The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  “You already know what red is.”

  “Rat eyes.” Kive looked at her. “Blood. Dying. Screams.”

  She swallowed. “Yes. But also roses and cherries and beautiful things.”

  “Beautiful.” Kive’s tone rang flat.

  Nathaera pointed at the sky. “Black. The night sky is black.”

  “Black.” Kive looked up, but the wonder had fled from his eyes. “Like crows. Death. Silence.”

  Nathaera’s heart throbbed. What terrible, shattering things had he seen to become this way? “Also like a beautiful sky filled with stars, Kive, and velvet cloth. Like a fast-riding stallion. Like the hole where moles live.”

  Kive frowned and dropped his gaze to her. “Moles?”

  “Indeed. They’re little animals who live underground in burrows.”

  “Burr…ohs.”

  She laughed and nodded. “Another silly word.” She caught his hands in hers. “Look at me, Kive. You’re still full of the wonder of life, whatever’s happened to you. You’re not too far gone, or you’d already have eaten me. Let me help you, Kive. Let me show you worlds, and dreams, and pretty things.”

  He started to shake his head. “Master wouldn’t—”

  “Master isn’t here,” Nathaera said.

  “He would know. He watches, always. I must eat rats. I must cower before his greatness. I must—” He cut off as Nathaera released his hands and clamped her palms to his cheeks.

  “Phooey on your master, Kive. You’re not a slave. You’re not a servant. You’re a Kive, right? Don’t let anyone walk over you as though you were a rug underfoot.”

  He blinked. “But Master…” He took her hands and gently pulled them to his lap. “But Master would be angry if he heard. Shhhh, Fairy Wren. Or Kive will have to eat you.”

  Nathaera’s eyes widened as she realized she couldn’t speak. He had bound her tongue.

  “Shhh, Fairy Wren. Kive doesn’t want to eat you. Kive doesn’t want to, at all.”

  One day’s march from the borders of Siaan Wood, a rain of arrows fell upon the forces of Simaerin. No one heard it coming, no one saw the Ilidreth upon the westward hills. Over a hundred cavalry men fell to the ground, dead or wounded, before an alarm sounded. Most of the fallen were mages.

  Gwyn and Aluem galloped through the volley, none hitting their mark. Cries filled the air until the arrows ceased their song. Gwyn had a mere moment to glance around for Lawen before a second volley whistled through the air; but this time he was ready.

  Gwyn lifted his hand, summoning his strength. The arrows disintegrated in the air, turning into dust swept north on a faint breeze.

  A third volley darkened the sky. Gwyn kept his palm raised and the arrows dissolved again at his will. The Simaerin army regrouped, horses and men closing in around Gwyn, cheering.

  A captain lifted his voice. “Ready! Aim!”

  Simaerin bowmen turned their arrows to the west hills.

  “Fire!”

  The volley unleashed, screaming through the air. Cries sounded on the hillcrest as the projectiles fell upon the hidden enemy.”

  “Corvus, reform your line!”

  Gwyn wheeled Aluem toward Traycen’s voice. The unicorn raced across the plain and halted beside the master mage on his black stallion.

  Traycen’s dark eyes caught Gwyn’s gaze. “Good work, Gwynter. Keep up our defenses. Don’t let any more arrows hit their marks. Remain near the rear to avoid risk to yourself. Remember your magic has limits.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gwyn let Aluem guide him as he lifted his hand against another Ilidreth volley. Turning the arrows to dust weakened him; he couldn’t maintain that level of destruction. Now he swept his hand across the air. The arrows spun and shot the other direction, down into the enemy lines beyond the hill. Hidden cries followed. Gwyn allowed himself a grim smile.

  A tingle ran down his spine. Gwyn nudged Aluem around and his eyes widened. Creeping upon the Simaerin forces from the east, the Crane King’s banner waving under the high sun, another contingent of soldiers trooped near, clad in glistening silver armor.

  “Master Traycen!” Gwyn wheeled Aluem back around, and the unicorn charged through the ranks of Corvus, heading for Traycen, who bellowed out attacks. The air around the mages shimmered as conjurations joined together to create a twisting pillar of fire. “Master Traycen!” Gwyn cried. “Enemies at our back, sir!”

