Mage Strike (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 2)

by R. K. Thorne

  Could she afford to shelter here? What if the Devoted searched the buildings? Then again, could she afford to limp along in the darkness, especially if she couldn’t even easily run and hide now? Could she afford to be out in the open if she was such a slow target? Perhaps by morning the ankle would be improved.

  “Besides, did you hear those riders coming through?” he added. “They said there’s a renegade mage escaped around here. Told us to be careful and to kill him right away if we saw him. You don’t want to be caught out here alone in the dark with that ankle and some crazed mage on the loose, do you?”

  She swallowed. “I—uh… No. I don’t.” Smooth, Jaena, real smooth. Still, Tharomar was either very trusting, very dense, or pretending not to notice her awkwardness. If he took note of it, he showed no sign. Perhaps she was just so prevailingly awkward that this stuttering seemed typical. “All right,” she said, breezily now. “When you put it that way, it would be best to stay somewhere. At least until the morning.”

  He swept up to her with surprising grace for his size and threw one of her arms over his shoulder. Well. He was holding nothing back when it came to helping her. The length of his body pressed against hers as he drew some of her weight and led her carefully up the riverbank and onto the path. He smelled of hard work, sweat, the earthy substances from within the smithy—not something she’d want to scent her home with, but not unpleasant either. This close she could see the rough linen tunic he wore beneath the leather. A pendant of a golden shaft of wheat swayed gently across the skin of his chest—a symbol of Nefrana. Kind as he was, she needed to remember she was not safe here.

  “Right. My home is just down that way,” he said, pointing. They began limping forward.

  “So you’re the blacksmith for these surrounding farms?”

  “Indeed. Smithy is right over there.”

  Even at the sight of the smithy, hunched and billowing smoke near a small home, she could feel the energy radiating from it. Why did his smithy have so much magic swirling around it? Why did he have these bits of earth magic swirling about him? He seemed completely unaware that she was a mage. He was clearly afraid of this renegade who could certainly only be out to do him harm. A typical Kavanarian point of view. Where was the magic coming from? Could it just be the concentration of metal and earth in the smithy? Natural energies? No. As they moved closer, she could feel even more clearly that it went beyond raw, natural energy. There were spells, although none she readily recognized. Strange.

  He led her to his home, a small wattle and daub cottage. More spells stirred, foreign and indeterminate. He helped her remove her pack. Gripping his arm, she eased gingerly into the seat by the fireplace. The warmth of the cottage alone felt better already. He knelt on one knee to stoke the low-burning coals and readily revived the flame with a log and a few flicks. His sleeveless tunic revealed rippling arms and shoulders, his strength handsome and well earned by honest labor. He would make a fine warrior. But perhaps blacksmiths were even more important than warriors to armies. What was a warrior without a blade or shield?

  “So what’ll it be?” he said.

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Beer, mead, brandy?” He grinned. “I suppose I also have tea, although that won’t take the edge off.” He had an angular jaw and intelligent, fiery eyes. Too intelligent for a smith in this small of a town. And how many smiths in these sorts of places knew three languages? Or more, even?

  “What do you recommend? You’re the injury expert.”

  Instead of replying, he moved forward to examine her ankle. Since he was still down on one knee, her foot was close at hand. She must have twitched and revealed her fear, because he stopped quickly. “May I?” he said, very gently, as if inviting her to stop him.

  She finally nodded. He took her boot gingerly, and only now did she notice her foot had begun to swell. Oh, gods, this was all a mistake. Why had she ever taken that damn brand? She could have escaped in the darkness of night, and no one would have known any better.

  No. The triumph of taking away their most powerful weapon was not something she was going to regret. She would find a way out of this. She had to. She would be free of that niggling voice burrowing into her shoulder, and she would make sure they never did to another what they had done to her. What they had done to her sister. But she couldn’t focus on that now—she couldn’t explain tears at this moment to this smith, this Tharomar. Instead, she focused on her freedom.

