The Battle Mage (The Age of Oracles Book 3)

by Ben Hale

  “She was just like all the rebellion,” Tack said with a sneer. “They’re all ungrateful trash.”

  In the shocked silence that followed a chair clattered to the floor. Her eyes blazing with fury, Marrow was on her feet, and even Red drifted away. Oblivious to the threat in the girl’s eyes, Tack straightened.

  “Long live the Mage Empire.”

  Chapter 4: Discord

  The shock of the statement reverberated in the tavern like a thunderclap. To hear it from the lips of a man without magic—who’d likely always despised those with it—was more shocking than the betrayal by the oracles. Tack’s father stood and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at him.

  “Boy!” he snapped. “What’s the matter—”

  Tack backhanded his father, sending the grey-haired man to the floor. Another of his family stood and received the same fate, leaving most the Teller clan to turn on Raiden and his companions. Their features filled with hatred and they began to advance, shoving tables and chairs aside. Jeffers scurried to the door, calling for aid.

  His confusion matched by Jester and Red, Raiden retreated—as Marrow passed him by. Raiden reached out and caught her shoulder but she shrugged it off. She came to a halt just feet from the giant man.

  “She says you need to apologize to Jeffers.”

  The huge man scoffed and flexed his muscles. “Out of my way, little girl, before I snap your—”

  Marrow reared back and punched him in the gut, the blow knocking the air from his lungs and sending him flying across the room. His huge frame struck the wall and he slumped to the floor, clutching his stomach as he fought for breath. Instead of inspiring fear, Marrows strike elicited triumph.

  “She’s a mage!” one brother cried.

  “Then she’s a traitor!” a woman shrieked.

  They hurled themselves at Marrow. Raiden, Jester, and Red dived into the fray, but none drew their blades. Raiden ducked a blow and caught the outstretched arm, twisting and pulling to throw the man onto a table. The man crashed to the floor and bounced up, coming at Raiden with a furious glint in his eyes.

  Raiden ducked the blow and twisted to avoid another before striking one assailant in the jaw. The youth was just out of boyhood but he shrugged off the blow as easily as a veteran warrior and came at him again.

  As the Soldier, Raiden had fought in countless battles, but few with his bare hands. Caught off guard by the sudden fight, he found himself trapped between two men and slammed into the wall. Another punched him in the face, filling his vision with stars. He rocked in their hands and then caught the glint of a blade in his blurred vision.

  Twisting, he kicked off the wall and used the motion to pull one arm free. Then he dropped to the floor and put his foot on the second man’s stomach, launching him over a table. He hurtled over a chair and crashed into another. Wood snapped and the man cried out as he struck the floor at an odd angle, breaking his arm. Still he rose to his feet.

  “They’ve gone mad!” Red exclaimed.

  At the center of the melee, Marrow acquitted herself like a brawler, landing blows on any that stepped within her tiny reach. She could have killed them all, but Marrow’s expression made it clear she wanted to hurt them. She ducked a swing from a woman and put her hand on her face, throwing her over the bar and into the shelves beyond. Bottles of ale shattered and rained down on her form.

  “That was for Jeffers,” Marrow snarled.

  Raiden surged into motion, recovering from his initial confusion to strike at a man attempting to flank Jester. Catching Raiden’s arm, a shockingly strong woman twisted and launched him onto the table where they’d been eating, scattering food plates.

  “My potatoes!” Marrow screamed.

  She reached out and a gust of wind lifted her plate and caught her food, bringing it to her hands. Fork in hand, she began to eat as she fought, using her feet to kick at the Teller clan that had desecrated her meal.

  The absurdity of the conflict had gotten to Jester, who was laughing as he battled two at once. Someone had struck his eye and it was cut, blood trickling down his jawline. He didn’t seem to notice, and sent a man hurtling through a window into the street beyond. Red caught the remaining woman about the waist and launched her into the door. It snapped from its hinges and she spilled into the street. Jeffers flinched to the side, narrowly avoiding the impact.

