Forgotten Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 3)

by Melinda Kucsera

  One of his hooves came down, making a bloody mess of the man’s skull, but before he could do more a dwarf wrapped one of his forelegs and tried to push him over. It would have been a ridiculous effort if he hadn’t been poisoned. Droless already felt like the world was slowly slipping beneath him. He grasped the dwarf about his leg, trying to wrap a hand about his attacker’s throat and pry him loose.

  Remembering the ax in his opposite hand, he lifted it to strike but it jerked to a stop. Someone else had grasped the chain about his arm and was pulling. A woman joined the first man and together they heaved, almost dragging Droless off his feet.

  He kicked with one of his forelegs, battering the warrior about his leg and drove him away. With one arm burning and numb he grasped the chain with both hands and pulled, dragging both of his attackers forward, their feet skittering through water and mud. Live or die, he refused to let them take the weapon away.

  “Now!” someone shouted.

  Droless looked around in time to see four men run up behind him. He’d forgotten his mother’s warning and had stayed still far too long. Two of the men threw a net over him and the other two grasped it from the other side. Together they pulled, dragging him to his knees. He tried to hook the ax under the thick ropes to cut at it, but his sword would have been better.

  Where is my sword? He recalled casting it aside to get the first man off his back.

  A third attacker grasped his arm, trying to wrench the ax free, and Droless wrestled the figure to the ground even as they fought over the weapon. A sharp pain stabbed into his left flank and with it the same numbing, flooding fire that was creeping through his arm and chest.

  He roared.

  The blue film over his vision was so thick it was becoming difficult to see.

  He would have roared again but his lungs burned and refused to fill with enough air to scream. He tried to rise, but one of his legs went numb and collapsed under his weight.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” said one of the attackers.

  “As I told you”—another voice moved forward—“you must attack at what he loves.”

  Droless forced his eyes to focus and found the old wrinkled gnome at the group’s center. “You.”

  The gnome gave a shallow nod of recognition. “Yes, Droless, and though it pains me to see you such, you must be brought in.”

  “My father—”

  “Would be ashamed! You think he gave you that to terrorize and kill?”

  Arm numb and burning, still Droless refused to release the ax.

  “No, Droless Kintaur, you have spat on the deeds of your father and mother both. And it does me no joy to see you such.”

  “Don’t lie, Muraheim. You never stopped hating me.”

  It was hard to tell whether it was tears or rain that slid from the old gnome’s eyes. “No, child. I never stopped loving you.”

  Droless tried to say more but weakness stole the words from his lips and consciousness from his mind.

  Chapter Two

  Family Matters

  The grass was tall, rising almost to his chest. It swayed in a gentle breeze that created waves of gold glittering in the sunlight. The cool air made him shiver and his lips twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. His homeland had been twice as cold as this, but he’d lived so long in the north’s hot climate that even this felt cool. His self-reflection was broken by thunder—no, hoof beats that pulled his eyes ahead to the figure galloping towards him. The kintaur was young and slight of build, with a rich copper mane billowing behind her as she closed the distance between them.

  “Eihn!” she exclaimed.

  “Roja? Little Roja—look at you—my word!” Eihn couldn’t help but be amazed. Two years before Roja had had the development of a human ten-year-old, and now she looked well into puberty. Where once she barely came up to his shoulder, now he barely came to her bust. The thin tan coat covering most of her body had deepened to a rich earthy hue like the bark of a redwood, and her strawberry blond hair had become a gleaming coppery mane broken by two coal black horns curling above her ears. Violet eyes looked on him with amusement and happiness as color brightened her chestnut cheeks.

  “Not so little anymore,” she beamed.

  “Not at all,” agreed Eihn as she turned about to give him a full look.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I need to see Al and Urk.”

  She saddened. “I was hoping you’d just come to visit.”

  “Sorry, but it’s really important I see them. It’s about Droless.”

  She huffed. Droless was a constant source of aggravation for the family, and she was about to say as much when she caught the serious set of his gaze. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” he answered with a nod.