  She savored it for a moment, cherishing it in case she lost it, in case they recaptured her.

  Silence in her mind.

  Beautiful.

  His fingers drew her back to reality as they unlaced her boot, surprisingly gentle and dexterous. Almost… intimate. Was that heat in her cheeks a blush? She had always assumed peasant smiths like him would be rough brutes. Most mage smiths she knew were, and they were far more bookish than the average smith. How many smiths were so quick to go from pounding metal to untying intricate laces?

  Perhaps he wanted to unlace more than just her boot. Perhaps she wanted him to as well.

  He glanced up at her, only concern in his eyes. She felt abruptly disappointed. You do not have time for this, she told herself. Get it together.

  His fingers gently pulled her legging up her calf a hand’s width, revealing a swollen ankle that was already turning colors. She swore.

  “You did a number on it, all right. Mead, perhaps? I think it’s the strongest I’ve got.”

  “Mead it is. And any salve you have would be much appreciated. I can repay you in the form of work, or I can return with coin from my brother’s sales, if you wish,” she lied.

  He nodded. “I’m sure we can find some mutually beneficial arrangement. Or I have heard the gods bless those who help strangers in need. So I’m sure the balance will come due, one way or another.” He grinned at her.

  She returned his smile, but her own faded as soon as he turned away. She was not so sure about any of that. She stared at her ankle, feeling disgusted with herself. How long would it take to heal? How long till they came back through the town, searching for her? She had likely failed before she’d even really begun. And she had no way to contact Miara or Menaha or any of the others. Or to get help.

  Damn the Masters. And the Devoted. And all of them, damn them straight to hell.

  He stood and went to a nearby cupboard. Only then did she notice the interior of his home beyond him, the seat, and the fire. A cupboard, a small table with another chair, a wide bed on the far wall. Just one room. The bed looked inviting. Easily wide enough for two. But there were no signs of a woman in the cottage, unless she was perhaps even more brusque and burly than Tharomar. Thick, heavy tomes lined one of the shelves of the cupboard, but she could not see them well enough to guess their purpose.

  “Here you go,” he said, turning and handing her an earthenware mug. He set a kettle of more mead over the fire to warm.

  The fired clay and mud of the mug was almost as rejuvenating as the mead. She held the drink in both hands and took a deep, slow drink.

  “And now this,” he added, returning to one knee by her ankle. He held up a small jar for her inspection. The label read: Mountain Daisy.

  She considered quizzing him on what was in it or what a mountain daisy was, but really she had nothing to judge it by. Mages had healed her in Mage Hall, and before that, her mother had hired apothecaries. She knew nothing about what people used for injuries like this or what would be effective. She simply nodded, feigning confidence and understanding.

  He took a glob and smoothed the slightly cold cream across her skin. Indeed, a flowery scent caught her nose. She was intensely aware of each movement of each finger and the exquisitely lovely sensation on her skin above the pain. How strange that she reacted so much to his touch.

  Or was it his kindness she was reacting to? All the world hunted her. But not him, it seemed. At least, not yet. She glanced at the pendant but tore her eyes away. He had no way of knowing that she was a
mage, it seemed. Here, for the moment, she was mostly safe.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, wiping off his hands and closing the jar. He pushed over a small stool and helped her rest her foot on top of it. “Keeping it up should help. I’ve got to make sure the hearth has cooled in the smithy, perhaps rinse off so you don’t suffocate from my stench in this tiny hut. And prayer, of course. You enjoy that mead. I’m sure the goddess won’t mind if you pray from a chair. I’ll be back.” He grinned, and she nodded, taking a drink.

  She felt the sudden urge to tell him no, to leave the scent of the earth darkening his skin. How bizarre. Why should she even care about such a thing? She must be tired. Or there was something very, very unusual about this Tharomar.

