The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  The image of a dead girl, her face smashed and torn, floated on the edge of his vision. He could feel Misera's broken, little fingers clutching his shoulder and squeezing while her other hand clutched his heart. Why did you kill me, Devi, the ghost screamed.

  Devin swallowed his gorge. He felt no glory. He took no pleasure in his triumph. If this was blood magic, he wanted no part of it. “Does anyone . . . ulp . . . dare face me, now?” Devin whispered to the corpses as their hair drifted with the currents. “You boiled lobsters? You fragile tin soldiers?” Oh, by the five gods, their intestines look like slimy, floating sausages. His stomach heaved and he splattered his quivering guts into the shallows.

  Devin turned away from the death and watched the lazy waves flush his puke out to sea. He wiped the foul juices from his lips. It felt cleansing, almost liberating, to add his own contribution to the battle's aftermath, but nothing could purge the guilt still roiling at his core. Not only was his magic well empty, he felt as though his soul had drained with it.

  Movement further inland grabbed his attention and banished his melancholy thoughts as he clung to the distraction, eyes snapping over the piles of bodies towards quiet signs of life. The surviving handful of soldiers had retracted like burnt fingers. Their pincer movement had grabbed a live coal. The same captain who slapped the gawkers reined his white horse and led the remaining men in a frantic rout to shelter behind the dunes.

  The soldiers would rather risk the dragons than face him again. Devin stared at the scaly beasts draped along the walls. He didn't know whether to pleased or offended.

  With the sun setting over the ocean, the dragons had grounded, seeking warmth underground or draping themselves across the marble walls which had soaked in the sunshine all afternoon. The red sky reflected off the giant dragon towers and the western most buildings and dripped onto the beach. It seemed as though the whole world was bleeding into the ocean.

  The youth gulped, steeling his features. I wasted too much magical energy. Too showy! Too bombastic! I've drained my reserves to the dregs and all this blood is not helping me focus. If those soldiers sense any weakness, any gap in my armor, I'm dead. I must look invincible, unassailable. How can I hammer that message into their thick skulls without my magic and make the soldiers flee before me?”

  A soft imperial anthem undulated through the unit huddling behind the dunes. Each man added his voice like droplets to a pool and the anthem swelled as it traveled through the tiny army. The men sang louder and wound themselves up. The swell grew into a wave threatening to crash upon the beach.

  They're hardening their steel hearts, Devin thought, wishing he knew a few martial songs to whistle under his breath. After those soldiers finish preparing themselves, they're going to attack again. I killed their mates. They will offer no quarter and I will offer no excuses. I am going to die. I need to break their spirit. I need to silence that song.

  Devin walked above the high tide among the bodies until he found a suitable corpse. He pressed his steel foot into the dead man's wrist, not technically touching the dead flesh, and smiled weakly when a tiny spring in the heel gently pushed back. Magnus did good work. The soldier's wrist cracked.

  A low growl and a bright twinkle caught his attention. Festus stood nearby next to the brass watch. The general had observed the whole battle silently from his steel prison and now the man quivered and grumbled as the youth mutilated another corpse. Devin ignored the man and pocketed the watch; no harm in touching that vile thing when he was out of magic.

  Devin balanced the severed hand on his steel toes, lobbed it into the air, and then snap kicked a bloody invitation towards the dunes. The gears in his ankle whined at the harsh treatment.

  The hand sailed over the remnant army. Their rowdy singing became ragged silence. Devin could almost see their heads turning as they watched the arc of the dead hand fall. He waited, testing the silence. None responded to this new challenge.

  “Prepare,” Devin roared. He gathered himself, arms held high to look like he was about to launch a terrible destructive force upon his surviving enemies. The youth took a deep breath and advanced on the last vestiges of the Red Army.

  A gray-cloaked rider emerged from the forest at the base of the mountains, galloping through the dead city towards the beach on a black horse. The light emanating from the dragon towers turned the horse and rider a pale violet smudge as the duo passed beneath them. The pendant sat on the rider's neck like a lonely star glistening in the sky.