  “Are they Empire soldiers?” Raiden called, struggling to fend off Tack, who’d risen and come for him.

  Huddled behind the counter, Jeffers’ wife answered in a shrill voice. “Of course not! Ero knows why they would claim loyalty to the Empire!”

  Raiden retreated from Tack, who towered over him. The man loomed over the rest of his family, but his gaze settled on Raiden like he was the devil himself. He reared back and lunged. Raiden ducked and the fist plunged into the wall, then he retreated up the stairs.

  “You’re just rebels,” Tack snarled, following up the stairs as he flexed his enormous fists.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” Raiden said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Tack said. “You’ll still die like a traitor.”

  He leveled another blow, this time at Raiden’s chest. Raiden tried to avoid it but the fist was too large, and struck his ribs like a dwarven hammer. The blow knocked him through a door and into a hallway.

  Fighting for breath, Raiden spotted an open window in a room at his side and lunged for it. He darted into the room and leapt off the bed, passing through the window as a huge hand closed on his boot.

  “You think to escape?” he growled, dragging Raiden back inside. “You’re just a pig awaiting the slaughter.”

  Raiden rolled to the side and kicked with his free leg, connecting with the man’s nose. The man snarled and released, allowing Raiden to leap through the window and drop onto the roof of the porch. People had converged on the street, the townsfolk forming a circle around the embattled tavern.

  Raiden dropped from the roof and darted inside just as Red leveled a blow on the last one standing. At the bar, Marrow ate her potatoes, the only one unscathed from the brawl. A lone chair had survived and Jester sank into it, a confused smile on his face.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a tavern brawl,” he said. “I just wish I knew the cause.”

  Tack abruptly appeared on the stairs, his broken nose a mask of blood. Red and Raiden swiveled to face him as he scanned the room, anger tightening his large fists. Jester sighed and returned to his feet.

  “Really? Do you want to be killed?”

  Abruptly a tiny woman burst through the remains of the front door. Her white hair and features marked her as the matriarch of the Teller family. She took the room in a glance, her eyes settling on her husband, still unconscious where Tack had struck him. Her eyes flashed dangerously and flicked to Tack, for the first time making him uncertain.

  “Have you lost your wits, boy?”

  “Stay out of this, mother,” Tack said sullenly, and stabbed a meaty finger at Raiden. “They are our enemy.”

  “They’re just travelers,” the woman snapped, picking her way through the broken tables and unconscious forms to stand before her son. “You know nothing about them.”

  “They must be handed to the Empire,” Tack said. “They support the rebellion.”

  “We are the rebellion,” she growled.

  Tack’s eyes flashed dangerously and he raised a hand as if to strike his mother. Before anyone could react she reached up and slapped him. It did not harm, but the sting of the blow caused him to recoil.

  “Don’t you dare strike your mother.”

  Tack slowly lowered his hand and blinked as if to clear his thoughts. He reached up and grasped his forehead, stumbling backward like he was ill. Then he grunted and shook his head, regaining his footing. When he looked to his mother again his eyes were filled with confusion and sorrow.

  “I’m sorry, mother,” he said. “I don’t understand what happened . . .” He shook his head again and suddenly becam
e aware of what he’d done. Groaning with regret, he stepped to one of his brothers and helped him to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, casting a look at Raiden. “I should never have . . . you are . . . I don’t . . . I’m sorry.”

  He scowled, but this time his anger was directed at himself. Then he reached his father and picked him up as he would a child, speaking to him in low tones, his voice filled with apology. Other brothers began to awaken and they too displayed remorse.

  “What just happened?” Jester murmured to Raiden.

  “You expect me to know?” Raiden asked, disconcerted by the sudden reversal in attitudes by the Teller clan.

  Other villagers entered and offered aid, with Jeffers at their head. At first he was furious and indignant, but Tack choked an apology and promised to rebuild the tables and chairs with his own hands. His brothers were equally as apologetic and swore to repair the damage they’d caused. At the insistence of their mother, each begged forgiveness from Raiden and his companions.