  Once he was gone, she tried to search the room as best she could, hobbling and hopping on one leg. She found nothing suspicious. He had an immense book collection, mostly religious texts. Three shelves held leather-bound tomes of various types, some in other languages. How strange. The only ones she recognized were The Book of the Vigilant and Kyaeer’s Verses, not that she really knew much about either beyond that they often belonged to acolytes of Nefrana. A small ceramic pot contained a dozen more golden wheat pendants on chains like the one he wore around his neck. Why so many, she wondered? A strange vibration came from the pendants, not exactly magical and not something she understood. All of this made some of her uneasiness return. Tharomar did not seem like he could be a Devoted Knight, but he was clearly very concerned with matters of the soul. This safety was only temporary.

  Unless he was off getting the Devoted Knights right now. She swallowed and hoped that was not the case. Limping lamely toward Anonil all night did not seem like a better plan, but it did not ease her mind to simply hope he wasn’t betraying her. Perhaps she could at least find a knife or something to defend herself if need be.

  The home was otherwise well stocked. Should she swipe something to put in her very empty pack? Well, she still had the few loaves of bread and those three knots to get through. The idea of taking something twisted her stomach, though, and she abandoned it. He had been nothing but kind to her, and theft from him, especially so quickly, was also probably a sure way to end that. Perhaps she could simply ask him for a few things or offer to repay him for a few ordinary things with trade? That seemed best. And who knew how long she might rely on his hospitality. It was best not to test it prematurely.

  Her search for a weapon of some sort did not turn up much. No serious weapons were hung anywhere, or even anything that could be particularly dangerous, unless some of those salves and herbs were poisonous, which she was entirely unable to recognize. If he was armed, he kept implements of war in the smithy, it seemed. He was probably the most dangerous thing in the cottage, from her perspective. She settled for a butter knife that she tucked underneath but not inside the pack. Perhaps if he found it he would simply wonder how he’d managed to drop it there.

  She poured more mead and returned to her seat. Now she surveyed the home again for places to hide. If the Devoted came back before he returned, or in some unforeseen circumstance, she would need options. Sadly, she could not think up many options and only concluded that she could definitely hide somewhat under the bed, unless someone looked directly under it at her. Otherwise, the home was sparse enough that there wasn’t much else. The cupboards were stocked full, and the table provided no opportunities to hide.

  She continued to drink the mead and began noticing more spells the longer she sat. The hearth that had burned so steadily, so low, and reignited so easily—it was no coincidence. The slabs of stone were imbued with energy, not exactly spelled but simply charged with a mage’s powers. Why? How? And who was the mage creating them all?

  Could Tharomar be the mage? And if so, how could no one have noticed it?

  It must be him. She had never known she’d had powers before they’d captured her. He must simply not know. How unfortunate that he be so pious then. Unless he had a wife or partner. Someone had to be casting these spells. And if he did have a spouse, he really should not bring home young women and leave them alone in his cottage like this.

  She reached out toward the smithy. The swirling mass of energy thrummed with power. The spells were not intent on doing any specific things, but instead, the mage owned the metal, the stone, the hearth more fully. The rock and iron around the smithy sang with joyful power, his in more ways than one.

  Another mage who didn’t like mages. And didn’t know he was one.

  Great. Just great.

  Eventually, she heard footsteps returning. Indeed, it was no wife. Tharomar again. Clean and thrumming with fresh, strange energy. Where had he acquired that from?

  He had also brought her a pie.

  “What the—” she started.

  “You need to eat, don’t you?”

  She nodded and accepted the dish. She discovered with delight a meat pie drowning in a steaming stew of soft carrots, turnips, and gravy.

  “By the gods. Where did you get this?”

  “Morigna, on the other side of the smithy. I brought you a change of clothes too. Thought you might want to get out of that muddy mess.”

  She slowed in her chewing, and only partly because he’d acknowledged she must look like she’d just rolled out of a pigsty. How was she going to repay him for all this? Oh, and who cared what he thought of what she looked like anyway.

