Spirit Blade: Book III of the Dragon Mage Trilogy

by Carey Scheppner

  Olag was still skeptical, but finally agreed to go along with it. He would be long dead by the time Kazin’s uncertain future became an issue anyway.

  With that settled, discussion turned to planning the next course of action.

  * * * * *

  The mage stepped carefully around and over the bodies, his staff held ready before him. The stench was unbearable, the decay already setting in mere hours after the battle had moved on over the eastern ridge. If it wasn’t for his sense-dulling magic, he would have succumbed to the stench long ago.

  He looked up as a pair of ravens squabbled over a fresh chunk of flesh nearby. Ravens dotted the landscape, each one poised over its own corpse, pecking ravenously. There were more than enough bodies to go around. This had been one of the fiercest battles of the year, and the quantity of casualties was a testament to that fact. The rising sun was a glaring red in appearance, a sleepless eye overseeing an endless war.

  The mage stumbled over an unrecognizable corpse and cursed. What he sought wasn’t as readily available as before. He wanted a corpse, human, freshly deceased. Most of what he saw was too far gone to be of any use.

  A weak moan sounded nearby and the mage anxiously searched in the direction of the sound. He was beginning to despair when he finally spotted the body. Half buried in gore from some ugly creature lay a soldier in a crumpled heap. Whatever had struck him down had used a blunt instrument to smash his spine. The mage instantly knew this soldier could not live much longer.

  The soldier looked pitifully up at the approaching mage as he bent over him. Not knowing what else to do, the mage took the man’s hand and held it. The soldier seemed to take comfort from that action and his laboured breathing eased. Moments later, he breathed his last. The mage brushed his hand lightly over the soldier’s face to close his eyes. He gently brushed the soldier’s dark hair from his face, feeling deeply saddened by the young life that was extinguished so soon in life. Then he stood and pointed his staff at the man’s body. He chanted a spell and his body stiffened as he put all of his energy into the effort. A wisp of barely visible steam rose from the body and entered the orb atop his staff. The steam whitened and then faded again as the last of the life essence was absorbed into the staff. When this was completed, the mage stopped chanting and regarded the orb. He spoke a word of magic and it radiated a bright, blinding white light. A nearby raven squawked in irritation and abandoned its corpse in search of one further away. Nodding in satisfaction, the mage canceled the spell and the orb faded. The magical strength was satisfactory. He sighed. This could very well be the last time he could attempt his experiment using the life force from the bodies in this field. After this he would have to go farther afield to obtain the samples he needed. Nevertheless, his staff was now fully loaded and it was time to head back to his cave.

  Along the way, he encountered several scavengers poking among the dead for souvenirs. Most of these were goblins who were too cowardly to fight. None of them gave the mage any trouble and most gave him a wide berth. None wanted to tangle with a spell caster. It was just as well. The mage needed the life essence in his staff for his experiments. He had no means of fighting a battle save for the dagger at his side. Only once, a creature came near him, but it backed away when the mage gave a command and his staff lit up with the brilliance of the life force trapped within the orb. The threat of magic was enough to ensure his safe passage.

  It took several hours to reach the base of the mountain housing his secret cave. Another half hour of climbing a hidden path brought him to the cave entrance. With a word of magic, the magical warding shielding the cave from unwanted visitors or prying eyes was removed. Before entering, the mage turned to regard the death and destruction below. From his vantage point, the battlefield was a smoking, black ruin. The view, however daunting, was infinitely better than being down there among the stench, death and decay. Way off in the distance, a dragon was visible, undoubtedly headed in the direction where the battle still raged. Shaking his head sadly, the mage turned and entered his domain.

