The Battle Mage (The Age of Oracles Book 3)

by Ben Hale

  “She’s magesick?” Red asked, stepping to the girl and helping her to her mount.

  “It’s no wonder,” Jester said. “Casting a treewalker from a tree that size would have taken a dozen mages.”

  “Or one Marrow,” Raiden said, wincing as he clasped Jester’s hand. Raiden’s arm bore a pattern of burns where the branches had held him.

  Jester grinned. “Half the Empire soldiers were still in the village when it went up. The rest are on their way here.”

  Raiden nodded and gestured east. “Then let’s go. It appears the Empire is gathering in Herosian.”

  Chapter 12: Hunting

  Toron thought Galathon would bring his crew to kill Elsin, but only Galathon and his reaver exited the tavern. Of the many companions Toron had shared a road with, a disgraced rock troll king and mind reaver were the strangest. And most dangerous.

  They departed Keese on the eastern road with the reaver in the lead. Like a wolfhound catching a scent, it swiveled its head side to side, searching. Unfortunately, their path took them directly toward the Empire’s camp.

  “Shouldn’t we go around?” Toron asked, but the rock troll merely laughed.

  “I do not move for others,” he said. “They move for me.”

  Two hundred battlemages stood in their path, but Galathon advanced straight into their camp. Toron drifted back, giving himself space if it came to bloodshed. The soldiers saw them coming and formed ranks behind a stone wall, but the mind reaver released a chilling snarl and charged, ramming into the barricade.

  The barrier erupted into rocks and dust, sending soldiers tumbling away. Without even drawing his axe, the rock troll stepped over the rubble and strode through the camp. The soldiers huddled in small groups away from the road, their officers avoiding Galathon’s gaze. Thirty seconds after entering the camp they passed beyond it.

  “Fear is my favorite weapon,” Galathon said with a laugh.

  “Why spare them at all?” Toron asked, lengthening his stride to keep pace with the ten-foot troll. “

  “Elenyr,” Galathon said, his voice tinged with respect and irritation in equal measure.

  “What does she have to do with anything?”

  “After my exile I wanted revenge upon my people,” Galathon said. “She foresaw what I intended, and showed up at my camp the day before my march. She gave me a choice, relinquish a life of brutality or face a life in prison. I sought to kill her and she subdued me like I was a child. I wisely chose the first option. Now I only kill those in my way.”

  “And if they had tried to stop you?” Toron asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  “They would have been in my way,” Galathon said, baring his teeth.

  The troll could have avoided the soldiers with ease, but he’d all but goaded them to fight, hoping they would strike first. If they had, he would have been able to defend himself, breaking the spirit of his oath while holding to the letter.

  “And Elsin?” he asked.

  “Elenyr wants me to kill her,” he said, “or she would never have sent you to me.”

  “You know why I hate the woman,” Toron said. “Why do you want to kill her?”

  “She took my throne,” the rock troll replied, drawing a growl from the reaver. “She used the Verinai to back one of my generals, and turned my people against me in an attempt to gain entry to the region. My only consolation was that after my exile, my former general banned the Verinai from our lands.”

  “Why did your general use Elsin?”

  “He couldn’t best me in battle so he used the guild to take the throne.”

  Toron snorted. “And you didn’t kill him?”

  “Elsin had him assassinated,” Galathon said.

  Toron frowned, uncertain what to make of the conversation. Tales of Galathon’s brutality were legendary, but how much were merely rumor? They lapsed into silence as they traveled, and Toron’s thoughts turned to Elsin, and his son. After an hour the reaver abruptly turned off the road and Galathon grunted.

  “He’s caught her thoughts.”

  “This close?” Toron asked. “I expected her to be in one of the guildhalls, or perhaps Terros.”

  “A mind reaver is never wrong,” Galathon said.

  They trekked through the plains for two days until they reached the Evermist, the vast swamp that marked the southern border of the Empire. Known to swallow man and beast, the bog carried a lethal reputation, but Galathon entered without hesitation. Toron reluctantly followed him into the murky depths.

