The Spirit Mage (The Blackwood Saga Book 2)

by Layton Green

  “The air is crisp,” Tamás said, choking up, “with the youth of spring. And the colors . . . I never thought I’d see them again.”

  “Any idea where we are?” Will asked.

  Tamás turned, eying a forest just visible to their left. A line of stippled peaks crowned the horizon in the other direction. “I’d wager those peaks are part of the Dragon’s Teeth.”

  “The Rockies, I’m guessing,” Will said to Caleb in a low voice.

  Caleb rubbed his eyes in the sun. “That narrows it down to a few million square miles.”

  “The Dragon’s Teeth extends to the Great Northern Forests and beyond,” Tamás continued. “We must travel west to reach the Barrier Coast, then south for Freetown.”

  Lisha started speaking. I do not know the surface world, Will translated. My people have maps, but they are no longer taught in our schools.

  Tamás looked at Dalen and then Marek. “Where do you call home, my friends?”

  “The Third,” Marek said. “I vas hunting for my family’s dinner, and the tuskers—” he spat—“captured me alone.”

  Dalen looked down at his feet, then forced a smile. “I’m just an adventurer, out for fame and fortune. I’ll go wherever the winds take me.”

  “They why not accompany us to Freetown? All are welcome, and you can resolve your next course of action from there.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see the Barrier Coast,” Dalen murmured. Will thought he looked both pleased and relieved at Tamas’s offer, as if afraid he would be turned away.

  Marek pondered the idea, then looked towards the mountains and grunted. “To the forest, then.”

  “To the forest,” Tamás agreed.

  It took them half a day to clear the lava fields and reach the woods, a pristine landscape of conifers, gushing streams, and moss-covered rocks. They padded across pine needles and drank greedily from the streams, though as the day wore on, the need for food and shelter grew pressing. Just as they decided to camp for the evening and forage for food, Yasmina pointed at separate plumes of smoke barely visible through the trees.

  “A small town, from the looks of it,” Tamás said.

  “Good eyes, Yaz,” Caleb said.

  She didn’t respond, and Caleb looked away.

  Will had expected Lisha to return to the Darklands once they emerged, but she stuck with them, spending the entire day a few steps away from Caleb. He looked like he had no idea what to do. Will could tell his brother was fond of Lisha, but hardly in love.

  Typical Caleb, Will thought. Confrontation is not in his vocabulary.

  As they started towards the smoke, Dalen hesitated, wringing his hands. “This town . . . I am not a citizen.”

  Tamás stalked towards Dalen as if he were going to rebuke him. At the last second, he laughed and clapped him on the back. “My friend, we’re in the Ninth Protectorate. No one is a citizen.” His face darkened. “That’s not entirely true. Spies abound, and colonies of loyalists live along the Great River.”

  “I thought so,” Dalen muttered. “But I wanted to be sure. No more mines.”

  “No more mines,” Tamás agreed.

  Despite his exhaustion, hunger, and the growing chill, Will felt a warm glow of friendship towards his companions.

  As dusk bled to night, the forest broke, exposing a settlement sprawled along the bank of a swift river. The radiance of the moon illuminated wide dirt roads lined by attractive timber-and-stone dwellings. The party shivered in the cooling air, and Will eyed the smoking chimneys with envy.

  They emerged close to a two-story inn with a peaked roof. The door opened and three patrons emerged, revealing the glow of a hearth and the sound of laughter from within.

  Will almost salivated at the thought of a seat by the fire, a warm bed, and a hot meal not comprised of gruel. “That place looks perfect. Too bad we don’t have any money or clean clothes.”

  Caleb cracked his knuckles and eyed the three townspeople strolling towards the town center. “I could, you know, follow them and try to help relieve them of their reliance on material possessions.”

  “More likely you’ll get caught picking their pockets and land us in jail,” Will said, remembering the incident in the armory.

  “You’re probably right,” Caleb said, and Will regretted his words. Ribbing his brother came naturally to him, but he knew Caleb felt useless in this world.