  “We barter for everything around here. Don’t worry about it.” He met her gaze levelly as if trying to reinforce his sincerity. He had read her too easily. It was unnerving. Up until now, the fact that he hadn’t read her well had only worked in her favor. She didn’t particularly want that to change. “Want me to step out while you change? This place isn’t designed much for privacy.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Water there—to wash with, if you like.”

  She nodded, and he stepped out again wordlessly. She washed as quickly as she could and slipped into the new clothes he’d found. Thank Anara, not a dress. The tired grayish-brown trousers and tawny tunic were worn. Patches of cheerful red and orange covered a knee, an elbow, and a handful of other spots. Well, all the better. She didn’t need the guilt of leaving no coin and disappearing with an outfit the farmers had worked hard to get. Unless… these things were still not the worst they had. No matter, nothing she could do about that now. She would keep a mental tally of all she’d received from them and try to send payment once she was safe in Akaria. If she ever made it safe to Akaria.

  She coaxed the mud out of her previous clothes gently, leaving a dusting on the floor that she hoped he wouldn’t notice. Folding the now clean clothes, she tucked the tidy pile behind the knapsack. Untying it wasn’t worth the risk of exposing the brand. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the clothes were now clean and that she hadn’t really needed a change of clothes after all.

  “Tharomar?” she called. His name felt strange and awkward on her tongue.

  He returned with a smile, and she returned to her chair, glad she didn’t have to limp over and get him. As she ate the rest of the pie, he busied himself around the cottage. She studied her mead and the flames. She tried not to think. It helped, and the ankle did feel better. She felt… less terrified that her whole plan had gone off the rails and she had completely lost control of the situation. Perhaps it was just the mead. She unwound her braid of braids and let them fall around her face. She relaxed, her eyelids drooped. She listened to the crackle of the fire. The sound of him crushing something in a pestle behind her perked her anxieties once again. What was he up to? After some time, he stopped his machinations in his nearby cupboard and jutted a chin at the bed.

  “You can sleep there, if you like. Or Morigna can make room by her fire, but she does have a young babe. I can sleep on these rugs. I fall asleep there half the time anyway.” He smiled.

  “I… I do think I could use the rest,” she said sleepily. Well, that wasn’t much of an answer.

  He seemed to understand without additional clarity on
her part. Again he took her arm over his shoulder and helped her hobble-hop over to the bed. Did he release her with hesitation, or was that her imagination? His warmth left her side, leaving her cold. She eased herself down on the far side of the straw mattress, nearest the wall, as he covered her with a scratchy, gray wool blanket. He moved away again, back to his cupboard, then to the table, then the cupboard. She relaxed a bit more. She wound the scarf she’d found in the new set of clothes around her hair, both for warmth and to protect the braids.

  How could she possibly be so relaxed when she had the stolen brand to make a mage a slave in a bag five feet from her bed, and all the Devoted and guards of Mage Hall looking for her?

  What had been in that salve? Or was it the mead? Or the meat pie? Or those dashing brown eyes? Or maybe those spells today had just been more tiring than she’d thought.

  He came back to check on her periodically. Once, when she was nearly asleep, he stayed for one moment, two. She could feel him watching her. He pulled the blanket up slightly over her shoulder. Her brand was but inches from his fingers. What would he think of it? Would he be repulsed to see it?

  She opened her eyes a little. A small, concerned smile graced his face, nothing more. No hint of malice or even surprise.

  “Why are you helping me?” she said, letting fear color her voice.

  He blinked. There, now he was a touch surprised? He quickly hid his surprise away, making her uneasy once again. He was hiding something. Whatever it was, it was unlikely to be good. Still, she couldn’t convince herself of any malevolent motives while he stared into her eyes.

  “Because,” he said, shrugging, “someone helped me once, and it made a world of difference. Besides, it’s the Way. How you deserve to be treated.” Was he flirting, or was she imagining things? Or was it the mead? “It is how I would want to be treated. And have been, in my time of need. Don’t worry. It’ll come back to me in the end.”