The Brothers Three: Book One of The Blackwood Saga

by Layton Green

  “I . . . what does that mean?”

  She shrugged. “You might have to discover its ability for yourself. Some swords are made to destroy certain types of enemies, or withstand extreme conditions, or convey abilities. They can be imbued with a myriad of properties, and it’s impossible to guess.”

  Her comments left him more curious than ever about the sword. What had Dad left him?

  Will thought he had learned a thing or two from his fencing lessons and the weaponry consultant at Medieval Nights, but after his session with Mala, he realized he knew nothing at all about real swordplay.

  First, she taught him how to properly sheath and unsheathe his sword, an art form in and of itself. She then moved on to the proper way of holding his weapon, as well as the basics of stance and movement. She made him repeat these basic elements for an hour, and told him to practice them every day until they became automatic responses.

  They took a water break, and Will noticed Lance training with Hashi and the other Chickasaw. Lance was taking to the war hammer like a camel to a new desert. He shared a laugh with the twins, and appeared to be teaching them as much as they taught him. As he had many times before, Will envied Lance’s easy confidence. He was the kind of guy who knew exactly who he was and where he fit in the world.

  Though the twins and Lance looked impressive as they sparred, Hashi was clearly the best of all four. By far.

  “I didn’t know the Chickasaw were such good warriors,” Will said.

  Mala gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve heard, of course, of the Spartans of Greece?”

  “Sure.”

  “The Chickasaw are the Spartans of the native tribes. Their warriors train from birth and are respected across the Protectorate. And Hashi is the best they have.”

  Will watched as Hashi whirled, faster than he would have thought possible for such a giant man, and cracked Lance lightly across the back of the knees with his cudgel. Lance fell, and Hashi spun again, just avoiding a blow from Akocha. He caught Fochik’s swing in midair, then threw him into Akocha. Both landed next to Lance, and Hashi twirled his cudgel and struck the ground at quarter-speed, grinning at the loud boom that resulted.

  Will felt the earth tremble beneath his feet, and looked at Mala with widened eyes. “A Cudgel of Thunder,” she said quietly. “A very powerful weapon.”

  She pushed to her feet. “Swordplay is even more responsive to skill and technique than hand to hand combat. The speed of the blade is paramount, and thus power is important, but power in swordplay derives principally from technique, as well as wrist and forearm strength.” She laid the flat of her blade against his overdeveloped forearm. “Where you have a natural advantage.”

  He preened at the compliment. At least one thing was in his favor.

  She instructed him in the basic sword strokes, which they practiced over and over for most of the lesson. At the end of the session, she gave him a brief tutorial on where to strike, describing the weaknesses of the human anatomy and explaining how the body did a good job of protecting its vital organs. “Avoid the back,” she said, “unless you have a clear shot at the spine. The back is the human body’s crab shell.”

  Will’s sword had always felt heavy to him, and by the end of the lesson he could barely hold it upright. And they hadn’t even started sparring.

  As Mala ended the session and walked towards the horses, Will found himself staring at the athletic sway of her hips, the tautness of her narrow shoulders. He had never seen someone convey strength and sensuality in such equal measure.

  When she was around, he had started to feel as if the air were charged with electricity, not just attraction but a titillating excitement at being so close to something so wild and dangerous, as if he were standing next to an uncaged leopard.

  Get too close, he thought, and he might get savaged.

  But it also might be worth it.

  They continued on the Byway for a few more hours, reaching the first major intersection as dusk crept through the slats in the pines. They had been heading east, and a wooden sign marked a wide dirt road that crossed the Byway in a north-south direction. The sign heralded “Mauvila Bay” to the south and “Blue Springs” to the north.

  Mala pointed north. “The village lies only a few miles away. Since the search party delayed us, we might as well have a roof tonight.”

  “Isn’t that risky?” Val asked.