  The cave’s interior was quite comfortable. It was only a short distance in from outside, but it was spacious. A makeshift forge was set up in one corner and a fissure in the rocks conveniently vented the smoke up to some unknown void within the mountain. A stone workbench was backlit by a couple of torches in sconces on the wall behind it. A comfortable looking black leather chair stood in front of the table and a pile of swords lay in a heap on the floor next to it. Another group of swords lay in a neat row on the floor near the forge. To the left, on the opposite side of the forge, stood a workbench, containing an anvil and a large hammer. Seated at the table, slumped over fast asleep, was a shaggy looking dwarf in rumpled clothing. Emanating from somewhere within the black beard were loud snores.

  The mage shook his head in amusement. How the dwarf could snore with his head hanging down in that position was a mystery.

  He walked quietly over to the stone table and put his staff down gently so as not to wake the dwarf. Then he went and picked up a sword from the row in front of the forge. He brought it back to the table and set it down. The mage contemplated the time he had still been back at The Tower of Sorcery, recollecting the studies he undertook under the tutelage of one of the master mages. Apparently, the experimentation of magic at such high levels of complexity was discouraged. He had disagreed, and soon discovered the studies in the tower were hindering his own ambitions with regard to magic. Being much older than the other students didn’t help. They were too young and impulsive, and there was no one mature enough to collaborate with. So he left to do experiments on his own. It had taken a few years to find a secluded spot, and another year to set up his workshop to accommodate his experimentation, but it had ultimately worked out well. Over the years he had succeeded in crafting, with the help of the dwarven smith, an extensive array of magical weaponry. But this project would be his ultimate achievement. If he could succeed at this, it would be the most powerful artifact that he, or anyone else, had ever created.

  The previous attempts were all failures of varying degrees, as indicated by the pile of swords in disarray beside him. Some of them had varying levels of magic stored within, and others had no magic at all. But none had what he desired. They were all failures as far as he was concerned, but the dwarf convinced him to save them so they could be sold to finance their project. The spirit blade the mage was trying to create would be far more powerful than these specimens. But he hadn’t succeeded yet. The mage primarily blamed himself for the failures. The spell was exceptionally complex. He reasoned that it wasn’t entirely his fault. The quality of steel in the swords was also an issue. The dwarf had done his best, but imperfections in the steel limited and sometimes even prevented the magic from taking hold.

  Closing his eyes, the mage steeled himself for the spell. Then he opened his eyes and picked up his staff. With his other hand, he pulled a number of spell components from his pocket. He pointed the staff at the sword and squeezed the components in his fist. Then he began his spell. At first, only his mouth moved. Then his voice was heard, barely audible. When his incantation was complete, he began again, becoming louder as he chanted. The orb atop his staff began to glow, emanating a milky white iridescence. The mage frowned as he chanted. The spell did not appear to be working. He tried harder, drowning out the sound of the snoring dwarf as his chant rose in volume. Beads of sweat emanated from the pores on his forehead. With all the hard work he had put into this project so far, he was not about to give up. His arm shook with the strain, as did his voice.

  Suddenly, ever so slightly, a wisp of the milky light in the staff stretched toward the sword’s edge. The mage chanted harder, and the stream of light continued channeling into the sword. Now the sword’s blade began to glow with magic as it absorbed the light. The sword’s light became brighter as the staff dimmed, its magic transferring to the new object. By now the mage’s arm was shaking uncontrollably and his vo
ice trembled with exertion. The spell was nearly complete.

  At last, the remaining light in the staff shot into the sword and the connection between staff and sword was broken. The mage stopped chanting and staggered for a moment before falling against the table. He recovered his balance and tried to catch his breath. His chest felt tight and his left arm tingled, but he was too excited to notice. His spell had finally worked!

  The mage put down the staff, its energy now fully expended, and picked up the sword. At his touch, the blade gave a momentary flash of white light. The sword had taken the magic! Still gasping, the mage excitedly took the sword out to the cave entrance to examine it in the daylight, as well as to get some fresh air for himself. He held it aloft and regarded it in awe. Still holding it up, he gazed across the plain below where the ravens still feasted.

