Magic Astray (The Llandra Saga)

by Gregory Mahan

  Randall turned his hands over. The talisman had broken into two irregular pieces, with larger cracks running along their faces. Eamon groaned and rolled over onto his side, coughing weakly and drawing in deep, ragged breaths.

  “He will live,” Kirsti said quietly, as if she were afraid of intruding on the miracle she had just witnessed. She stared at Randall, wide-eyed. “My men will take him inside and see that he is cared for,” she continued once she regained some semblance of composure.

  Randall nodded, as the remnants of his gathered power fled. Exhaustion pressed down on him like an invisible weight, robbing him of the last of his stamina. His head sagged against his chest like a broken marionette—he lacked the strength to even hold it up. He, too, had lost the strength to hold back his anguish, and as the soldiers gingerly lifted Eamon to carry him into the fort, tears streamed down the Mage’s face to mingle with Eamon’s blood in the dirt of the battlefield.

  Chapter 12

  Randall’s wound was deep enough to require stitches, but wasn’t considered life-threatening. The soldier who served as a medic had offered him a drink of strong spirits to help dull the pain before patching him up, but Randall had spurned the offer. He had never had much luck with alcohol, and there were too many bad experiences dancing in close partnership with his memories of being drunk.

  Nearly an hour later, he wished he had taken the drink. The wound was long, and had taken nearly fifty stitches to close. After the first stitch, the medic had given him a scrap of leather to bite down on, but it did little to quell Randall’s cries as the man went about his work.

  “I wish I could give you smaller stitches, so the scar wouldn’t be so bad,” the soldier said, eyeing his handiwork. “But we have to conserve the thread. There are others to tend to.”

  Randall spit out the leather, and tried to say something appreciative, but all he could do was nod, his chest heaving as rivulets of pain-induced sweat ran down his side. Spying the bottle of spirits in the medic’s hand, Randall weakly lifted his arm to wave the man off.

  “It’s not for you to drink,” the man explained, as he gently put the leather scrap back in between Randall’s teeth. “It’s to ward off infection. Bite down. This is going to hurt.”

  Randall did as instructed, and steeled himself. It was no use; it was as if the man had splashed his wound with liquid fire, and Randall tilted his head back, howling in agony. After the pain subsided, the man patted Randall on the shoulder, with a smile on his face.

  “You did fine,” he said affectionately, patting Randall on the shoulder. “Now get out of my infirmary. There are those worse off than you that need my attention.”

  Randall flushed as the soldier helped him into a sitting position. “Why didn’t you help them first?” he sputtered indignantly. “I could have waited!”

  “The Field Mage says that without you, we’d all be dead,” the soldier said gravely. “That puts you at the front of the line. Now get back to your quarters and rest. I have work to do.”

  Randall shuffled down the corridor, feeling guilty. Every man here had put his life on the line today, the same as he did. Even more so, actually—they didn’t have an enchanted dagger or magic at their fingertips. It wasn’t right that any of them should have to wait or risk death because he was given preferential treatment.

  Once back in his room, he curled up underneath the rough blanket, sulking. Nothing was turning out like he’d hoped. He had made an enemy of the elves almost the instant he stepped foot onto their soil. He had nearly gotten Eamon killed.

  He hated to admit it, but some of his fondest memories were of his travels on the road with Brody, Tobsen and Declan. Had they not betrayed him and tried to turn him over to the Rooks, he would have relished joining them and enjoying the company of their friendship. All he wanted to do was see the world and have fun doing it, but instead he was, once again, caught up in events that were larger than he was. Would he never have the chance to have a simple and happy life?

  Dozing fitfully with such dark thoughts haunting him, he barely noticed when Berry hopped up on the bed and curled up next to him. The donnan’s gentle purring soothed Randall’s troubled dreams, and soon he was sleeping soundly.

  He woke the next morning in a foul mood. He was still troubled by the previous day’s events, and the deaths of so many innocents weighed heavily on his mind. He felt especially guilty about Eamon, and Kirsti’s prediction that the boy would live was of little comfort. Guilt and anger welled up within him, and he lied in bed, quietly sobbing as the image of Eamon lying wounded in the grass turned over and over again in his mind.