  “Not many people in the countryside are fond of the Protectorate. Plenty of folk prefer the old ways, even if they’ve taken the Oaths for survival’s sake. We’ll stay at an inn I know well. The owner’s sympathetic to non-citizens.”

  “What if there’s an informant at the inn?” Val said.

  Mala turned, a bemused but grim curve to her lips. “A cautious one, I see. Mattie will warn us if a stranger is visiting. It’s worth the risk, as Mattie is a wealth of information. Among other things,” she wheeled her horse towards the dirt road, “I’d like to know who that search party was after.”

  -26-

  Soon after starting down the path to the village, Will saw a white spire rising in the distance that looked like a village cathedral. He pointed it out to Mala, thinking it was a modest wizard’s tower.

  “The town hall,” she said. “By decree of the Realm, all churches were converted to administrative centers at the end of the Pagan Wars.”

  “That must have gone over well,” Will said.

  “It was not until recently that the ban on religion was enforced in the villages. And no, it has not gone over well.”

  “I think getting rid of religion is a fabulous idea,” Caleb said. “Maybe then we’d all stop killing each other.”

  “Doubtful,” Val said. “It didn’t work out too well in . . . other places.”

  Mala didn’t respond, but her icy silence, as well as that of the rest of the party, spoke volumes. Even Allira frowned.

  “Why the change in policy?” Val asked. “And how recent are we talking?”

  “Ever since the current Chief Thaumaturge gained control of the Congregation,” Alexander replied. “Lord Alistair instituted the Oaths a decade ago, the Tribunals soon after.”

  “You ’ave to admit New Victoria’s never looked better,” Marguerite said.

  Mala waved a bangled hand in dismissal. “Their cities. Their people. The Congregation claims to work for enlightenment and progress, but the gap between rich and poor, free and indentured, wizard-born and not, has never been greater.”

  “I grew up in a slum,” Marguerite said, “so I s’pose it’s all the same to me.”

  Will gathered that Marguerite was not much for religion or politics. No wonder she and Caleb were getting along.

  The village came into view, a comely collection of brick buildings and wooden houses clustered around a spired administrative building. The colors of fall peppered the trees in the village green.

  The Stag and Hearth squatted on the side of the road a hundred yards before town. Hashi and his men dropped off as the party approached the inn. Will assumed they either preferred the forest or would raise too many eyebrows.

  The dying sun backlit a few clouds lounging in the sky. Someone from the inn took their horses, and the party filed inside, dusty and weary. Flames danced within stone fireplaces at opposite ends of the room, and a collection of aged oak tables dotted the room, softly lit by candles in clover-shaped sconces.

  The place was empty except for a lone patron sitting by a fireplace. A door to the rear swung open, and a burly man in an apron stepped into the common room. At first his eyes were suspicious, and then his bearded face broke into a smile.

  “Is there room at the inn, Mattie?” Mala said.

  “Always for my lassies,” he said, embracing Mala and Allira. He looked right past Marguerite, but ran an appraising eye over the brothers and especially Caleb, who was inhaling the wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen.

  “As you can see,” Mattie said, his brow darkening, “there’s far too much room.”


  He led them to a table by the fire. A serving boy brought a tray of ale and a cup of hot water for Allira. “It’s braised quail tonight,” Mattie said. “Butter cream sauce, roasted parsnips, fire-crisped potatoes, and blackberry cobbler. I assume that will suffice?”

  Marguerite released a sigh of pleasure. “You could make cold acorn stew delicious,” she said, and he beamed.

  “Mattie owned a popular restaurant on Canal in New Victoria,” Mala said to the group, “Lucky for us, he grew tired of serving wizards and wealthy merchants.”

  Mattie’s belly shook under the apron when he laughed. “I prefer the village life. There’s far less politics in the food.”

  Will took a seat in the high-backed chair and noticed more and more details, such as the delicately folded napkins and the quality of the oil paintings on the walls. The ale was even better than The Minotaur’s Den brew.

