip.

  Ansel had been following Yaragath for the past several weeks, tailing him through Whitestone and watching the mage fall into the depths of depression the likes of which he couldn’t understand. He had been separated from his order, certainly. And Toreans had chased him unmercifully for months afterward.

  But he still had his magic.

  And that meant he was still dangerous.

  Which was why Ansel was sitting here in one of the darkest corners of a rot-gut tavern outside Whitestone.

  “Who the hells are you?” Yaragath said.

  “A messenger.”

  The older man laid his head back and peered at him through his drunken haze. “From who?”

  “Why do you drink so much, old man?”

  “I see,” Yaragath grumbled, then lifted his mug to his lips. “My wife sent you.” His chuckle was brief.

  Ansel was nonplussed.

  He was an assassin, a job that never bothered him because he figured they all deserved to die somehow. He didn’t mind the idea of killing a defenseless man. He was a professional, after all. He spent days or weeks or months arranging his jobs, and specifically setting up circumstances to leave him with no exposure. In that light, killing a defenseless man was the entire idea.

  But, in the quiet times, Ansel described himself as a messenger of judgment, a man who carried out tasks that must be done.

  Killing a man was meant to be a punishment.

  Yaragath was Koradictine, and should pay for his transgression against the order.

  But this man was a hollow shell—he had given up, he had nothing left worth taking in extractment of the justice that Ansel needed to feel good about his chore. Yaragath seemed to have already punished himself, and, to the best of his knowledge, Yaragath had no wife.

  The idea annoyed him to the point that he now found it difficult to arrange his mind in such a fashion as he could kill the old man.

  “I’m serious,” he said.

  “What?” Yaragath replied.

  He had probably forgotten Ansel was there.

  “I asked why you drink so much.”

  Yaragath gave a throaty laugh. “How old are you?” he finally mumbled.

  “Old enough,” Ansel replied.

  “Hmm.”

  “I’ve been on my own since I was eight.”

  “Good for you, son. Good for you.”

  The old man’s tone raised a hackle along Ansel’s spine, but he didn’t say anything.

  Yaragath gazed intently toward Ansel. “You never lost no one, have you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kids. Parents. Hell, friends for that matter. You’ve been alone since you was …,” he looked at Ansel with a pleading question.

  “Eight.”

  “Eight. Right. I seen boys like that … bet you never had a friend your whole life.”

  Yaragath reached for his pipe, missed once, then scrabbled his fingers along the wood to get hold of it. He put the stem in his mouth and pulled, releasing smoke from his nose.

  “Who did you lose?” Ansel asked, uncomfortable being under Yaragath’s analysis.

  The Koradictine’s eyes grew unfocused again. “I had a boy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Magewar.”

  “Was he Koradictine, too?”

  Yaragath started, and peered at Ansel. “Did I say I was Koradictine?”

  “Sure,” he lied. “You told me about how you made it all the way from apprentice to commander.”

  The old man grunted.

  Ansel sat quietly.

  “I shoulda paid more attention.”

  “What happened,” he said. “To your boy.”

  “Lectodinian cut him down before he could get his spell away.”

  “Hmm,” Ansel grunted.

  “I told him!” Yaragath said, slamming his hand against the table. “I told him, again, and again. Speed. A mage in battle has ta cast quickly. He wouldn’t lissen, though. My fault. I shoulda taught him better.”

  The dagger felt heavy in Ansel’s hand. He wasn’t sure he could do this.

  “But I got ‘im back,” Yaragath’s eyes glittered conspiratorially.

  “How?” he asked, hope rising.

  Yaragath leaned into Ansel’s ear and gave a yeasty whisper.

  “I followed the Lectodinians and picked them off one-by-one.” The old Koradictine’s eyes glimmered. He grinned, almost as if he knew it was what this lithe stranger needed to hear.

  “One-by-one,” he chuckled. “Very slowly.”

  The blade
slipped between the mage’s third and fourth ribs, slicing upward to find his heart.

  Yaragath’s body shuddered. A question came to his expression—followed by a sarcastic grin. “Maybe you did come from my wife,” he said as he slumped against the wall, his pipe falling to the table again.

  Ansel withdrew the blade and slid from the bench to walk into the wintry night.

  He had a report to make, and he wanted to be long gone before anyone noticed the pool of blood that would soon spread over the tavern’s dirt floor.

  Cara had been climbing all morning.

  She was tired, and she was cold.

  She didn’t have anyone to blame but herself, though. She had, after all, volunteered specifically for this mission on purpose. But who would have thought that a Koradictine wizard would choose to live in the bleakest mountains north of Victory Fields, a piece of ground where no mammal could exist without a layer of blubber a hand's width thick and where even the simple act of removing your gloves to strike a fire threatened frostbite?

  This went a long way toward explaining Yorl Maggore and his eerie idiosyncrasies.

  Below her, the mountain fell sharply into open space that seemed to have no bottom. The air was sharp and biting, burning her nose and searing her lungs with each intake. Her legs ached, and her arms felt like they could fall off any moment.

  She reached up and grabbed a ledge. She used her pick to leverage herself over the edge.

  Yorl’s home stood starkly against a sky saturated in blue. It was a castle made of stone, with three towers connected by flying buttresses. Sunlight cut through the arid air and reflected off snow in a way that made the gray shale scintillate with shadow and silver.

  Cara slipped behind a boulder to rest.

  She had served alongside the Koradictine in Arderveer. That assignment had been two hellish months of taking orders from him, watching the way his tongue ran wetly over his bulbous lips every time they met, suffering through his leering smile whenever she first walked into any session, and seeing his strategies fail to achieve what they might have if the mage had the balls to make any real decisions.