Seeker of Magic

by Susanne L. Lambdin

  REALM OF MAGIC:

  SEEKER OF MAGIC

  by

  Susanne L. Lambdin

  Dedicated to RTB, the King of Nonsense:

  Your Queen of Mischief will never forget you.

  Map of Caledonia

  ALSO BY SUSANNE L. LAMBDIN

  REALM OF MAGIC SERIES:

  Seeker of Magic

  Mistress of Magic (Coming Soon)

  Queen of Magic (Coming Soon)

  THE DEAD HEARTS SERIES:

  Morbid Hearts

  Forsaken Hearts

  Vengeful Hearts

  Defiant Hearts

  Immortal Hearts (Coming Soon)

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  * * * * *

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  A wake of buzzards circled high above the carnage of the war-torn battlefield. From where Taliesin stood on a rocky outcrop with the sun on her shoulders, she counted more than one-thousand soldiers strewn across the twenty or so acres of cow pasture. At the base of a northern slope, a line of armored knights hung impaled on a row of stakes with their dead horses crumpled beneath them. Wild dogs and buzzards fed upon the mangled, bloated corpses, and scores of black flies worked in tight formations, their singsong buzz audible with the shift of the humid breeze.

  Taliesin was not close enough to see the whites of the dead men’s eyes, but she knew maggots were already hard at work. This summer in Caladonia was hotter than usual, and the stench from the field was overly ripe. A white scarf was pulled over her nose and mouth, leaving only her green eyes visible. Her leather tunic clung to her slender body, undergarments drenched, and beads of perspiration dripped from her brow and neck. She kept her long, red hair worn in a braid, but even it was damp.

  A tattered, light-blue pennant, caught on a capacious breeze, rolled across the field and across the armored body of a knight. Somewhere close by a dog barked. She spotted a shaggy dog with a long tail as it ran across the bloodstained grass with a severed arm held in its jaws. One of her companions threw a rock, hit the dog in the side, and it let out a yelp and vanished behind a heap of bodies.

  “Two days and nights of hard rain have left the pasture ankle-deep in mud and mire,” Grudge said. The tall, broad-shouldered man stood beside Taliesin with one foot placed on top of a large rock as he leaned over to gaze at the battlefield. He kept his head shaved; his scalp glistened with sweat, and a thick brown moustache drooped from the sides of his mouth. “We’ll want to head straight to the base of the northern slope when the signal is given,” he said, pointing at the line of stakes where the Fregian knights hung. “That’s where we’ll find the best pickings. Get as many as you can and I’ll be right there to carry them. We can’t have you straining your spine.”

  “Fine,” Taliesin said. She carried three large, leather bags over her shoulder. “Let’s just pretend my father didn’t tell you to watch over me today, and I’ll pretend you’re not here. I don’t need you getting underfoot, Grudge. I’m after as many valuable swords as I can find.”

  “Just find Duke Hrothgar’s gold sword, and you’ll be fine,” Grudge muttered. “His body has to be somewhere; these are Fregians, and the duke was known for his love of gold swords.”

  Taliesin already knew that without being told by the big oaf, just like she knew a gold sword wasn’t solid gold, but steel and a coating of gold. It was her job to find valuable weapons, and every time she ventured onto a battlefield she prayed she’d find a magical blade to sell.

  Long ago, she’d found Traeden, a magical longsword owned by Duke Andre Rigelus of Scrydon, said to be able to pierce through armor and dragon scales and to turn hearts to dust, but it also caused night terrors and severe hair loss. There were no more dragons, of course, and magical weapons were outlawed, but still she dreamed of finding the weapons of legends.

  Flamberge was a longsword made of red metal and enchanted by the wizard Ankharet, which burst into flames in battle, killed all it touched, and left its owner with an unquenchable thirst for blood. Trembler, owned by Duke Fergus Vortigern and enchanted by the sorcerer Dire Yadru, was said to cause terror to all opponents when pulled from its sheath; it also caused its owner to suffer from melancholy. There was also Graysteel, Moonbane, Calaburn, and Doomsayer, a gold sword used by Duke Hrothgar, and the very weapon she hoped to find this day.

  Though the Raven Clan hadn’t arrived in time to witness the battle, Taliesin imagined the shouts and loud cries of the Fregian soldiers who had followed the knights along the northern hill. Under a storm of arrows, the soldiers had run into a wall of stakes at the bottom of the hill, their retreat cut off by waiting Maldavian soldiers who had come running out of the trees and surrounded the Fregians. Stuck in thick mud, the Fregians had been slaughtered, though a few dark-blue tunics lay on the field. There were far more light-blue Fregian tunics among the dead, and on the southern side of the field a large number of bodies had been gathered into a pile and set on fire before the victors departed. The fire had died out, leaving blackened bodies and skeletons to gaze sightlessly at the sky. Somewhere among them lay Duke Hrothgar of Fregia and his gold sword.

  “When Osprey told us a battle had been fought near Burnlak, I didn’t realize it would be this large,” Taliesin said, glancing at Grudge. “Duke Hrothgar and Duke Peergynt have been skirmishing for ages. They’ve been lying here for about four days by the smell of it.”