  “I saw a cave not far back,” Yasmina said. “We can shelter there for the night.”

  “There’s no need to risk a theft, or to sleep another night on stone,” Tamás said. He started walking towards the river. “Come.”

  Will realized he was heading towards a collection of colorful wagons parked a few hundred feet outside town, alongside the river.

  Of course, Will said to himself.

  Gypsies.

  Instead of the harsh reality of most of the Romani people back on Earth, this was the gypsy camp of Will’s fantasy-fueled imagination: a circle of stout wagons painted in bright colors and festooned with beads and ornaments, open wagon doors revealing candlelit interiors warmed by silk wall hangings and exotic carpets, lean men and dark-eyed women lounging in the spaces between the wagons, drinking from jugs and telling stories, breaking into dance and song.

  The sight brought a stab of memory as he remembered the night Mala had let her hair down and danced around the fire. He still wasn’t sure what to think of her mock-seduction.

  Not that it mattered anymore. He sighed heavily and followed Tamás to the wagons.

  A group of men stepped forward to meet them. Tamás told them the truth: that they had been waylaid by slavers, managed to escape, and were in need of food and shelter.

  One of the women pointed at Lisha. “And that? From where does that come, and why is it with you?”

  “Her name is Lisha,” Tamás said evenly, “and she was also a prisoner. She helped us escape at great personal risk.”

  The gypsies huddled for a few minutes among themselves, and though the group eyed Lisha with suspicion, one of the men broke from the circle and clasped Tamás by the arm. “You are Roma, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you and your fellow travelers are welcome here. The snows have melted, and we head east. If you wish to join us, we will find room. There are always extra tasks for willing hands.”

  Tamás embraced him. “Thank you, friend. We head west in the morning, to Freetown, but we’re grateful for the night’s lodging.”

  Though it was freezing, Will and the others bathed in the river, feeling the need to wash away the stench of slavery. The troupe outfitted them in basic clothing: wool trousers, boots, colorful cotton shirts. They also fed them and gave them blankets and two large tents to share, one for each gender. Will was moved by their generosity.

  After dinner and a round of homemade stout, Lisha, Marek, and Dalen collapsed in their tents, Lisha taking refuge from the cold under a pile of blankets. Tamás had disappeared into one of the wagons, and Yasmina headed off into the forest, rebuffing both Caleb’s and Will’s efforts to follow. Will knew she wasn’t about to share a tent with Lisha, but worried where she would sleep.

  Then again, Yasmina had changed, and for some reason he couldn’t quite explain, Will sensed he didn’t need to worry about her.

  After relieving himself by the river, he returned to find Caleb sitting on a blanket near the bonfire, an earthen jug on the ground beside him. One of the men was strumming a lute, two women danced in tune, and another dozen were sprawled around the fire. The camp smelled like incense and smoked meat.

  Caleb waved him over. Will grabbed a free jug, sat beside his brother, and waved a hand. He recalled how Mala had pegged Caleb as a gypsy the first time they had met. “You’re home, aren’t you?”

  Caleb grinned and took a swig. “Damn skippy.”

  “Listen man, I was just yanking your chain earlier. With those bracers and your rogue skills, you’re really coming along.”

  Caleb spluttered into his
beer, his face darkening. “Rogue skills? Good god, Will, after all we’ve been through, you still think this is a D&D club.”

  “Hardly,” Will said quietly. “It’s just . . . .” He broke off, unable to find a diplomatic way to boost Caleb’s confidence.

  “Let me help you,” Caleb said. “What you’re trying to do is find a way to convince me I’m not as useless as we all know I am. Listen, little bro, don’t be a buzz kill. What you don’t get is that I don’t need to be a hero. I don’t even need to be brave. Pacifist, remember? I just—” he broke off and stared at the forest—“Yasmina gets it. God, I screwed up there, Will.”

  “Yep.”

  “You know about . . . .” He glanced at Lisha’s tent.