  “All right, then, get on.”

  “What?”

  “If it’s serious we have to go fast. Come on, Two-legs—or you won’t get there before the sun sets.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t be a baby, Eihn! Get on.”

  He looked out across the golden plain and couldn’t even see where the family had set up. He could keep up with her if he tried. The goddess of travel would grant him speed and stamina if he asked but Eihn felt it an abuse of her divine radiance to do so with Roja offering him a ride. “Fine,” he agreed with a sigh as he cautiously climbed onto her back. “Just, let me off if you get tired.”

  She answered with laughter and reared back to set off with a burst of speed that almost threw him to the ground. “Hang on tight!”

  Roja slowed from a sprint to gallop after a few minutes and Eihn was thankful for it. The girl was roughly the size of a pony, but kintaur were not really shaped like horses, so posting had been difficult. The gallop was easy enough that he didn’t need to twist his hands into her mane to stay on. The trip took more than an hour, which really would have taken him most of the day to travel on foot. That was both good and bad. Eihn still hadn’t decided exactly how he was going to break the news.

  “We’re here,” announced Roja.

  But Eihn had already seen a large yurt set up on a section of land where the tall grass had been cleared away or never taken root. A large wagon lay to one side, shafts on the ground, and four oxen grazed nearby. Smoke lifted from a hole in the yurt’s roof and carried the scent of meat, spice, and vegetables. It could have been any yurt, really—except this one had a gold flag posted to the top. Urkjorman had dropped the title “Red Mantle” for “Gold Mantle” some time ago, and now the banner flew overhead as welcome to friends and warning to foes.

  The centaur Al’rashal strode into view from the far side of the yurt, likely drawn by the sound of her daughter’s hoofbeats.

  No, not just one daughter’s, realized Eihn. He hadn’t heard it over Rojas’ footfalls, but now he could hear the beat of many other hooves. The family was coming together. By the time they reached the yurt, Eihn and Roja were joined by two more sons and two more daughters, the youngest girl unfamiliar to him.

  “Urk!” called Al’rashal as everyone gathered. “It’s Eihn!”

  Urkjorman stepped out of the yurt. The minotaur was as imposing as ever, despite his lack of armor and the gray fur beginning to dapple his body. He cast his gaze to Eihn, one eye a solid black sphere, the other a crystal orb—both seemed to twinkle with amusement. “Eihn! Have you come for food, or a bride?”

  “Wha—?” Eihn stammered, but he was interrupted by the laughter of the family. Eihn quickly dismounted and watched as Roja turned red and fumed at her father, much to the continued amusement of everyone else.

  Seeing the whole family gathered together still gave Eihn pause. When Droless was born they thought he would be the only one, the only being to be both Kintaur of the family and kintaur a whole new race. Now it seemed Al and Urk made a new one every couple years.

  Urk tussled the girl’s hair, which did not seem to mollify her at all, and turned his attention to Eihn. “What brings you back to us, Ei
hn? Really. I hadn’t expected you for some time yet.”

  Eihn looked around, uncertain whether he should say it openly. But he reasoned that the whole family would learn anyway and deserved to know. “It’s about Droless. He’s been captured and taken to Irozion.”

  “Why?” asked Al, but her tone indicated she suspected the answer.

  “To be tried.”

  There was no laughter anymore.

  “In, and be fed,” ordered Urk with an implied “This business is not for children” resting beneath the words. Hesitantly the children obeyed, each filling past into the yurt with only Roja lingering long enough to earn a glower from her father. Urk and Al waited until they heard the sound of their children sharing the food and talking about their day before gesturing for Eihn to walk with them.

  Silence followed them a few paces.

  “You’re certain,” said Al, a question in her words. Worry and confusion seemed to be at war on the centaur’s face as she gazed off into the middle distance as though expecting to see something no one else could.

  “Yes,” answered Eihn. “Master Muraheim informed me. Master Muraheim . . . the master captured Droless.”