  “Are you really with the rebellion?” the youngest asked.

  “We are,” Raiden replied.

  The boy, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, flashed a weak smile. “Yesterday we were talking about how to join the resistance. Now I suppose we fight it.”

  “So you don’t support the Empire?”

  He shook his head. “Not until we saw you. Then I just forgot about life before the Empire and all the anger I’d ever felt poured into my heart.”

  “Bilon!” the father called. “Help clean up this mess.”

  The boy shrugged helplessly and departed, and the mother took his place. “I’m truly sorry for my family. They were taught better.”

  “Anyone else act like this?” Jester asked.

  It was said in humor, but the mother didn’t smile. “Never,” she said. “I don’t know what got into my boys.” Then she turned and helped pick up the kindling on the floor.

  “Ugh,” Marrow exclaimed.

  She stared at her empty plate, oblivious to the sudden attention she’d drawn. Then she picked it up and scanned the crowd until she spotted Jeffers standing over a pile of broken glass. He rubbed moisture from his eyes as he picked remains of the memory orb that had held his daughter’s features.

  “I have no more potatoes,” Marrow said, her tone filled with regret.

  “Blasted girl,” Jeffers choked. “Can’t you see I’ve lost everything?”

  “If I clean up the mess, will you make me more?” Marrow asked.

  “Of course,” he growled sarcastically. “If you can fix a room my ancestors built with their bare hands, I’ll cook you more potatoes.”

  “Done!” the girl said, delightedly.

  She tossed her plate into the air and swept her hands at the room—and wood began to move. Splinters and kindling clattered as they rolled across the floor, bumping across boots and shins before colliding. Then they began to knit.

  All gasped as the tables and chairs, paintings and glass impossibly fused into their original shape. Legs lifted seats, knitting to backs of chairs and righting themselves. Those holding broken tables found the pieces pulled from their hands, the broken tabletops folding back together, the knots sinking back into the grain. Glass tinkled as it melted together, reshaping bottles and liquid coming off the floor to refill the reservoirs. Even the dishes became whole. Last to take shape, the memory orb on the wall reformed and the image of the daughter appeared.

  “Now can I have more potatoes?” Marrow pleaded as the crack in the bar filled.

  “Girl,” Jeffers said, his throat constricted. “You may have potatoes for the rest of your life.”

  The healing of the room and the gruff man’s response filled the room with laughter and smiles. Tears in his eyes, Jeffers bustled off to the kitchens, and only Raiden was close enough to Marrow to hear her comment.

  “She says to eat up,” Marrow said to herself. Then she noticed Raiden and leaned close, her voice turning into a conspiratorial whisper. “She says the plague has begun.”

  Chapter 5: The Exiled King

  At Alydian’s direction, Toron disembarked the day after Raiden and made his way southwest. Alone, he pushed through the trees until he reached the great western road and followed it to Keese.

  The border city represented a sprawling settlement on the coast of the Southern Sea. Disorganized and known for corruption and piracy, Keese was a cesspool of villainy that not even the Empire had managed to cleanse.

  After the oracles had created the Empire, guards had maintained a presence in every village, settlement, and city large enough to house a resistance. All except Keese. Instead, a company of soldiers had formed a permanent camp outside the city, a tacit admission that the Empire didn’t want to deal with the occupants.

  Emboldened by the Empire’s absence, the city had grown even more vile in the past year, with rampant tales of brutality, robbery, and murder. The wiser citizens recognized that time was against them, and made preparations to flee the city should the Empire turn its attentions upon them.

  Toron gave the Empire camp a wide berth and approached the city from the north, entering through the broken gates. Wrinkling his nose at the reek, he strode down a street littered with unconscious forms.

  He’d chosen to enter in the dead of night to avoid recognition, but doing so had its dangers. Men and women who’d partaken too freely of hard ales were scattered on porch and dirt, snoring loudly. A pair of girls that couldn’t have been more than seven rifled through their pockets for loose coins. They looked up at Toron’s appearance, but when he made no move toward them, they continued their thievery.