  “She’s following you around like a starving puppy.”

  “Yeah,” Caleb muttered.

  “You must be really good at what you do.”

  “I—” Caleb threw his hands up—“she threw herself at me, Will. She’s seventy-three, by the way. Middle-aged.”

  Will was stunned.

  “And it’s not like Yaz and I have been together recently. I’ve apologized and tried to talk to her about it, but she won’t even look at me.”

  “Listen, you’re a complete ass with women, but you’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself about everything else. Yasmina’s right about that. You’re your own worst enemy.”

  Caleb slapped him on the back of the head, causing Will to spill his beer. “Drink up, orc-lover. I don’t know about you, but tonight I’m happy to be alive. Happy and shocked beyond belief.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Will took a long swig and then lay on his back, staring at the heavens. His greatest dream had been to discover what lay beyond the stars, and now that he had found out what it was, it terrified him beyond belief.

  But it was still wondrous.

  “You’ve realized you haven’t had a panic attack on the journey?” Caleb said.

  “It’s hard to be panicked when you’re a slave imprisoned ten miles underground by a race of evil albino dwarves. The panic comes before all of that.”

  “True.”

  Will pushed up on his elbows. “For whatever reason, fate has given us a second chance. Let’s make the most of it and find a way home.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Home, is it?” Tamás said, stepping into view.

  Will froze. How much had he heard? “We have to get back to New Victoria as soon as possible. To find our brother.”

  “I still maintain the fastest route is through Freetown.” Tamás squatted and unfurled a canvas map showing a rough sketch of the Ninth Protectorate. He jabbed a finger at a spot in between two mountain ranges. Will guessed the location he had pointed out was roughly southeastern Idaho. “Our new friends tell me we are here,” Tamás said, moving his finger an inch west on the map. “There’s a Yith outpost nearby, if we can reach it. With a Simorgh Rider, it’s a two day journey to Freetown.”

  A simorgh, Will knew, was a legendary bird from Persian mythology. Just how many myths and legends from back home had started on Urfe? While he pondered that train of thought, Caleb asked a more practical question. “What do you mean, if we can reach the outpost?”

  Tamás jabbed the map again, this time pointing out a narrow valley that looked like a blade of grass slicing between two mountain ranges, just before the Rider outpost. “That’s the Valley of the Cursed. And with the threat of snow still alive, it’s the only way through.”

  -47-

  By the time Val had dinner at his local pub, returned home, and made his way to the rooftop patio to contemplate his next course of action, he felt reconstituted, his wellspring of power renewed.

  His plan was to use the Ring of Shadows to follow Gowan home the next night, after the group discussion about the mint orchid. Once he discovered what Gowan knew about the location of the Planewalk—whether the pyromancer wanted to tell him or not—Val was going to attempt the spirit mage trial straightaway, in case Gowan decided to turn him in.

  So tomorrow night it is.

  Val had brought his father’s staff to the rooftop. He leaned on it as he took a deep breath of humid air.

  The Planewalk. The Walk of Planes.

  After tomorrow night, would he be reunited with his brothers? Or would he perish in the gauntlet that awaited?

  Val set his staff aside and extended his hands. He concentrated on the empty air at the end of his fingers, a pinprick of space, and he pushed until it burned, reaching for the fabric of reality and then tearing at that fabric with his mind, forcing, splitting, ripping, diving deep inside until he felt as if his mind would burst out of his skull, deeper and deeper. Still he needed more, so he pushed and he pushed and pushed pushed pushed pushed pushed

  Val shuddered and stumbled backwards as he felt the same rush he remembered from spiritmancy class, the feeling that he had just torn a tiny hole in reality itself, had unlocked a power that flooded him with dopamine and made him feel as if he could lift the world on his shoulders.

  It was, Val thought, the closest thing to a religious experience he had ever felt.

  And it was getting addictive.

  He shoved his will into the crack he had opened, infusing it with power. Darkness coalesced at his fingertips, blacker than deepest night, the dark energy gathering and emitting tiny silver sparks. Val labored to breathe, exhausted by the effort, watching the weird flames lick the air.