  He was interrupted by a knock on his door. He ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would assume he was still sleeping and go away, but the pounding only grew louder. When it was clear that the visitor would not be denied, he hastily wiped the tears and snot from his face with the bedcovers.

  “Come in,” he snapped. “I’m awake.”

  The door opened, and a guardsman approached the bed. Randall recognized the man as the soldier that had been standing watch outside of his room the previous morning. I wonder if he stood out there all night, he wondered fleetingly.

  “Sir, I am sorry to disturb you, but Field Mage Mikkelsen has asked me to determine if you still live and to escort you to breakfast. No one has seen you since yesterday morning.”

  “Clearly, I’m not hungry,” Randall said, as if explaining to a child.

  “But sir, I am under orders to escort you to the officers’ mess,” the man explained. He shifted from foot-to-foot, glancing from Randall to the pile of clothes on the floor and back again.

  “Well, I don’t have to follow your orders, now do I?” Randall asked acidly. “Tell her that I’m still alive, and that I’m not hungry.”

  The soldier hesitated a moment longer, his lips parted as if he wanted to say more. Evidently, he came to a decision, and his lips snapped shut and he stood at attention.

  “Very good, sir,” he quipped, turning on his heel and marching stiffly out of the door.

  Randall felt a pang of guilt as the door closed behind the man. The soldier would surely get a stern dressing down for failing to bring him as instructed. But his guilt was tinged with a sense of spiteful accomplishment. He didn’t have control over much in his life, but he wasn’t going to jump and run just because someone ordered him to, even if it was for breakfast. He wasn’t a child, after all.

  At the thought of breakfast, his stomach grumbled angrily, as if protesting his decision. “Quiet you,” Randall ordered, looking down at the offending body part. “I do what I want.”

  A quick glance around the room verified that Berry was nowhere to be found. He was probably sitting on the table in the officer’s mess, enjoying a handsome breakfast of eggs and bacon. “Fine,” Randall grumbled to himself, curling back under his blanket. “Traitor.”

  Randall remained undisturbed for the better part of the morning. His hunger pangs grew stronger as the day wore on, but he was determined to make a point. But the longer he lay there, the less sure he was of exactly what point he was trying to make. He was being petulant, and he knew it.

  Finally, he rolled out of bed and began pulling on his boots, wincing in pain as he did so. Trying to pull his laces taught was an exercise in agony. He would have to be careful for the next several weeks, at least, until the wound in his side healed and the stitches could be removed. Until then, he’d just have to learn to live with slightly loose boots. Probably going to get a blister, he grumbled to himself.

  Just as he was lacing up the last boot, his door opened a crack, and a soft voice carried into the room. It was Nia.

  “Randall? May I come in?”

  “Why not? Nobody else seems to respect my privacy,” he grumbled. There was no point in denying her; she would likely do as she pleased, with or without invitation.

  Nia came into the room, apprehension clouding her features. “Randall,” she started gently, “you must eat something. Without nourishmen
t, your wounds will not heal properly.”

  “I know, I know,” he replied. “I’ve been in a foul mood and acting like a horse’s tail because of it. I was just getting ready to come out now. See? I even have my boots on.”

  Truthfully, it felt good to know that she cared enough about him to check on his welfare. She looked him over critically, her lips pursed with concern. After a moment she seemed satisfied and nodded. “Well, they are just preparing lunch. I’m sure that once you start eating, you’ll find that you are famished.”

  Randall screwed up his face and snorted, the motion drawing fresh protests from his wounds. “I’m famished now. My stomach’s been complaining all morning.”

  When they reached the officer’s mess, Randall was surprised to see several other soldiers seated for lunch in addition to the Field Mage. Kirsti was sitting at the far end of the table, picking grapes from a bowl and flicking them across the table. As the fruit rolled across the table, Berry would chitter loudly, giving chase, before pouncing on the sweet treat and popping it into his mouth.