  “More or less,” Grudge said. “Today is a formal Gathering. I’ve never been to one before. All three clans are present: Raven, Wolf, and Eagle. I doubt anyone survived. But you can be sure you’ll find a few valuable weapons while I collect jewelry and coins. Go for the Knights of the White Stag first; they’re an elite Fregian order, the ones in white tunics. They’ll have what you want, unless Duke Hrothgar is here, and then you’ll want his sword; it’ll be gold.”

  Each clan had its own job to perform. The King’s Law listed what was expected of each clan. Her own clan, the Raven Clan, was considered the lowest rank and was the only one allowed to strip the bodies and take all they found. Across the field, Taliesin could see members from the Wolf Clan and Eagle Clan waiting for the signal to enter th
e field. By law, each clan was required to wear colored cloaks to distinguish them. The Raven Clan, wearing black cloaks with the insignia of a red raven stitched onto their left shoulder, waited behind Taliesin and Grudge, eager to collect armor, clothes, and jewelry. The Wolf Clan, in dark-gray cloaks, had the job of finding survivors among the common class that included foot soldiers, archers, and servants, along with any live animals they’d later sell to the highest bidder. Only the Eagle Clan, adorned in their gold cloaks, had the right to ransom noblemen and knights to their families or lords. They also collected important documents, from maps and battle plans to letters written to family members. If they were lucky and captured officers from the defeated army who tried to flee, the Eagles could sell them to any interested party, or use them in exchange for valuable information. Their clan was always in the middle of any trouble, always trading information with dukes or nobles, and always trying to control the outcome of every skirmish or battle to their benefit.

  “Get ready,” Grudge said. “They’re about to give the signal.”

  Three men from each clan walked onto the battlefield and gave their calls; the caw of a raven, the howl of a wolf, and the scream of an eagle. Not waiting for Grudge, Taliesin climbed down the rocks and began sprinting; she knew precisely where she wanted to go first, and that was the line of impaled knights.

  Members of the three clans scurried onto the field, too busy in their mad search for valuable items to stop to chat. Taliesin reached the wall of stakes before anyone else and started to stuff the knights’ swords into her bags, but what she really was after was the golden sword of Duke Hrothgar Volgan of Fregia. Somewhere among the fallen she’d find his body, but she had to reach him before the Eagle Clan or they might take his sword when they collected his body; it was always an occupational risk, and this day she meant to outsmart them.

  As she walked through the battlefield, her boots made a sucking sound each time she stepped into a slick patch of mud or reddish gore. After years of scavenging, she no longer cringed at the sight of the mangled bodies; she’d been trained to concentrate only on weapons. She found six swords of quality among the dead knights; none forged by Rivalen, Gregor, or Falstaff, but still valuable. She knelt to retrieve a double-edged battle-axe with a red leather handle, a Gregor original, and spotted three men from the Eagle Clan walking along the line of stakes from the opposite direction. The men converged around a Knight of Chaos pinned beneath his dead horse. His feeble moans were carried on the breeze.

  Taliesin gasped as one of the Eagle men drew his knife and sliced the knight’s throat. The man stood as blood spurted like a fountain into the air. His hood fell away from his head and revealed a fair-skinned man with gray hair and a pox-marked face. The man noticed Taliesin staring, and his expression turned angry. A companion bent to cut a leather pouch off the knight’s sword belt and examined the contents. With a loud curse, he emptied the pouch on the ground, spilling out a sizeable amount of coins.

  “Mine, mine,” a girl in a tattered red dress shouted.

  Two more children in dirty tunics ran past Taliesin, eager to retrieve the coins. The three Eagles all looked toward Taliesin, turned, and headed toward the trees. She was stunned. The Eagles were required to return the bodies of knights and noblemen slain in battle to their families. The murder of a knight was unthinkable. While the children pocketed the coins, the Eagles entered the tree line and the pouch was tossed into the tall grass.

  Two golden-haired boys in rags ran toward where the pouch had been dropped. Talon and Falcon were eight-year-old twins. With blond hair and identical tunics, it was impossible to tell them apart. They were followed close behind by a tall, thin woman who wore a hooded black robe. The children who had stopped to pick up the coins took one look at Minerva, the Raven Master’s wife, and scattered, shrieking loudly as they darted across the field.

  “You boys come here,” Minerva shouted. She pointed at the blond twins. “I have other needs. Come, come. I want these silk tunics.”

  The two boys returned to the old woman. Minerva turned to scowl at Taliesin, her large nose poking out from under her hood, making it quite clear that among all the children adopted by her and Osprey, she disliked Taliesin most of all.

  “Girl, stop dawdling and get to work,” the old crone said. “There are more swords to pick up here. Don’t let Rook get them all. He had a higher count than you last month and since he’s not adopted, your father and I get a lesser share of his proceeds.”

  Taliesin had neither the desire nor inclination to talk to Minerva. The old crone had a soul as black as night. If she talked to Minerva, something she seldom did, it felt like she admitted the old croon was alive and not a ghoul.

  “Shut up, you old magpie,” Taliesin said, under her breath.