  Green mist clung to trees, earth, and their clothing, shifting in ever complicated patterns that obscured the trail. In the distance a silver reaver coughed, and Galathon’s companion released a warning growl. The silver did not respond, suggesting it was young.

  “Rest easy, human,” Galathon said. “My companion and I will protect you.”

  “I don’t need you to protect me,” Toron retorted, drawing a rumbling laugh from the giant troll.

  The mist obscured the sky, but Toron had the vague impression they were traveling southwest, circling far beneath Keese on their way towards the coast. When darkness fell they camped for the night, the reaver standing guard.

  Unwilling to sleep in a bog next to a mind reaver and a troll, Toron scaled into the canopy and cast a hammock of shadows. Then he conjured a quartet of gremlins that would stand guard, their forms clinging to the branches around him.

  In the morning he woke to a horrendous snarling and snapping of jaws. Water splashed and wood snapped, and then all went still. Toron descended warily but found Galathon sitting beside a fire, and then the reaver entered the clearing with a slain crocodile in its jaws.

  “Good work,” Galathon exclaimed, slicing off a haunch of the tail with a long dagger.

  “Do you always hunt crocodile?” Toron asked the reaver.

  I prefer human flesh, the reaver replied, the words coming into Toron’s mind. Then it bent to the carcass and began to eat. Toron shuddered and retreated to the trees for his own meal, and spent the time questioning his choices.

  When they’d eaten their fill, they pressed on through the swamp, dodging quicksand and a moordraug’s lair before the reaver began to slow. He paced one way and then another, searching back and forth as if trying to catch a scent.

  “What is it?” Galathon growled at Severon.

  “What’s going on?” Toron asked.

  “I don’t know,” the rock troll said. “I’ve never seen him behave this way. Normally he latches onto a mind and tracks it until we see the target with our own eyes. Now he’s acting like there are two of Elsin, one west and one south.”

  “Which one is stronger?” Toron asked.

  The reaver pointed its head southwest and grunted in irritation. This way.

  “What’s to say that’s Elsin,” Galathon growled, stabbing a finger west.

  “Nothing,” Toron said. “But if it’s stronger, its closer. And if it’s not Elsin, we can rule it out and track the other target.”

  Galathon shrugged. “As you will.”

  He pointed south and the reaver dived into the trees, leaping a patch of murky water before continuing on the opposite side. Toron and Galathon followed, the latter cursing the sweltering humidity and occasionally smashing an insect that had dared ascend his body.

  As night fell the reaver began to slow, this time showing all the signs of a hunter having cornered its prey. Then abruptly they came to the coast, the bog opening onto a beach. Just offshore a tower rose into the sky, its surface as smooth as a sword. A raised path extended from a small outcropping of rock to the open door.

  Toron frowned, scanning the tower for another entry, but the structure lacked window or other opening. No seem or crack marred the surface, and it veritably gleamed in the evening light. Then he recognized the whitish material.

  “It’s an ancient structure,” he said in surprise.

  “It’s just a tower,” Galathon scoffed.

  “Whoever we’re tracking must be i
nside,” Toron said, pointing to the open door.

  Toron stepped out of the swamp onto the beach. With the sun setting he had enough shadow magic to lift himself and cross the gap to the outcropping of rock. Then he advanced cautiously across the span. The bridge shuddered when the reaver alighted behind him, and a moment later Galathon joined the reaver.

  Toron cast a fire sword and muted the light, holding the weapon as he approached the darkened opening. He slowed as he crossed the threshold, listening as he passed through the outer shell.

  A pillar rose at the heart of the space and reached to the ceiling. The interior of the tower was huge and open, creating a dome that reached high above them. Sections of the floor were open, allowing Toron to catch glimpses of darkened lower levels, the distance suggesting the tower extended deep into the sea.

  Dotting the floor like eggs, hundreds of giant spherical objects sat on circular bases. Pathways wound through them to the pillar, the area lit by a strange bluish hue. Toron leaned over the edge of a path and used his shadow magic to view the depths beneath.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye and he looked up. A figure had appeared in a door to the turret. The youth came to a halt, surprise on his features. The figure was tall and handsome, and the resemblance to Toron was uncanny, but the dark tinge to his eyes marked him as a guardian.