  “This spirit blade is a culmination of the spirits of many of the fallen soldiers and warriors below,” murmured the mage in between breaths. “It is the sword of dead heroes.”

  The mage slowly lowered the sword and gave it one more appraising glance before re-entering the cave.

  The dwarf, amazingly, was still asleep. The mage listened and the only sounds in the cave were the crackling of the fire in the forge, the dwarf’s snoring, and his own ragged breathing. As he reached the table, the mage was surprised that he still hadn’t regained his breath. A weakness he had not known before was engulfing his entire body. At first he thought it was the exertion of the spell, but his chest continued to tighten. His arm lost its strength and the sword fell from his hand to clatter onto the pile of swords that lay at his feet.

  The noise finally woke the dwarf with a start. He glanced over at the mage, who stood staring dumbly at the pile of swords at his feet. The grogginess of sleep immediately left the dwarf’s mind when he saw the old mage sink to the floor, scattering the pile of swords. Alarmed, he sprang from his chair and bolted to the mage’s side. With an expression of triumph mixed with sadness, the mage looked up at the dwarf. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Trying again, he got his vocal cords to work one last time.

  “The spirit blade is ready,” he gasped. “It is called The Sword of Dead-,” his voice trailed off and his eyes became vacant.

  “The Sword of Dead?” murmured the dwarf gruffly. His mind became muddled as the reality of what had just happened set in. “The Sword of Dead?” he repeated dumbly. He looked at the pile of swords nearby. Then he blinked as the implication of what the mage had said dawned in his mind. He frantically scanned the swords with a critical eye but knew it was useless. They were jumbled about and all looked identical, because that was what the mage had instructed him to manufacture.

  “Which one is it?” he asked no one in particular.

  Chapter 4

  Sir Wilfred Galado twirled his mustache as he glanced around the armoury. With Sherman gone, it fell to him to take command of the army. He was here to inspect the weaponry available to the soldiers should war break out. It was unlikely to happen, but with rumours of unrest to the south near the mountain, anything was possible. The rumours indicated there was some sort of epidemic causing sickness and death. Mages with healing powers were dispatched to investigate and report back to the queen, but it was too soon to tell what was wrong. Nevertheless, Sir Wilfred Galado took his duty seriously.

  Wilfred had been present during Sherman’s conversation the previous morning with the queen and was surprised at how adamant he had been about going on an important quest. He said it was to help Kazin, the dragon mage, and that he would be back before very long because time travel was involved.

  The queen was not pleased about the idea, but relented at the last minute. Sherman hurriedly left the room, commenting that he needed to get his special magical sword first. Sir Galado knew it must really be important for Sherman to need his magical sword. He never used it unless it was absolutely necessary. Sherman left within the hour, riding on the dragon’s scaly back. “You’re in charge, Wilf!” he had shouted to Galado upon mounting the fiery beast.

  So Sir Galado went ahead with his inspection of the weapons, beginning with the home guard’s weapons in the castle. His inspection went well until he got to the place where Sherman’s weapons were hung. An empty spot indicated which weapon the big warrior had taken on his mysterious quest. The scabbard to the right of the missing weapon hung askew, no doubt due to Sherman’s hasty departure. Wilfred, not patient with disorder, reached out to straighten it. As he let go, it swung back off kilter. He attempted it again, and once again it shifted off kilter. Something was wrong. The soldier grasped the sword’s hilt and lifted to see if it was jammed. In so doing, he nearly pulled it free of the scabbard. Shocked at the light weight of the sword, he pulled it out the rest of the way. He swung the sword around deftly and instantly knew it was magical. He regarded the scabbard and noted that it was not exactly the correct match for the sword. Then it dawned on him. This was the sword that Sherman had intended to take with him! The fool had taken the wrong sword and must not have noticed! The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. How important was this sword to the quest? Without waiting to find an answer, Sir Galado hastened to seek out the queen.