  “You’re usually full on a night like this,” Mala said quietly.

  Mattie sniffed. “My business is the Byway. Banditry is on the rise, which means more patrols. More patrols means non-citizens are afraid to venture outside the cities, which means less business for me. These are hard times.” He gave her a pointed look. “You should watch yourself, lassie. Used to be one could travel the Byway all the way from New Victoria to Georgetown without being stopped. No more.”

  “We saw a patrol this morning,” she said. “In full search mode.”

  His eyes glanced around the room, as if someone might overhear him. “Rebels from the Second headed to New Victoria,” he said. “Rumor is they had a wizard with them.”

  “That would explain the urgency,” Mala murmured. “It’s not good for the public to see a disgruntled wizard.”

  Mattie’s eyes slid towards Alexander, then back to Mala. “No,” he said, “it’s not.” He rubbed his hands together and forced a smile. “Let me see to this kitchen.”

  Val watched everyone drop off after the meal. Allira sipped her tea and slipped quietly away. Will left soon after, as exhausted as Val had ever seen him, and Lance went with him. Val had little in common with Lance, but he appreciated the way he looked after his brother.

  Caleb and Marguerite left next, ostensibly to work on Caleb’s lock-picking skills. Mala disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Val alone with Alexander.

  The geomancer produced two cigars wrapped in golden paper. He offered one to Val. “Cigar?”

  “Sure.”

  Alexander used a candle to light up. Val followed suit. The cigar was rich and spicy, with hints of vanilla oak.

  The ale and the cigar helped ease Val’s mind and sore back. Horseback riding might be his least favorite activity. In any universe.

  Alexander regarded Val through a haze of cigar smoke. His eyes were commiserative. “You must have some questions.”

  “About what?”

  Alexander tilted his cigar to let the smoke flow away from the table. “I know you didn’t lose your magic. You had no idea what was happening back there.”

  The fire crackled at Val’s back. Alexander sat across the table from him. Val’s estimation of Alexander’s speech patterns was that he was a highly educated man, probably highborn, but also someone who took care not to sound haughty. An empathetic man, one who cared about his audience.

  “You have power,” Alexander said softly, with a touch of jealousy. “Real power. I can train you. I don’t know how much progress we’ll make in this short time, but another wizard in the party, even a novice, would be useful.”

  Val’s eyes fell on a lush painting depicting a group of nymphs frolicking in a red and gold forest. Smoke from the cigars blurred the colors, giving the scene a surrealist feel.

  Sort of like Val’s head since they had left the mine.

  Ever since the cave-in, he had tried to do things with his mind, everything from picking up one of the horses to snapping a low-lying branch. He had yet to feel a flicker of power. Whatever had happened had been an anomaly.

  Alexander spread his hands. “The offer will stand. I’m here should you need me.”

  Despite his mistrust of wizards, Val found he enjoyed Alexander’s company. And he hated being in the dark. His gaze drifted off the oil painting and back to the geomancer. “What percentage of the population are wizards?” Val asked.

  “Less than one percent is wizard-born to some degree. The ability is passed down through the father.”

  “Are all wizards born and not made?”

  Alexander ashed his cigar. “Wizards are born and made. The journey to become a full mage is extremely difficult. But if one isn’t born with power . . . then one cannot acquire it.”

  Val wondered what that meant and sensed Alexander didn’t really know. With this next question, he knew he would be revealing the extent of his ignorance about this world, but he decided that trusting Alexander was more important for their survival than prolonged lack of knowledge. Besides, both Mala and Alexander knew something was off with their story. If they wished the brothers and Lance ill, there wasn’t much Val could do about it. “What exactly is the Congregation?”

  “The Congregation is the order of wizards in the Realm,” Alexander replied, after giving Val a long look. “One of the largest and most influential body of wizards in the world.”

  “Why aren’t you part of it?”

  Alexander’s cheeks constricted more than usual on the next puff of his cigar. “To become a recognized wizard, one must choose a discipline, become an apprentice, and pass that discipline’s trials. I passed—barely.”