  As he spoke, the approaching Fraelin army unleashed a volley of arrows. Gwyn gritted his teeth and threw his hands into the air. The air pulsed, throwing the arrows off course. Sweat beaded on Gwyn’s brow. Dueling one on one was nothing to this.

  “Concentrate on holding the Fraeli off,” Traycen barked. “The rest of the order will defend against the Ilidreth and their magic.”

  Gwyn nodded as the unicorn sprang toward the coming force.

  ‘You cannot withstand them alone. I shall aid you, Gwynter.’

  With Aluem’s words swelled a rush of strength. Gwyn’s mind quickened. His heartbeat evened out as his breathing leveled.

  ‘Nock your arrow.’

  Gwyn shook his bow from his shoulder, snatched an arrow from its quiver, and strung it.

  ‘Aim high. Summon wind.’

  Gwyn released the arrow. It soared high, arcing toward the enemy, one weapon against five thousand strong. Wind rose behind Gwyn, following the arrow’s course. The gust picked up speed, rushing over the army, throwing many from their feet. The arrow landed in their midst and the wind formed a funnel at its center. Screams filled the air as the gale flung men to and fro.

  Gwyn swallowed. Don’t hesitate. This is war. If he didn’t strike fast and first, he would die rather than them. He mustn’t lose his momentum.

  He nocked another arrow and released it overhead, even as the vortex lost its strength. The Fraeli began to regroup, rising from among those who would never stand again. A second gale rose to carry the arrow, and again, the vortex formed and tossed men and horses across the plains.

  The vortex collapsed. The wind ceased altogether. Gwyn frowned, shot another arrow, and waited. The wind didn’t follow. Any hint of a breeze had died.

  Someone blocked it.

  Gwyn searched the plain. There, riding toward him across the field: a man with long pale hair, sword drawn, charged forth. As he neared, Gwyn caught the fire in his pale eyes. Gwyn drew his blade, adjusted his grip, and urged Aluem forward.

  Swords met, singing.

  Gwyn’s gaze caught and held his opponent’s. A young man, scarcely older than himself. “I am Gwynter ren Terare of Vinwen.”

  “And I,” said the man in a thick accent, “am Adesta Gilhan of Seabrelle in Fraelin. It is an honor to kill you, mage.”

  “There is little honor in killing anyone,” Gwyn replied. “The honor comes only in protecting life.”

  “An honorable Simaeri mage?” Adesta Gilhan scoffed. “Is such a thing possible?”

  Gwyn directed Aluem to step back, pulling his sword with him. “Just as there are fallen Ilidreth and those who still dwell in vales. Just as there are Fraeli thieves as well as Fraeli priests. So, too, Simaeri come in all varieties and shades.”

  Adesta Gilhan grinned, baring his teeth. “Well said. I shall rephrase: It will be an honor to meet you in combat, Mage Gwynter.”

  “Likewise, Mage Adesta. Well met.”

  They raised their blades and urged their steeds forward. Swords clashed; withdrew. Aluem danced around the Fraeli’s larger mount, and Gwyn pressed his advantage, forcing mage and horse to fall back. His magic funneled through his body, tingling as it guided his actions. He could feel the force of the Fraeli mage’s shield of magic.

  Defense mage against defense mage.

  Adesta blocked Gwyn’s blows as he maneuvered his mount. Aluem forced the pair right, backward, right again. Hard left. Adesta gritted his teeth and swung.

  Gwyn answered, striking the man’s sword hard enough to send a jolt up Adesta’s arm. He poured magic into the assault at Ade
sta’s weak point. The soldier gasped and dropped his sword.

  Gwyn touched his sword tip to Adesta’s chest. “Do you yield, sir?”

  Adesta scowled. “I do yield, Simaeri, though I do not understand why you do not pierce me through.”

  Gwyn lowered his sword and pointed toward the northern hills, motioning Adesta to ride with him. “As I said, the honor is not in killing someone, but in protecting life. If you would please, Master Gilhan, I need the wind freed.”

  Adesta brought his horse alongside Aluem. “I have yielded, sir, but I cannot let you take back such an advantage, lest you rend my compatriots as though they were wheat under a sickle.”

  Gwyn nodded. “I understand well how you feel, but my purpose is to act as a shield for Simaerin. As my prisoner, you must relinquish all your weapons. Even the magical ones. Or must I render you unconscious?”