  The queen was in her chambers and Lenny and Benny stood guard outside her quarters when Sir Galado trudged up to them. “Tell the queen I need to see her at once!” commanded Sir Galado.

  The twins looked at one another in alarm. They knew Wilfred was in a state of mind not to be trifled with. They both responded at once and made a move to ring the door chime. Seeing each other make the motion, they both backed off to offer the other the opportunity. Seeing each other back off, they both moved forward again in unison. Both hesitated at the same instant and Sir Galado impatiently pushed them both aside to pull the chime himself.

  “I don’t have time for your foolish games!” he snapped.

  The queen called “enter!” and Sir Galado opened the door and left the twins standing red-faced in the hallway. He closed the door behind him.

  “What is it?” asked the queen. She was dressed in her favourite dark-blue velvet robe with silver hems. It was a symbol of her magical experience with druid magic. With fair hair and kind blue eyes, those in her presence rarely felt uncomfortable. But those eyes could turn cold and harsh if she became angered. Many offenders had been fooled into thinking she was naive and weak. But she had a habit of seeing through their lies and deceit. She immediately noticed the look of concern on Sir Galado’s face.

  Sir Galado explained about the sword to her. “We need to get the sword to Sherman quickly,” said Wilfred. “I hope he hasn’t gone beyond our reach yet.”

  “It’s likely we’re too late already,” commented the queen. “Our only chance will be to fly one of the griffins. I can summon one, but who will go?”

  “I will,” volunteered Sir Galado.

  “But I need you here,” stated the queen.

  “I do not trust anyone else with this task,” objected Sir Galado. “This sword is a very powerful artifact. In the wrong hands -.” He held out his hand in a helpless gesture.

  “That’s a good point,” admitted the queen. She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. But be back here within the week, whether you find Sherman or not.”

  Sir Galado bowed. “Thank you, my queen.” He left the chamber to make preparations for departure.

  Twenty minutes later, he arrived on the castle’s ramparts to spot a griffin that waited patiently beside the queen. It was a sight to behold for those who had never seen one before. They had a golden hue to their feathers and were often large enough to carry several people at once. They had four legs and soft fur on the undersides of their bodies. Their wing span was nearly half the diameter of an adult dragon. Few could control them. They had their own way of determining who could approach them or fly on their backs.

  “I’ve given the griffin Sherman’s scent,” said the queen. �
��It should be able to track him even if he’s riding on the back of a dragon.”

  Sir Galado nodded. The griffin sensed the importance of the mission and allowed him to climb upon its back. When he was settled, he nodded to the queen.

  “Good,” said the queen. “It has accepted you. I was concerned it may not allow you near.” She pulled some spell components from her pocket. “I will now cast a spell so that you will not be separated from the sword until you find Sherman.” She chanted a spell and ended it with ‘Sherman’. A shaft of light engulfed Sir Galado and the sword and then dissipated. “There,” she said. “It is now a part of you. Good luck, Wilfred.” With a wave of her hand, the griffin took to the air. It swung to the south and flew out of sight with its rider.

  Lenny and Benny watched the whole thing with interest. They both hoped they could go on exciting missions for the queen someday.

  “Back to work, boys,” ordered the queen. “The excitement’s over for now. While Sir Galado’s gone, I expect you to be on your best behaviour.”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” sang the boys in unison. Little did they know how impossible it was to keep that promise.

  * * * * *

  The companions rose early in the morning and Kazin reviewed their plans. He then went through the list of items necessary for their journey. Harran had his ice axe and chain mail. The axe was in his possession the last time he had traveled back in time and the chain mail was given to him before he returned back to his own time, so it was potentially an item that could have altered the future when it should have been left behind.

  Sherman patted the sword at his side. “I have the sword you told me to bring.”

  Kazin nodded. “Good. The rest of the items we need are in here.” He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and placed it on the ground in front of him. Then he chanted a quick spell and the pouch grew to many times its normal size.