  He thought he would have to focus on keeping the energy contained and not kill himself, but it was the opposite: despite the whiplash of spirit fire he had produced in class, it now took everything he had to keep the spark alive.

  He wasn’t nearly strong enough, not to truly summon and command spirit fire.

  But he was strong enough to do what he needed to do.

  Closing off the conduit was easy; he simply stopped pouring energy into the crack he had opened. After the spirit fire extinguished, he collapsed against the stone wall.

  It had taken him a month of exhaustive study and practice to produce a few minute sparks, and the effort drained his reserves. He couldn’t imagine the power needed for real application. But that was what training was all about, he mused, whether law or sports or the practice of magic: harnessing your natural talent, enhancing it to the breaking point, bending it to your will with sweat and tears.

  He rested his elbows on his knees and caught his breath. It took longer to recover than he wished, hours, but when enough of his magical energy returned, he slipped on the Ring of Shadows, grabbed his staff, and took flight into the starry sky.

  There was one thing left to do on his final night in New Victoria.

  After slipping the Ring of Shadows on his left index finger, Val arced high above the city, keeping well to the side of the Wizard District to avoid the magical defenses in place. Though he was allowed night access, he didn’t want anyone to know he was out.

  Soaring past the Government District to the north, he flew over the Spectacle Dome and a two-mile stretch of crumbling tenements, then slowed as he entered the Gypsy Quarter, a maze of soot-blackened buildings and weed-choked cobblestone streets, hushed by the omnipresent threat of violence. The once-proud section of the city which his father had long ago called home.

  The section of the city in which Mari had been murdered.

  Val flew as high as he could while still able to observe the ruffians lurking about the streets. Every time he saw someone, he flew in for a closer look, staying above the light of the handful of cracked glow orbs, shielded by the power of his ring.

  After hours of scouring the streets, he finally saw him: the cornstalk-thin leader of a ragtag group of gypsies, green top hat sitting cockeyed on his head, dressed in colorful rags with a black sash tied loosely around his waist. One of his arms ended at a stump.

  Val flew towards the closest tall building, a brick tenement with shattered windows and a flat roof. He landed softly on his feet, then walked along the edge until he spotted the gypsy l
eader on the street below. When he found him, Val used Wind Push to lift the man into the air, bringing him soaring towards his position.

  As the black sash leader shouted and waved his arms, his followers stood in the street and pointed. Val needed to finish this before they found a way onto the roof. He hoped they hadn’t picked up a mage since they had last met.

  After depositing the leader roughly on the roof, Val stood ten feet away and took off his ring, relishing the look of shock on his face. “Lost, me friend?” Val asked, repeating the words the black sash gypsy had said to him just before sticking his knife in Mari’s gut.

  The man tried to sound brave, but Val heard the tremble in his voice. “I know ye, don’t I? The one with the staff.” His voice cracked at the end of a nervous chuckle. “So maybe yer a wizard after all. What do ye want?”

  “You know what,” Val said.

  “I can get yer gold. I’ll have it tonight.”

  “What I want, you don’t have to give. So I’ll take a life in return.”

  Along with the shouting, Val heard footsteps climbing a metal ladder, probably a fire escape. The black sash leader produced a desperate grin, his rotting teeth poking through like nuggets of coal. “Let’s make us a deal, eh? I can get women, more women than ye need. Every night, delivered to yer door.”

  “She told you to walk away,” Val said. “You should have listened.”

  He extended a palm and thrust the man high into the air, positioning him above the street. The sounds of climbing drew closer.

  “Wait,” the man begged, flapping his arms as if he could fly himself back onto the roof. His hat fell off, exposing a bird’s nest of limp yellow hair. “Don’t do it, I beg ye.”

  “She didn’t want to die, either,” Val said softly. With an explosion of will, he thrust the gypsy leader straight down, accelerating him faster and faster during the hundred foot fall.