  The sprite chittered with glee when he saw his friend and scrambled to Randall’s side of the table, letting the latest offering fly off the table and onto the floor. He clambered up to his customary place on the Mage’s shoulder, purring.

  “We are glad to have you join us,” Kirsti said with a genuine smile as he took his seat. “And we are glad to see that you are well.”

  Randall nodded and looked around at the unfamiliar faces around him. Each, in turn, looked back at him—some with grudging respect and others with curiosity.

  “These are my officers. Starting here on my left is Graham. He’s Captain in charge of infantry. Next to him is Prescott, Captain of the crossbow detachment. Across from you is Chief Medic Fuller, whom I believe you’ve already met. And to your right is Jerold. He acts as disbursement officer and quartermaster.”

  Each of the men nodded at Randall as Kirsti made her introductions. As if on cue, soldiers began bringing in food and setting it in front of the gathering. This afternoon’s meal appeared to be some kind of roast, served on a trencher of stale bread and covered with thick brown gravy. It smelled heavenly, and Randall’s stomach grumbled in anticipation.

  As the food was served, another solder circled the table, delivering large flagons of ale to each of the diners. Randall looked at his mug dubiously, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Kirsti noticed his discomfort. “Is there something wrong, Randall?”

  “Well, it seems like everywhere I go, there are soldiers drinking ale. Don’t you people ever drink water?” Randall asked, causing the table to erupt in laughter. Randall flushed with embarrassment and looked down at his plate to hide his face.

  As the laughter subsided, Prescott, the man that Kirsti had designated as the crossbow Captain spoke up. “We aren’t laughing at you, lad. But the first thing that any traveling solder learns is ‘don’t drink the water’. You get so used to drinking ale that it just becomes natural, I guess.”

  Randall looked up to see Kirsti nodding in agreement. “But why can’t you drink the water?” Randall asked in confusion.

  “Don’t matter where you’re from, other folks’ water gives you the runs,” the infantry Captain offered bluntly. “Ain’t nothing worse than spending your first two weeks at a new station stuck in your room hovering over a chamber pot. But if you like, we can have a glass drawn up for you.”

  Randall thought for a moment and shook his head. He was already enough of an outsider here, and he didn’t want to make it worse by behaving too differently. That was one of Erliand’s lessons from the old days, when he had to learn how to hide the fact that he was a Mage.

  “Ale is fine. It’s just that alcohol always seems to get me into trouble,” he replied. The pronouncement brought another round of laughter from those assembled around the table.

  “It does me too, lad. It does me too,” Prescott guffawed as he lifted his flagon in a toast and took a large gulp.

  “Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, let’s get down to business,” Kirsti said, though there was the hint of an order in her voice. The other men around the table immediately settled down.

  “The reason officers have their own mess hall is so that we can come together and discuss the pressing issues of the fort. While you were indisposed this morning, Nia filled us in on the military readiness of the elves at Dyffryn.”

  Randall felt a pang of guilt at the reminder of his earlier behavior, but Kirsti continued on without belaboring the point.

  “We probably gave them quite a surprise on the battlefield. Based on their tactics, Nia feels that they expected we would storm out into the battlefield, losing the benefits of our walls and our military training, only to be slaughtered en masse. They were very nearly right, but I don’t believe they anticipated that there would be two Mages in the fight. They certainly didn’t expect to encounter one trained in large-scale warfare.”

  Nia broke into the conversation, nodding. “It will probably be several weeks before they strike again, if at all. By using the glamoured, we can surmise that Rhys is unwilling to take such a large risk if all he was after was the two of us. But, if he can hold us here, and prevent us from warning others, then he will have the freedom to seek the Passage Device without our interference.”

  “Then we have to leave right away,” Randall said excitedly, pushing back from the table. “We can’t let him get ahold of the Device.”

  “He’ll be expecting that,” Nia warned. “There are bound to be hunters lying in wait, expecting us to make a mad rush for Ninove. But I’m afraid that you are correct. We cannot tarry too long before we set out after him.”