  Toron passed the aisle of taverns and made his way to the waterfront. No less than four separate bandits sought to rob him, but all were left wanting. Nursing bruises and burns, they wandered off in search of easier prey.

  When he reached the waterfront he worked his way to a tavern at the southern end. Raucous sailors filled the docks, and several brawled without interference. Smoke billowed upward from a burning inn, the flames licking through the wooden supports. Only the proprietor seemed concerned and raced about, calling for aid. Drunken sailors merely stumbled to another establishment, abandoning the inn to its ashen fate.

  Wary of a knife in the back, Toron picked his way through the crowd of pirates. More than once he heard footsteps stalking his wake, so he cast a panther of shadow at his side. The fires and lights from the city made it ethereal and blunted its claws, but the denizens of Keese were still lead to fear.

  Toron reached his target and came to a halt, his eyes lifting to examine the The Troll’s Axe. Owned by Galathon, the tavern was the worst in the city. Frequented by killers too brutal for the Assassin’s Guild and thieves too violent for the Thieves Guild, the tavern served as home to the exiled rock troll king and his companion, a savage mind reaver.

  Built of salvaged ships, the structure boasted masts as pillars and ropes lashing them into place. The roof was made from two hulls. Rumor had it Galathon had killed the crews, dragged their ships onto the shore, and then flipped the ships to make his tavern.

  “I hope you don’t get me killed,” Toron murmured to Alydian.

  He remained in place, torn between departing and entering. Then he muttered a curse and advanced toward the giant door. Dismissing the cat as he entered, he swung the door open and entered the surprisingly clean tavern.

  More masts supported the inverted boats, the posts littered with blades, helms, and skulls of slain beasts, trophies from Galathon’s conquests. The room was huge and vaulted, clearly built for a rock troll. Tables were massive, as were the chairs. The crowd in the bar came from every race, with even a pair of dark elves sitting in one corner.

  An enormous table of dragon bones dominated the rear of the room. Galathon sat where he could view the tavern, a mug in his hand. Tattoos spiked across his chest, arms, neck, and face, each curve a kill, collectively forming the troll’s Sundering.

  A handful of his crew sat with him, incl
uding his first officer, a tiny gnome gifted in anti-magic. Others were human, dwarven, and orc. All were lethal, but it was Galathon’s animal companion that Toron feared.

  The mind reaver was coiled by the roaring fire, its sheer bulk blocking the flames, the triangular bone across its skull chipped and damaged from countless battles. Its lizardlike skin rippled with muscles as the beast raised its head. Lacking ears, nose, or eyes, the great creature tracked its prey with its powerful mind.

  Toron felt a tug as the beast tasted his thoughts, a sinister intrusion that caused him to twitch. The sentient beast seemed to laugh and looked to Galathon, obviously communicating his arrival. The rock troll looked up and smirked.

  “An outcast shadowmage,” he called. “It’s not often such a fine bounty comes to my house.”

  Toron frowned. “Three weeks ago you fought for Elenyr. Now you would betray her friend?”

  “My loyalty comes at a price,” he said with a laugh. “Even from Elenyr.”

  His black eyes flicked to the mind reaver and it left the fire to circle Toron, its hot breath on his neck. He felt the urge to conjure an entity but the gnome at Galathon’s side cast a pair of anti-magic crossbows, all but daring him to fight.

  “How much is the coin on my head?” Toron asked.

  “The Empire says you’re worth three hundred gold,” Galathon said.

  “The bounty on his sister is even greater.”

  Toron’s eyes flicked to the bearded man at Galathon’s other side. The man regarded him with disappointment and curiosity, almost as if he’d expected Toron’s arrival. For the first time, Toron was glad Marrow was not at his side.

  Galathon raised his eyebrow. “Linx would know,” he said, gesturing to the bearded man. “He may be a thief, but he’s also a hunter of men.”

  “Between the two of you the Empire is offering a thousand gold,” Linx exclaimed, folding his arms. “I hope you’ve brought something of value to offer for your life.”