  At last, Captain Vice shows himself. My nemesis has arrived. And once again, by the gods' fickle graces, I am powerless to stop him. Devin thought, his shoulders slumping. No matter. No more running. This ends here. Devin drew his white hot, blazing sword from the sand, arms shaking, and pointed the quivering blade towards his foe. Flecks of molten glass flew off the metal.

  Devin turned in time to see a glowing blob of glass sail through the twilight and strike the general's cheek. The old man didn't even wince as his flesh sizzled like burnt pork.

  “You finally hold that blade as though you mean to use it,” Festus paused, “albeit poorly. No more magic, lad? No more tricks?”

  “I promised to use the sword,” Devin hissed. “You didn't specify how.”

  “You have transformed my old weapon into a blade befitting an artifice mage.” The general smiled. “There is no blade nor wielder like it all the world. And if you don't stop prevaricating and listen, you pompous little snot, there will be one less. You may have cowed my men, but that rider carries one of those infernal, Black Guard devices.” Festus worked his jaw, stretching the skin over his burnt cheek. “No doubt he has vanquished your kind on the field of battle before.”

  Devin wiped his sweaty hands on the pommel of the sword. “No doubt. Do you have anything useful to say, General?”

  “I know I should wish you dead on the field, lad,” Festus said, taking a deep breath. “But I find myself transfixed by a desire to aid you . . . ”

  “Aid me?” Devin almost dropped his sword. “After I slaughtered your men? Why?”

  “You slaughtered nobody, boy. Butchers slaughter. Farmers slaughter. Beasts slaughter. Soldiers and their enemies kill. You think every one of my boys didn't come prepared to fight and die? To meet the foe on the field of battle is a glory death can never diminish. And you mourn our dead as they deserve: like family.”

  A horse whinnied from the depths of Port Eclare and Devin paused to watch the spectacle. The cloaked rider was slowly navigating through a maze of fallen rubble while his horse leaped across toppled columns and trotted around debris. The youth wished him all the frustration in the world.

  “There is honor and steel in your heart,” Festus murmured and Devin turned to face the general.

  “You should hate me. I would hate me. Just look at what I did.” Devin gestured to the corpse strewn beach.

  “I see soldiers who died like men.” Festus squared his jaw. “And I see a dead dragon who threatened to slaughter my boys like red cattle. My hate for you is a pale spark next to the burning inferno I nurse against those slimy lizards. You don't realize just how rare and glorious a sight that dead monster is to an old knight. I want you to survive and kill them all.”

  Devin gaped and stared. “Kill the dragons? But I am a dragon myself.”

  “You are a confused young man, not a beast.” Festus smiled grimly. “There's just something about a new recruit twisting a wobbling sword in his fear-soaked palms. It stokes the old captain in me. You're more like those young soldiers you killed today than you know.”

  “You failed to vanquish me and now you respect me for winning and slaying the dragon? Are 500 men worth that price?” Devin sighed and lowered his sword. “I don't understand soldiers, but you sound like one of the gruff, kindly old men from my village.”

  “Old and gruff, I'll grant you, lad,” the general chuckled. “Kindly, I am not. You need to learn to count. The death toll was closer to 450. Didn't finish the job. Sloppy. Unprofessional.�
�� Festus clucked and shook his head before nodding towards the dunes. “Will you release me from this steel shell? There's something ignoble about trapping an old knight in his own armor. I give you my parole and vow that I shall share your fate this day.”

  “Your parole? Does that mean you won't run away? You will fight all attackers, even your own men?” Devin asked, trying to affix this disturbingly grandfather-like general as an enemy in his mind and failing. The trauma of killing that magnificent dragon and all those poor soldiers coupled with the familiar, guttural accent had crushed the youth's defenses. Besides, what did they have left to fight over?

  “On my honor as a knight of the empire, I give you my solemn oath, Dragon Slayer,” Festus said. “I swear to do my best to aid you as I have done my best to defeat you. There has been too much bloodshed this day. Besides, my men will not attack while I stand by your side. You wished them to disperse with your pathetic bluffing, did you not?”

  “A knight of the empire standing by my side feels odd.” The youth glanced over his wavering sword tip at the approaching rider. “But I would be grateful for an ally right now: any ally, no matter how bizarre.” Devin jammed the sword back in the sand and jogged over to the old general. “You'll need to talk me through the straps and latches. I can't just magic it away anymore.”