  “We have a little time,” Kirsti added. “Rhys will have to travel around the larger cities and stay off the roads. Also, he will need to figure a way to enter Ninove without arousing alarm. We can afford to spend a day or two in planning.”

  “Roads don’t mean anything to the elves anyway,” Randall protested. “The path overland north of Red Lake is faster, and there are no settlements at all to interfere with his travel. I’ve been that way before.”

  “Regardless, you are in no position to travel,” Kirsti said matter-of-factly. “If Fuller had his way, you’d be here at least a month. Give us at least two days to come up with a plan, and for your wounds to set a little.”

  Frustrated, Randall sat down heavily, a fresh stab of pain from his stitches causing him to gasp. Noting his wince, Kirsti cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows, awaiting his answer.

  “All right,” he said grudgingly. “But I don’t like it.”

  “None of us do,” Kirsti agreed. “But I have given my oath to protect this kingdom, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that it remains safe. I would not ask you to stay if it were not for the best.”

  The remainder of the meal was spent talking about the more mundane matters of running a fort. As the officers discussed such things as watch rotation, and the state of the larder, Randall found himself pushing around the remains of his lunch lost in his own thoughts. There had to be a way to get to Ninove before Rhys. There just had to!

  Chapter 13

  Soon enough, lunch was over, and the officers each began taking their leave.

  “Stay a moment, Randall. I would have a word with you,” the Field Mage called as Randall pushed back from the table. “You can stay too,” she said in answer to Nia’s questioning glance.

  After everyone else had left, Randall looked expectantly at Kirsti.

  “I’ve already brought this up with Nia, but she isn’t a Mage so she didn’t have any answers,” Kirsti started. The Field Mage fidgeted nervously, fingering the collar of her jerkin. “I wanted to ask you about the battle. Something happened, and it has me puzzled.” She left the statement hanging in the air between them, looking at Randall expectantly.

  I wonder what’s bothering her? Randall thought. It’s doesn’t seem like her to beat around the
bush, and she seems so nervous. He looked back blankly, waiting for her to get to the point.

  Kirsti sighed, and stood up from the table to fetch a large candle from a holder on the wall. Taking her seat, she placed the fat cylinder between them. “Can you light the candle for me?” she asked.

  Randall shrugged, and opened himself to Llandra. It felt weird to be using his gift so openly, after hiding his ability for so long. He breathed the word of power, and a tiny lance of flame burst into existence, streaking forth to bathe the candle wick in fire. An instant later, the magical flame disappeared, leaving the candle burning steadily.

  “How do you do that?” Kirsti asked breathlessly.

  “The Arkala spell?” he asked, growing more confused by the moment. Kirsti was a fully-trained Mage; why would she be so mystified by what he had just done? “It’s a demonic spell. I don’t really know how hard it would be to learn, but I could teach...”

  “I know the damn spell!” Kirsti interrupted, slamming her fist on the table. “How did you make it so small? How did you get it to stop where you wanted?”

  “Well,” Randall stalled, surprised at her anger. He’d never had to explain exactly how the magic came to him before, and he found himself struggling for words. “You know that instant you cast a spell, when you can feel the power drawing out of you?”

  Kirsti just looked at him blankly.

  “You know,” he said desperately. “That exact moment the magic is mingling with the words of the spell, and you can push it one way or the other to do what you want, right?”

  “That’s not how magic works, Randall,” the Field Mage said flatly.

  “What?” he asked, dumbfounded. “Do they do it differently where you’re from?”

  “They do it differently everywhere,” she said. “This is how I would light a candle.”

  Kirsti leaned over and blew out the flame. Then there was a brief pulse of power and she intoned the spell. It was ‘Arkala’, but it wasn’t the way Randall had said it at all. There was a clipped sort of undercurrent to the word, along with a high-pitched whine near the end. In his mind, the spell didn’t just translate to “fire”, but contained within the structure of the word was a whole set of concepts describing the power, length, and strength of the flame. A tiny jet of flame short forth, setting the candle alight.