Mage Strike (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 2)

by R. K. Thorne

  If they fled, at least it would mean an end to all the waiting. On horseback, it wouldn’t be long before they made it to Akaria—or not. It would end this just waiting around for the Devoted to figure out she was here. There had to be fewer of the bastards farther away from Mage Hall, right? And if Tharomar was with her, she could decide later whether to tell him he was a mage or not. “All right, fine. Let’s go.”

  Tharomar stalked out into the rain. He’d gotten some fairly thick cloaks for them both, and they were lucky it wasn’t slightly colder, or this late fall rain would be a heavy snow. But the rain was heavy enough that it splashed everywhere and managed to get into places it normally wouldn’t otherwise. The deluge had opened up out of nowhere, and if it kept up like this, they wouldn’t get far. The road would be black as pitch. But it was likely just a short downpour. They could pack and prepare, and then at least they would be ready to leave as soon as the rain let up. Or they could hide out in the barn, which would give them some warning if the Devoted did come back.

  He’d packed one saddlebag with perishables and a few of the precious books. He kept another ready with the saddle, packed with the necessities that lasted—flint, blankets, hunting knives. It wasn’t a long ride to Akaria and the next city anyway, where hopefully they could hide. If they couldn’t make it in one night, perhaps by nightfall tomorrow…

  He stopped and listened. Were those hoofbeats in the distance? Or was it his imagination? Hard to tell with the heavy rush of the rain.

  The last items he needed were in the smithy, so they made their way there as quickly as she was able.

  By the gods, she had stolen the damn brand. The thing they used to make the mages slaves in the first place. It had been there, just sitting on his floor by the fire all this time. It had been nearby as those Devoted searched his home. He should have pressed her for her story sooner, he should have looked in her bag when she’d fallen asleep. They could have been long gone. The order would be furious with him if he lost either her or the artifact now. But not half as furious as he’d be with himself.

  “Stay here just a second,” he said as they stopped by the entry to the smithy, its wide-open mouth facing the farms. He hoped the farmers would find a way to manage without him.

  “Do you have a staff or something?” she asked. He searched among some shovels propped by the entry. “We can’t go far in this deluge.”

  He nodded as he handed her a rather large tree branch he’d used as a walking stick on a hike into town that summer. “I know. Hoping the rain will let up. Here—not a staff, but close as I’ve got. Should help steady you on your feet. Good idea. It will just be a moment.”

  He strode to the heavy trunk beside his hearth and took a knee next to it. He unlocked the padlock and heaved open the hefty lid. The hearth’s embers cast a dim, warm light over the contents. The night itself was dark and empty, moonless.

  Perhaps he had one thing he did consider his own—his weapons. First, he drew out the mace, dark and elegant with holy symbols inlaid in gold on the handle—grain, rose, and nail always underneath his hands. Then, he pushed more lambskins out of the way and found the sword and scabbard. Just as he lifted the carrying strap over his shoulder, a voice broke through the calm rushing of the rain.

  “Stop, in the name of Nefrana.”

  Tharomar sucked in a harsh breath. He struggled to squash a wave of anger at the words; it would not help him fight.

  And fight he would.

  The voice belonged to the same Devoted that had been here before. Were these knights or lesser soldiers? They had not identified themselves. Had one of the others mentioned her—or had they returned of their own accord? Could they have been watching him and Jaena? Perhaps he should have listened to her—

  “Put the sword down.”

  Ro slowly lowered the sword back into the trunk and began to straighten as slowly as humanly possible.

  “This mage the one?” said another.

  “Stay away from me,” Jaena snapped. Had they tried to grab her? He hadn’t yet dared to turn. He wanted them to come closer. Just a little closer.

  “Aye, this is her. What’ll we do with this smith then? Lied to us, I think. He’s sheltering her.” Two of them approached, he judged by their footsteps. How many were there? He had only heard two voices.