  The general sighed and wriggled. “Go grab your molten metal blade. That rust stunt rotted the leathers away, but the metal fasteners and gear mounts are still intact. You will have to shear through most of the clasps and connecting rods and melt all the latches. Careful with that blade, lad. There's a fuel canister hugging the base of my spine. It's a volatile brew and I'd rather not have an explosion in my armor while I'm still stuck in it.”

  “I did say I wanted to examine one of these suits,” Devin murmured, angling the sword by raising his elbows back and sighting down the length of the blade. “What better way than dissection? My old mentor Cornelius would approve. Ha! Old Master Huron would be mortified.” I'm about to crack open a suit of mechanical battle armor with my indelicate, fumble fingered apprentice hands, Huron. Can't stop me this time. I'm not your apprentice anymore.

  “Did either of those mentorships include instructions on how to use a sword like a crowbar?”

  “Nope. Engineering, philosophy, natural history, and blunt force magical manipulations. The occasional experiment. None of which are useful here.”

  “Oh joy,” Festus replied. “Well I hope that homemade metal foot of yours shares at least some basic principles with a rust-pitted suit of Drake Plate Mechanical Battle Armor, Mark 5. Hack away and be done with it, lad.”

  “I said I was the Artifice Mage, didn't I? You saw the mage; now you get to meet the artificer. Wish I had my tools. Now hold still,” Devin squinted at a crease in the general's armor. “This damn sword is heavy.” Devin proceeded to crack, peel, and cut the old lobster from his shell. At last, Festus stepped out of his armor and rotated his shoulders.

  “What an awful feeling,” the general said. “I need to remember that trick for disciplining new troops and oath breakers. When the whipping post's too good for the bastards, just entomb them in their own damn armor.”

  Devin gestured to the piles of bodies and weapons. “Better rearm yourself quickly, General Festus.”

  The knight hobbled down the beach, working the kinks from his knees and elbows. He sighed and stooped over a mass of corpses, removing his tattered cloak and draped it over one of the fallen soldiers. “Always first into the fray, eh, Horace?” the general whispered. “You won't mind if an old man borrows your sword and cuirass? Don't think a captain's sigil is beneath a general's dignity, do you, Horace? Oh well, I thought not. I've got less than a company left alive in the field. A sudden demotion to captaincy somehow feels appropriate. Much obliged, Horace.” The general steepled his trigger fingers and pointed them to the heavens. “May the five gods bless and watch over you.”

  “Just the chest piece?” Devin asked quietly after the old man had finished his benedictions.

  “Don't have time for the whole suit. Outer shell will have to do.” Festus grunted as he wormed into the cuirass and buckled the leathers. “The gear mechanisms need to be individually calibrated. Takes forever, lad, even if you had the training for it. Besides, there's something romantic about going to battle dressed like this.” He rapped the steel with his knuckles and the metal clanged. “Fighting like the knights of old.”

  “I prefer modern mechanisms, thank you.” Devin wiggled his steel foot at the old soldier. “And you don't strike me as the romantic type.”

  “The army is practical to the core and I've been wrapped in red steel since I was your age,” the general laughed. “The cuirass protects my heart, my lungs, and my intestines. All the vital bits. See that little flap there that hooks under my legs? The thing even protects my little sword and two dice. Romance? Feh. A swift strike across that metal codpiece is as near to romance as an old soldier gets, lad.”

  Devin held up his hands. “I don't want to know.”

  Festus grinned and wiggled his fingers. “All sorts of tingly vibrations if you hit just the right spot. Many a time I've noticed the new lads experimenting with tiny clubs and ball peen hammers . . . ”

  “I said I don't want to know!” Devin covered his ears.

  A loud whinny from the east distracted them both. The dark horse and rider rode past the city gates, ignored by the sleeping dragons on the western wall as the dragons ignored them. The cloaked rider was close enough now that Devin could hear the hoof beats on the old cobblestones and see the beast snorting as its nostrils flared.

  Devin gripped his sword. “The Black Guard comes to meet us, General Festus.”