  “How difficult are the trials?”

  “All are hard, but it depends on the school. Geomancy is one of the easier ones. I am not,” he said with a self-effacing smile, “a very strong wizard. Though plenty of geomancers are. A school should be chosen based on affinity, not ability.”

  “Why’d you leave?” Val said softly.

  A wan smile creased the geomancer’s lips. “I have a different philosophy on life.”

  “Do you care to expound?” Val said.

  Alexander waved his cigar. “The fire is warm, the hour late, the company good.” He tapped his fingers on the table, then folded them and looked Val in the eye. “I believe in freedom of choice. Even for something of which I disapprove. Even for religion. After what happened to Leonidus, I . . . took a very long look at my affiliations.”

  “It takes a strong person to re-examine one’s beliefs. I imagine his death was impactful.”

  “Impactful?” He gave Val a quizzical look. “Mala didn’t tell you, did she? Leonidus was my first cousin. We grew up together.”

  Val’s hand stopped halfway to his glass. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

  That explains his motivation for the journey, Val thought. He had been pondering Alexander’s reasons for accompanying Mala, since he didn’t fit the mercenary profile. Revenge for the murder of one’s family member—now that was a motive Val understood.

  Val’s next thought made him uneasy. Alexander must want to find the objects his cousin made and use them against the wizards who had killed Leonidus.

  Which meant he wouldn’t want Val and his brothers to have them.

  Alexander must have guessed what he was thinking, because he chuckled. “Don’t worry, I merely wish to give my cousin a proper burial. His bones deserve to rest in dignity.”

  Val supposed a decade had passed, and Alexander had made his peace. But if someone had done that to one of his brothers, Val would never rest.

  Not until whoever was responsible was lying six feet under.

  He laid a hand on Alexander’s arm. “It may not count for much, but I’ll help you if I can.”

  Alexander bowed his head. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Val leaned back, light-headed from the strong tobacco. “I assume the Congregation chose their name as a mockery? So no one would associate the concept of the divine with anything other than wizards and magic?”

  “I believe that is indeed the point.”

  �
��Is the Congregation evil?” Val said.

  “Like the rest of humanity, some wizards are good, some are evil, most are somewhere in between. That said,” his face darkened, “organizations have a way of becoming something more single-minded than their constituents. Especially when a man like Lord Alistair takes the reins.”

  “What’s his agenda?” Val asked.

  “Power.”

  “Why the Oaths and the religious persecution?”

  “To silence all voices in opposition to the Congregation.”

  Val’s hand strayed to his side, brushing against his staff. He gently traced the half-moon curve of Azantite. “Why do wizards keep stones?”

  “Each specialty claims a different gemstone. In the old days, wizard stones were used to aid in the gathering and focus of power. Today the practice is mostly symbolic.”

  “Symbolic? I thought my staff may have . . . stopped the cave-in.”

  Alexander chuckled. “Azantite is the rarest stone of all, harvestable only by an alchemancer, but no stone possesses magic. You do.”

  “And spirit mages prefer azantite?”

  “That’s right.”

  Val gripped his staff, remembering his shock at seeing his father’s name in the Wizard’s Hall. “What’s the test like to be a spirit mage?”

  “The most difficult of all. No one except a spirit mage would really know, and some don’t survive the trials.”

  “What does a spirit mage,” Val hesitated, searching for the right language and failing to find it, “do?”

  Alexander made a circular motion with his hands, leaving them cupping the air in front of him, palms up. When he spoke, Val detected a note of longing in his voice. “A spirit mage studies the spaces in between. The starry heavens, the astral plane, the forces of the multiverse. Starlight. The essence of magic. Spirit.”

  Despite himself, Val felt his skin prickle at Alexander’s description. “How many are there?”

  “Spirit mages? Precious few. Two dozen or so in the entire Congregation.”