  “We should take him back. The Masters can—”

  He didn’t let them finish. He snatched the mace from the hearth beside him and spun. He hadn’t even laid eyes on the Devoted yet, but he made a blind swing, not daring to waste a moment of his surprise sizing up the situation.

  He got lucky. The mace collided with the right side of the head of the first with a sickening thud. He felt a pang of nausea. By Nefrana, why had they chosen to return? He didn’t want to kill them.

  But he was going to. He would likely have to kill them, to get her and the brand away. He hadn’t sworn that oath because this would be easy.

  The second Devoted staggered back in shock as the first fell in a splatter of blood.

  Ro circled the mace back up over his head with both arms, gathering momentum as he stepped forward once and swung. The weapon crushed into the second Devoted’s left arm and ribs, sending him flying.

  Hoping that was enough to incapacitate him but perhaps let him survive, Tharomar lurched toward Jaena only to find another Devoted lunging at him instead. He caught a glimpse of her swinging the branch, deftly knocking another Devoted to the ground with a blow to the side of the head. Ah, so the staff hadn’t been just to steady her on her feet.

  Tharomar ducked quickly and dodged as best he could. The knight missed him with whatever weapon had gone by in a blur in the darkness.

  Ro returned the Devoted’s attack with his own, crushing a femur and collapsing the man in the process.

  His luck ran out when a blow pounded his right shoulder, sending him reeling forward and knocking the air out of him. Face in the dirt, he scrambled forward.

  Boots he knew all too well blocked his path as another Devoted behind him fell to the ground with a thud. Feminine boots, one ankle tied poorly because it was swollen to twice the size it should be.

  Whatever she’d done, she’d taken out the Devoted behind him. She stamped the staff on the ground beside the two of them, stirring up a slight dust cloud. Silence fell around them, no noise but the pattering of the rain.

  More slowly now, he rose and straightened. He rubbed his shoulder and scanned the smithy and the night beyond.

  “Do you think that was all of them?” she whispered.

  “Four seems like an odd number. Why return with just one more?”

  “There were six.”

  “Six? You took out three?”

  “Yes.” She nodded as he surveyed the fallen men.

  “Just a traveling merchant, eh?” His eyes had finally adjusted and his head sufficiently cleared to see the competent way she held the branch.

  “Oh, and you’re just a blacksmith?” She narrowed her eyes at him, leaning on the branch with both hands. She was a beautiful sight in the dim ember light, powerful and lithe like a forest spirit, eyes keen and sparkling in their darkness.

  And he was staring. He shook it off and glanced around. The second one he’d hit lay not far away, hands on his thigh, twitching every now and then. That one was only pretending to be out cold. He wanted to get away.

  Or to listen and learn something.

  He held a finger to his lips but couldn’t be sure she saw him in the dim hearth light. He pointed at the suspected Devoted, and then after a moment’s hesitation, he pressed a finger gently to her lips as well. They were warm, soft to the touch.

  And he was a damn idiot, thinking about that at a time like this.

  “Let’s go,” he said quickly. Thankfully, she didn’t demand to know why he stepped over the bodies to grab the sword and mace he had just felled three men with. He didn’t know how many were truly unconscious and how many were pretending, but he did feel confident none of them would b
e able to follow them right away. He did hope some would survive. He also hoped it would be very, very hard for them to call for help.

  Tharomar muttered a quick blessing, both for their foolish sins and for forgiveness for himself if he’d ended any of them.

  He took her arm over his shoulder and again steered her toward the barn, where his horse Yada lived with several of the other townsfolk’s horses. They made even faster progress with the staff by his side.

  “When are you going to tell me what is really going on?” she whispered. “Where did you get those? What are those symbols?” They reached the barn door, which was closed but not bolted. He heaved the door open. The downpour had relented a bit but not completely.

  “Holy weapons, blessed of the gods,” he replied as they stumbled inside and he pushed the door shut. One dim lantern had been left burning, luckily. “They were a gift to me from my order when I swore my allegiance and joined them.”