  “What’s that?” Minerva’s voice was sharp and piercing. “Best bite your tongue, girl. I’ve got my eyes on you.”

  Taliesin walked past Minerva and went to the knight slain by the Eagle Clan. The hope that he’d been important and had carried a valuable sword propelled her feet through the carnage. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Ravens sift through the bodies. Most scurried about like beetles on a dung heap as they collected boots, velvet-lined capes, armor, rings, and necklaces off the dead. The items were placed into bags and piled into carts pulled by strong, young lads. No one bothered Taliesin. She stood beside the body of the slain knight. He’d been a Knight of Chaos. Their order wore black tunics with an emblem of a red skull on a white triangular background. The knight had fought for the Maldavians, for no Knight of the White Stag would ever fight beside such a dishonorable order. There was no reason to murder the knight, unless it was personal, and she glanced around for his sword. The hilt of a silver longsword lay partially hidden under the bloated body of the horse, covered with fresh blood. Setting her bags on the ground, she squatted beside the still form and reached for the sword.

  “You don’t need this anymore,” she said.

  With fingers circled around the hilt, she gave it a hard pull. The sword moved slowly, inch by inch, until she finally pulled it free. It had no markings, but was beautiful in its simplicity, with a wide blade and a deep blood groove. The hilt was made for one-and-a-half-hands and was wrapped with red leather adorned with silver studs. A matching red leather scabbard was worn by the knight. It hadn’t been ruined by the Eagles and she liked it, so she took it. Her hand clasped the hilt of the silver sword and she lifted it high. Her eyes locked on a tiny winged dragon that clutched the letter “M” in its talons. The trademark was etched below the crossguard on both sides of the sword.

  “Mandrake,” she said, trembling as a crow flapped its wings in a nearby ash tree and let out a sharp caw. She felt a vibration in the air; the name Mandrake meant something special.

  John Mandrake had been her birth father. No one at Raven’s Nest talked about her past, where she came from, who her birth parents were, or how she’d come to be adopted by Osprey and Minerva. She couldn’t remember much of her childhood, only that she’d been the daughter of a famous swordsmith. She had learned about smiths and famous swords as a little girl, and she still remembered her father’s haunting words: “Remember the name Mandrake, for I will be famous before I die.”

  “You must have a name,” Taliesin said. “I am sure I was there when you were forged; I had to be, but I can’t remember.” Putting aside the resurfaced memories, she slid the sword into its scabbard and placed it into the bag with the six silver swords she’d taken off the Fregian knights.

  Maybe Minerva had no use for her, but the Raven Master depended on her to find swords forged by master swordsmiths. Even at a young age, Taliesin had always been able to find valuable swords. “I like having you with me on these hunts,” Osprey often said. “You bring the clan good luck.” She usually found at least one sword or axe forged by a famous smith like Falstaff or Gregor. Rivalen’s swords were rare. He’d been alive five hundred years ago, though little had changed in weaponry since that day an
d age. Finding a Mandrake sword, however, was close to a miracle. In the last fourteen years, she’d never found one on any battlefield.

  People still talked about the day she’d found the legendary sword Traeden. She’d known at once what she’d found, and had taken it straight to the Raven Master. “Traeden was made centuries ago for Duke Dudley of Thule, of the noble House of Rigelus,” she’d told Osprey. “Legend says the duke’s ancestor killed a hundred dragons and five thousand men with this sword. The sword was forged by Rivalen, one of eight he made for the eight dukes of the realm.” An older man at the Gathering named Kloot had claimed he’d found the sword. Master Osprey had asked Lord Arundel to sort out the matter. The Eagle lord asked Taliesin and Kloot to point out the duke’s body on the battlefield. Taliesin had led Lord Arundel and the Raven Master straight to the duke; she’d received credit for finding the sword and Kloot had been whipped for lying. Lord Arundel had given her three gold coins for her effort and taken the magical sword to the House of Rigelus in the dukedom of Thule. Since that day, Taliesin was the only woman in the clan allowed to own horses, carry a dagger, and have a room on the second floor of Raven’s Nest; she was also the first-served at the dinner table. She imagined Osprey would be thrilled she’d found a Mandrake sword, but she did not intend to sell it or give it to anyone; she meant to keep it.

  She walked towards the tree line, and in the tall grass located the red leather pouch the Eagle man had taken. Crafted in Scrydon, the ‘leather capital,’ where Duke Fergus Vortigern ruled and the Wolf Clan called home, it matched the sword belt and scabbard worn by the Knight of Chaos. She wrapped the cut strings around her belt and made a square knot to tie it. The decision to walk along the edge of the field brought her further out than the other clans had ventured. She hoped to find the Fregian duke and the gold sword outside of the fighting area and took her time to look around. Another dead Fregian knight lay on the ground, surrounded by Maldavian foot soldiers he’d killed before finally being stabbed through the neck with a spear. A handsome sword was still clutched in the man’s hand. Taliesin ran toward the sword, and in her haste, slipped on a slick patch of guts. Arms flayed as she dropped her bags and landed unceremoniously on her backside right in the middle of a pile of yellow-green viscera covered with flies.