  “Perhaps you must.” Adesta reined in his horse and turned in his saddle to meet Gwyn’s gaze. “I cannot give you power over the wind of my own choosing.”

  Gwyn sighed and raised his blade to Adesta’s chest. “Very well. Dismount.”

  Adesta obeyed and stood before him, arms raised in surrender. Aluem pranced behind the young man and, wincing, Gwyn slammed the pommel of his broadsword against Adesta’s skull. The man crumpled. Gwyn’s hair shifted in a stirring breeze and he raised his hand. The gale rose and chased after the advancing Fraeli, knocking them from their feet.

  “Now what?” asked Gwyn, turning back to Adesta lying on the ground. “Have we a place for prisoners to reside?”

  ‘Fall back to the supply caravan. Surely someone there will know what to do with prisoners of war.’

  Gwyn climbed from Aluem’s back and hefted Adesta onto the back of the Fraeli stallion. Gathering the horse’s reins, Gwyn remounted Aluem and galloped toward the caravans hovering far back from the fray.

  Chapter 32

  Evening fell. The armies withdrew from the battlefield until dawn. In the failing light, Aluem trotted toward the command tent while Gwyn struggled to keep his eyes open and stay on the unicorn’s back. He had used his magic far more today than in an entire week under Master Traycen’s tutelage. For the first time, Gwyn felt a sliver of gratitude toward the man for pushing him so ruthlessly.

  Lawen waited outside the tent. “Gwyn, you were magnificent! I hear tell you won your first one-on-one duel, even taking a live prisoner. I suspect even Lord ren Lotelon is pleased.”

  Gwyn tried a smile. “In his pleasure, I hope he intends to reward me with one night of uninterrupted sleep.”

  “Perhaps that much I can provide,” said Traycen as he bent through the opening to stand beside Lawen. “Your efforts today saved the lives of many soldiers. More impressive is how you defeated a Fraeli mage. But why did you spare his life?”

  “He yielded.” Gwyn swung down from Aluem’s back and gently stroked his mane. “I will not kill an unarmed man.” He bowed at the waist. “I’ve returned, Master Traycen.”

  “Be welcome, apprentice. Enter and sup with us.” Traycen stooped through the doorway, and Gwyn followed. He straightened inside as Lawen slipped inside to stand beside him. A long table stood in the tent’s center, over a wide, rich-colored rug. General Cadogan and several captains from the other regiments dined on smoked pheasants, sharp cheeses, and mulled wine.

  “Well, well,” called a captain, saluting Traycen with his pheasant leg. “This must be the whelp who came in so handy today. The Crow King’s chosen one, they say.” He laughed and stripped meat from the leg with his teeth.

  “Aye,” Traycen answered. “This is the whelp, and he’s far stronger than most of Corvus, so beware lest you offend the boy.”

  The captain’s eyes caught a twinkle. “Stronger than you, Master Mage?”

  Traycen smiled, but his eyes glittered with frost. “Not quite; and he’s still very inexperienced. Even so, the Crow King expects great things from him someday.”

  “I see you’ve found yourself an heir,” the captain said, and shrugged. “Good to know even mages worry about successors. It seems you’re not immortal after all.” He chortled.

  Traycen’s coldness spread across his face. His body went rigid. “Tread lightly, Captain Harrevin. I’m in a rather violent mood, following the day’s events. I will only warn you once.”

  The mockery fled from Captain Harrevin’s face, and he turned back to his dinner, muttering under his breath as his cheeks reddened.

  Traycen strode to the head of the table and sat beside Cadogan. Gwyn and Lawen took places opposite each other beside their commanders.

  “The wine went to his head,” Cadogan murmured. “Try not to threaten my men over every little slight.”

  Traycen grunted and speared a pheasant wing with his fork. “Promote more intelligent men, then, and I’ll have no cause to threaten — or follow through with it.”

  Clinks and clatters filled in the cracks of silence for a while before another of the captains broached the subject of the day’s battle. With eager bravado, other officers piped up, offering exaggerated tales of their personal glories, each more farfetched than the last. Gwyn listened with growing amusement as Lawen mouthed corrections to him. Captain Lishtil hadn’t singlehandedly cut the heads off five men at once, but he had cut off one poor soldier’s head, which Gwyn suspected wasn’t as easy or glorious as the captain declared.