  Eihn expected rage, or shock from the minotaur, some explosion of anger if not violence, but Urk simply nodded his head before turning to his wife. “You have heard nothing?”

  “Nothing,” answered Al, seeming hurt by the admission.

  Urk released a derisive snort but otherwise kept his own counsel.

  Eihn continued: “I don’t think they’ll put him to death…at least not directly. His crimes against the Idrifar are not capital—Muraheim said he’d argue for leniency.”

  “And what does leniency mean to an Idrifar?” asked Al through gritted teeth. “What kind of leniency can a kintaur expect?”

  Eihn knew the answer but couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “Servitude,” said Urk. “Slavery.”

  “It . . . it will be severe,” said Eihn as his eyes fell upon the shimmering golden grass.

  “Good,” said Urk, turning back to the yurt, Al easily keeping stride.

  “Good?” asked Eihn.

  “There will be time enough for us to reach him, and maybe . . .” he trailed off, looking to his wife. “And maybe you can talk some sense to him.”

  “He never listens to me, Urk.”

  “He talks only to you,” her husband replied.

  “But he never listens to me.”

  The two stood in silence for a moment longer before Al turned her attention to Eihn. “Thank you, Eihn. We’ll be on our way soon. Feel free to stay with our family until you’re fit to leave—”

  “Stay?” interrupted Eihn. “I didn’t come all this way just to deliver a message. I’m coming with you. I owe you a lot—I owe you everything. And I’m going to pay you back.”

  “Eihn, please,” said Urkjorman. “This is a matter of family and—”

  “One: you can’t stop me. Two: you’ll move faster with a wayfarer. And three: you’ve always said I was family, so let me act like it.”

  The two shared a look that hovered between sadness and pride.

  “All right, Eihn,” said Al’rashal. “Let’s go save my son.”

  Chapter Three

  Paid In Blood

  The heat was the only clue to the time of day. The warren of tunnels and cells beneath the arena was kept in a perpetual half-light that quickly eroded any sense of time. Food came irregularly, water was collected in shallow basins fed from some runoff overhead, and even the guards came and went with no semblance of order. But the sun could not be changed and the heat radiating from the massive brass doors before him told Droless the sun had been out for many hours. Good—that meant there were no clouds, and he knew in ways he could not understand that when he died, it would be in the rain.

  A roar—muffled by six inches of brass—came through the door. Not the deep resonant tone of some beast or monster but the overlapping orgy of sound generated by a crowd worked into a frenzy. They were expecting a show today, which meant that whatever awaited him would be quite dangerous. A growl to his right reminded him that it was us, not just himself waiting to be released into the arena. He wasn’t the only one paying the Blood Toll. The clinking of chains drew his attention, and soon a thin seam of light split the doors. The heat him first, then the noise.

  Droless strode forward and threw his arms open, luxuriating in the heat and the cries of the crowd. Even knowing they did not cheer for him, but for the blood to be shed and did not care whether he lived or died, he reveled in it nonetheless. The arena was almost half a mile across, and the floor was perforated and made of a strange metal with a purple hue that remained cool despite the sun overhead. The walls were that same purple steel, and they rose fifteen feet high and were set with large glass spheres near the top. He pulled his gaze from the peculiar surfaces and looked about. Two more of the eight doors ringing the arena had been pulled open to disgorge a smattering of the convicted. None of them had weapons of any kind and at first Droless figured they were expected to fight each other in some mass melee. Several had already started, much to the crowd’s delight, but Droless knew better. There was always some sort of announcement to stoke the spectators.

  “Save your ire, for you will need it!” came the voice of the announcer, booming from all around as though he stood everywhere. “For the Ebon Blade!”

  At the opposite end of the arena a door opened and a dozen warriors entered. They moved together, eyes adjusting to the glare, prowling low to the ground and staying in a tight formation. They were a particularly ruthless mercenary group that Droless had heard of in passing before. They wore matching black-studded leather and though the Ebon Blade were outnumbered two or three to one, they had what the convicted sorely lacked—weapons.