  “Black Guards,” the general spat. “We had a liaison. Captain Armand Delacourt Vice. An odious man from the guards foisted upon us by their scheming leader. I kicked the blaggart off my ship when we stopped to take on extra provisions at Port Minnow. The little shit kept trying to coerce my men with his insane plans to eradicate mages. As if we were Black Guards. He was always trying to steal that brass watch, too. I should have just let him have the damn thing and be rid of it.”

  “It looks like Captain Vice has found a different watch. Think he's come back to finish what you started?” Devin asked, fingering the lump in his pocket. This watch is different. There are little indentations in the brass casing . . . on a device that absorbs energy. How is that even possible?

  “He would not dare,” the general said before shaking his head. “No, of course he would dare and take pleasure in tweaking my nose; such is the man's nature. Widen your stance. Grip the hilt with both hands. Lower the tip of your sword. Horses aren't tricky, just big. When the rider swings high, duck under his blade and either go for the beast's knees or strike it in the belly.”

  “Good to know,” Devin said. “Glad I'm not the only one who's had trouble with Black Guards.”

  Festus glared at the approaching rider and swing a few practice strokes with his borrowed sword. He adjusted his grip. “That damn magistrate knowingly sent us on a fool's quest straight into the dragon's maw. Quaint, local legends, indeed. And the full extent of your sorcery was debased as well. Yes, the Black Guards have much to answer for. I may just gut that man after we disembowel his steed.”

  The rider weaved through the cursing soldiers. The horse vaulted across the dunes while the rider spurred the beast onward. The rider swayed in his saddle and the wind whipped his cloak behind him, but the pendant never moved.

  I'm not ready. I can't face him, Devin thought, his sword beginning to waver. “I can't do it. I can't kill anymore. My chance for vengeance comes riding to me on a black horse if I can only snatch it, but now . . .”

  “Stand firm, lad,” Festus growled. “Clutch your hilt like you were squeezing his skinny, serpent neck between your fingers and strike. Breathe deep. Open your nostrils. Open your mind. Taste your fate flowing on the ocean breeze. He will come whether you are ready or not.”

  D
evin glared. “I can smell nothing but salt and horse sweat on the ocean breeze.”

  Festus chuckled. “Steadied your nerves, didn't I? Take it from an old soldier. Whatever happens, happens. Fretting will change nothing. Now raise your blade and strike true!”

  The horse thundered across the beach, sand erupting with each hoof beat. The rider's cloak whipped behind him like a pale banner as though a ghostly horde followed in his wake.

  Devin blanched. His arms drooped. His stance faltered. His metal limb plunged into the crimson beach. The youth tugged at his leg, but the sand held firm. He could not run. He could not fight. He could not win. His darkest, most evil nightmares had no hope of defeating this man.

  “You're no match for me,” Devin cried as the apparition closed the distance between them.

  “Nobody wields the awful power you do,” the rider agreed, the wind distorting his voice as he waved the watch over his head. “But you are nullified by this device. Some children never learn their lessons,” the voice sneered. “You failed the test. The empire dangled this army like a handful of worms and you swallowed the bait. You validated their worst fears. All to destroy one man?” The rider stood in his stirrups and braced one hand on his forehead and the other on his hip. He glanced around the battlefield with exaggerated, mocking care. “Well, where is he? Where is his corpse? I expected you to impale Captain Armand Delacourt Vice on a pike at the very least. I do believe you missed him.”

  “You won't survive facing me one on one,” Devin said. I won't survive this trap, Devin thought. If I'm a wolf, then I will fight like one. What does the great wolf worry when he steps into a tiny snare?

  “We both knew this day was coming. You're not a puppy anymore. You're a rabid dog. It's my responsibility to put you down.”

  I'm not some sickly dog. I am a wolf. I will grab you by the throat and never let go until you bleed dry.

  “Who is the gentleman with you?” The rider pulled his coal black horse up short near the youth and the old man. The animal was blowing hard and lathered with sweat. “So many dead soldiers. Not content killing baby dragons anymore, I see. Why if I didn't know any better,” the voice drawled, “I'd say you used magic as a shortcut to solve all of your problems.”