  “Your order?”

  “I actually never claimed to be only a blacksmith, unlike some people,” he said, smiling. He strode to Yada and greeted her gently. “But you can interrogate me endlessly once we’re on the road.”

  “I will be sure to do that.”

  He made short work of loading up the saddle, bags, and weapons as she did her best to gather a few horse provisions and tools.

  He helped her mount first. A footstool was some help, but her ankle still made her too unsteady, so he found his hands on either side of her hips, lifting her onto the patient mare. Her body felt good underneath his hands, reassuring, strong.

  Gods be damned, this was not the time. Get your head on straight, Tharomar Revendel, he chided himself. This woman is on the run with a very heavy burden. She has a lot more important things to worry about, and he would just be another one. Also, thinking about her hips and his hands instead of focusing on getting away from these damned Devoted would just make him sloppy. They did not have room for mistakes.

  Still, clarifying his mind only got harder as he got into the saddle behind her. If only they had two horses, but he drew the line at stealing from the townsfolk. Her body pressed against his, fully of wiry muscle and tense for any new danger.

  He led the horse out into the last of the drizzling rain at a slow walk, jumping down once to shutter up the barn and bar the door. They pulled up their hoods as he eased them down the road toward Anonil and hoped the Devoted who were left conscious would not figure out the direction they were heading.

  “Can we go faster?” she whispered.

  “It will only make it easier for them to hear us. Plus it’s still quite dark.” The mare knew the way well enough in spite of the lack of moonlight, at least. In the night’s darkness, he could see the many intricate braids of her hair, Yada’s mane, and a few feet around them to either side but not much else. He had to rely on hearing for now and hope the clouds would clear. He whispered a prayer and was not sure whether Jaena heard it or if he wanted her to. Nothing about his faith had elicited anything but fear from her. Understandable, but also saddening.

  They pulled down their hoods to hear more as the rain stopped. She listened keenly as they rode, quick to turn toward any sound from the fields. He thought he heard shouts in the distance but didn’t hear anyone following them.

  Eventually the clouds did part just a little, letting a slight bit of moonlight past. Enough to see their way. Not enough to make traveling at night the best idea, which was just as well. Nefrana’s hand, he thought, guiding us away from this evil place.

  The swaying of the horse lulled them, and despite her claims, she did not resume questioning him. The night felt too silent. Could she tell if they were heading in the right direction?

  “You’re still certain we should head to Anonil?” he whispered, his lips accidentally brushing her ear.

  “Yes. We should be able to find help there.” He wanted to press her to explain more. But perhaps it was better not to give away their destination with idle chatter anyway.

  She was nodding off a bit. Good. At least one of them should rest. Her head finally came to settle on his shoulder, her forehead pressed to his neck and puffs of breath warming his chest, a sense of relief washing through him.

  Rest, my unfortunate one. We are on our way out of here.

  The sun had set as Miara stared out her window at the snowy peaks. A knock sounded at the door. Again, the damn guard opened it without acknowledgment—or even a nominal amount of caution. Certainly some caution was warranted at this point. Although her heart leapt that it might be Aven, she had a feeling that it wouldn’t be.

  And it wasn’t. Instead, King Samul stood before her, waiting as she pulled on a night robe against the serious cold of Estun at night and marched into the sitting room.

  “My lord,” she said, bowing. He gave her a curt nod. His temples and jaw seemed tense under his dark beard.

  “Good evening, Miara. I came to speak to you about the attack.”

  “Of course, my lord. Would you like to sit down?”

  He remained standing. “Where were you when the attack took place?”

  “What? I was with the queen, exhausted from the demonstration before the attack.”

  “She says she briefly left you with the group of mages to tend to one of the injured gate guards.”

  “Briefly, yes. I waited there. I was with them. Why don’t you ask them?”

  “Unfortunately, their memories are a bit foggy in light of the chaos from the cave-in and being overexerted themselves.”