  Droless smiled.

  Most of the prisoners were spreading out and pulling back, some shoving others to the fore and trying to hide behind their fellows. The Ebon Blade came on, muttering to themselves and staying close. Droless didn’t know if it was for the sake of caution or intimidation, but it worked either way. A mercenary near the rear stopped, drew back an arrow, and fired. More on instinct than awareness Droless tilted his head to the side and felt the tip skim his cheek to leave a thin line of blood behind. The leader of the Ebon Blade roared and they charged.

  Droless met them in kind.

  Sparks chased his iron-shod hooves as he sprinted across the steel floor to close with the Ebon Blade. Droless locked gazes with the leader, animosity and malevolence passing between them as if each were saying, “I will kill you.” The leader changed from sword to spear to meet Droless’s charge but the kintaur changed stride at the last moment, pivoting on the spot and springing to the left, well wide of the leader and into another of the mercenaries. The man went over in a tumble of limbs and blood, but before he could recover Droless drove a hoof into the man’s spine with a satisfying snap. Two of the mercenaries rushed him and an arrow sliced his shoulder, but he was unconcerned. He lifted the man he had crippled and used him as a shield, warding off the two mercenaries and catching an arrow in his captive’s throat. He cast a look to the leader who was racing to catch up with him and just smiled, running off with his bleeding prize.

  Several prisoners were already dead on the ground, with more soon to join them, but a few had taken Droless’s example and fought back using savagery and rage where they lacked armor and weapons. Droless snapped the neck of the man in his arms and pulled a hatchet off the man’s hip and a short sword from his back. Now he could join the battle in earnest. He raced back to the spreading melee, slashing his sword along the back of one man and dropping the hatchet into the shoulder of another as he raced past. Another man rolled aside and a woman parried his next swing, but he didn’t really care. He was just swinging to get blood on the blades and to get his heart pumping. Seeing his target, he charged at a group of gladiators and Ebon Blades fighting in a tight circle of clashing swords. They turned as he c
ame, eyes wide, fear washing their faces as he leaped over them to bring his weapons down on the Ebon Blade’s leader.

  To his credit, the mercenary leader lifted his spear in time to block Droless’s attack, but the weight of the blow drove the man to the earth. He rolled backward, barely avoiding Droless’s stamping hooves and came up with a spear thrust that left a line of blood along Droless’s chest. The kintaur laughed and began hacking and slashing at the human, forcing him back. Droless reversed the grip on his hatchet and lifted it as he dropped the sword, trapping the leader’s spear between the weapons long enough to deliver a kick to the man’s stomach. Before he could follow up with another kick, pain seared into his back as an arrow sank home. The leader drew a claymore in the moment Droless was distracted by the pain and swung for his throat. Droless lifted an arm and the blade sank in deep, but it damaged him no worse than had a dozen injuries before it.

  The kintaur made a savage stomp, shattering the leader’s knee and sending him to the ground with a cry of pain. This time Droless capitalized and drove the hatchet into the man’s throat. The mercenary’s eyes shone with indignation and rage before finally losing focus as he slumped over.

  Droless picked up the fallen warrior’s sword and kissed the blade to honor its previous owner. All great fighters deserved this at least. Casting aside the hatchet, he picked up the spear. An arrow sank into his chest only a few inches, but it was enough to stir him. He leveled his spear at the archer and charged. Three more arrows sailed at him but they were loosed in haste, one going wide, the second deflecting from one of his horns, and the third cut from the air with his sword.

  The archer turned to run and Droless roared: “Coward!”

  The archer reached one of his compatriots, grasping the man and turning him about to use him as a shield—No honor among thieves. Droless impaled both men with the spear, driving them to the ground, then brought the sword up and severed both of their heads. The kintaur pulled the spear free, ready to kill more. But then the horn blew.