  The levity heightened as the wine made several more rounds. Gwyn’s eyes grew heavy in the candle smoke. He began to nod and shook himself to stay awake, but the voices drifted far away, and his vision stretched.

  A loud laugh jerked him upright. He’d fallen asleep.

  “Wine doesn’t agree with you, boy?” asked one of the nearer captains. Gwyn didn’t know his name.

  He stared at his untouched goblet, his empty plate, and realized he’d eaten and drunk nothing. His stomach clawed and growled for sustenance, but weariness held a stronger claim to his body. Gwyn glanced at Traycen. “May I go to sleep, master?”

  The man nodded. “You’ve earned it. Your brother will see you there.”

  Gwyn rose and swayed as his vision reeled. His head and limbs felt as heavy as… He couldn’t find a comparison. Lawen appeared beside him, took his arm, and led him from the tent. The chill night air needled Gwyn’s muddled thoughts into some coherency.

  “Are you all right, Gwynny? Just sleepy, or were you wounded?”

  Gwyn shook his head. “I’m not hurt. It’s just…my magic is so new…and I used so much of it…”

  Lawen chuckled. “You look drunk.”

  “I didn’t drink any wine.”

  “I know. I watched you. But you sort of act like you are.” Lawen led him to the tent Gwyn shared with Traycen. Inside, he spread out Gwyn’s bedroll and patted it. “I’m not a betting man, Gwynny, but I’d wager you’ll not stay conscious to reach your pillow.”

  Gwyn knelt on the bedroll.

  When he looked up, it was morning.

  The Simaeri company intended to battle at dawn, but the enemy forces had withdrawn in the night.

  “They must have run back to their stolen keep,” General Cadogan growled, as his officers, along with Traycen and Gwyn, stood poring over a map of the surrounding plains. The general stabbed the map with a finger, where a fortress was depicted in fat ink strokes. “It’s magically fortified by both Fraeli mages and Ilidreth scum. Though I anticipated this happening, it’s still unfortunate. I suppose they were overwhelmed by our success yesterday, despite taking us by surprise. Now they’ll hunker down for a siege and pick us off a little at a time.”

  “It changes little,” said Traycen. “Our original strategies involved laying siege to Keep Lirial.”

  “Still,” Cadogan said with a sigh, “sieges are difficult at the best of times.” He looked up and caught Gwyn’s eye. “Your defensive magic will be an asset in protecting my men as they charge the gates.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He can be even more useful than that,” Traycen said
. “His affinity with defensive magic might turn the tables if he can unmake the very defenses of the keep. Theoretically, it might work. Each manifestation of magic follows its own laws; anything defensive, anything defensible may respond to his command, either to strengthen or — if my theory holds — weaken the shield: be it physical, spiritual, or emotional. Of course, the level of manipulation would depend entirely upon the mage’s magical and emotional strength. A normal defensive mage couldn’t touch a physical fortress in the manner I’m proposing; but I suspect Gwyn may stand a chance of it.”

  “But he’s had no practice,” Cadogan said.

  Gwyn looked between them, wondering if it might be possible. Such a power could reshape the playing field. He wandered from the table as the two men debated his chances, and whether they could risk trying it — and how. How was the real question.

  Gwyn sat on the floor in the shadows of the command tent’s south wall. To summon power, to wield it well, he needed to know exactly what he intended. In the past his magic had acted for him, based on desperate desires in harrowing moments. This wasn’t like that.

  Between dueling matches with Traycen, the master mage had lectured him on defensive magic. He claimed Gwyn had latent potential like few defensive mages in history.

  But could he manage this? Could he unmake a structure like the keep’s outer walls?

  To unmake something meant to revert it back to a previous state. To rocks and mortar?

  He frowned. No, unmaking something was impossible. Rocks still existed. He couldn’t unmake them, for if they weren’t rocks, they would be dust and minerals. They would still be. He couldn’t unmake anything. He could only remake it. Reforge it. Transform it.

  If he wanted to bring a wall tumbling down, he needed to turn it into something different, but equal to its original proportions. A paved highway, for instance; or a watercourse. He merely needed to teach the stones to move.

  Gwyn smiled grimly and stood up. As he approached the table, every officer looked toward him, some casually, most with curiosity.