  She frowned. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am deadly serious.”

  “I would never hurt Aven. I—” She glanced around uncomfortably at the guards. She couldn’t say more while they listened without disobeying him at the same time. “You know why I wouldn’t.”

  “Do I?” The king inclined his head, his fingers stroking his beard thoughtfully. What an odd response. And come to think of it, why was the king here himself, with no one else even accompanying him? Where was Aven?

  Could this be another trick, maybe even one of the assassins in disguise?

  Audacious as it seemed at the moment, she dipped into his thoughts. She went as quickly, as briefly as she could and hoped he wouldn’t notice. Untrained, he shouldn’t, but he did have a creature mage for a wife. Certainly that could have come in handy in their years as rulers. Whether he could tell or not, she had to ensure he was indeed King Samul before she said another word.

  An image of Aven approaching in a room she didn’t recognize flashed through her mind, his arm soaked with blood. A memory of pain and fear shot through her veins, then filled her with anger, then rage. No. Not her veins, not her rage—Samul’s, and the pain that of a parent seeing a child injured, nearly killed.

  She reeled back as quickly as she could. It was… definitely him. His brow slowly furrowed deeper, the touch of suspicion growing in his eyes. She had a feeling she had not been as stealthy as she might have hoped.

  “I don’t know what to say. I was with the queen for all but a moment. Aven trusts me. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Aven has many great qualities, and finding the good in people is one of them. But every strength has its opposite, its weakness.”

  “And what is that?” she demanded.

  “Not seeing the bad in people,” he replied.

  “And what bad do you see in me?”

  He frowned. “I don’t see much of anything past that wall you put up. You are hard to read. As a spy should be.”

  “I’m a spy no longer.”

  “But you’ve been one your whole life.”

  “I stole things. I eavesdropped. Against my will, mind you. Do you really think I attacked him?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “If I wanted to kill him, I’ve had ample opportunity. I wouldn’t have come back here. I could have killed him on the road. Or left him in Kavanar, for that matter.”

  “Aven believes he freed you from your ench
antment. But I just wonder, what if your orders have only changed?”

  She recoiled, her jaw dropping. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Gods. She couldn’t blame him, such a thing could certainly have been possible. Thank the gods the Masters hadn’t thought of it and that she’d been free by the time they returned.

  “I swear to you they haven’t. But there’s no way I can convince you of that.”

  “You’re right, there isn’t.”

  She waited, unsure of how to proceed.

  “I won’t bring this up with Aven until the dust settles on the rest of this. If the Assembly won’t accept his magic, then we’ll have a whole host of other problems, but you and he might not be one of them, unless of course your enchantment is truly unbroken. But I don’t want that—or you—distracting him right now.”

  “They will support him, won’t they? Do you truly think they won’t accept him?”

  “I think that he has a much better chance with you out of the situation.”

  She flinched. She had once sneered at Aven’s comment that his magic was inconvenient. While he’d never been enslaved for it, he also hadn’t had it as easy as she’d thought. “What do you mean… out of the situation?”

  “We walk a blade’s edge. The stability of the nation rides on this vote. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  She nodded, a little bitter that he might think she wouldn’t.

  “You complicate the process. It’s hard enough to get them to accept a mage as it is; we risk civil war if you—an enemy spy and a mage—are at his side.” A jolt of fear shot through her. “You will remain in your quarters, and he will not visit, until we leave for Panar.”

  Miara balked. “But—no—my lord—”

  “We leave tomorrow. After that, you are free to roam Estun as you wish until we return.”

  “You mean—I’m not coming with you?”

  He blinked, probably at the panic in her voice, but his face hardened further.

  “Please, you’ve got to take me.” She fumbled for a reason. Because she’d been wrongly accused? Because she could help keep him safe? Because she dreaded being away from Aven for that long, not knowing if he was safe or what had happened? Those weren’t real reasons to give a king. “I can—”