  “Father,” Mal said.

  Galathon snorted his disappointment. “Elsin was the other target.”

  It had been years since Toron had stood in the same room as Mal. Hope at seeing his son mixed with anger at Elsin, and he clenched his hand into a fist. He took a cautious step forward and lowered his fire sword.

  “Son,” Toron said. “You don’t have to serve her.”

  “You abandoned me,” Mal said, a flicker of fire arcing up his arms, revealing a strange pyramid in his hands. Black and glimmering with purple light, it was obviously of ancient make.

  “I thought your mother killed you,” he said, taking another step forward.

  “She healed me,” he growled.

  Mal began to stalk forward, fire blossoming in his free hand. The impending attack set the mind reaver on edge and he crouched, a warning snarl erupting from its jaws. Mal ignored it and raised his hand, sending a spear of fire at Toron.

  Toron threw his sword up, casting a wall of fire that the spear exploded against. Then he caught sight of the fire coming at his flanks. Two more spears came from both sides and he dived through his own shield, the spears shredding his shadow. They crashed into the egglike objects and detonated, belching smoke into the ancient structure.

  Toron rose to fight a horde of fire creatures cast by Mal, but the fight was over before it began. Toron’s desperate attempts to speak to his son went unheeded until a blast of fire struck his fire shield and knocked him sprawling. When he arose he found Galathon and his reaver knocked aside as well.

  Standing in the exit, Mal turned back, hatred twisting his features. “I would kill you, but mother has her own plans for you.”

  Toron clawed his way to his feet and stumbled to the door, but Mal was already gone. With burns on his shoulder and arm, Galathon surprisingly checked on the reaver first, and the beast snarled when he touched its flank. Severon’s lizardlike flesh and triangular bone over its skull were scorched and blackened from the battle.

  “I’ll kill him,” Galathon snarled.

  “No,” Toron snapped, his eyes on the beach. “He’s still my son.”

  He hoped.

  Chapter 13: Elenyr’s Plan

  Alydian watched the army of dwarves join the burgeoning camp. News had spread of their plans to invade the Empire and thousands had flocked to Seascape, with troops arriving daily from every corner of Lumineia. Dwarves from the northwest, rock trolls, orcs and gnomes from the north, and even a handful of dark elves from the Deep all joined the expanding army. Those who’d heard of the victory at Skykeep and hated the Empire were quick to join the rallying cry.

  Although the dwarven kingdom was controlled by the Verinai, ten thousand soldiers arrived with their general, a dwarf named Shalric. Shorter than most dwarves, he nevertheless carried a fearsome reputation, a legacy only enhanced by his defection from the dwarven kingdom. His hair had gone white and his snowy beard was woven into twin braids.

  “We’re grateful for your aid,” Alydian said.

  The dwarf grunted, a smile spreading beneath his beard. “The Verinai control my government, but they don’t control the people.”

  “How did the king react?” Alydian asked.

  “His son may be Verinai,” Shalric said, “but they could not stop us.”

  Alydian hid a smile at the dwarf’s honesty. She’d been watching the future, wary of spies from the Empire, and had seen his arrival. Curious, she’d followed his tree back to see his departure from the dwarven mountains. The Verinai prince had tried to stop him, but the army had refused his order, choosing instead to leave with Shalric.

  “I don’t want a civil war in your kingdom,” Alydian said.

  “There won’t be one,” the general said. “My people may be divided, but a dwarf won’t spill the blood of a dwarf. And the Empire is too preoccupied with you to force a war in the north.”

  “You have our gratitude,” Alydian said.

  The general grunted and departed, joining his troops as they set up their camp. Alydian fought the surge of gratitude, her gaze sweeping across the vast army that had assembled. For her. Because they believed she could take them to victory.

  At her suggestion, Earl Astin had been appointed head of the Griffin army. Both Princess Ora and Duke Senin had disliked the suggestion, but over time both had come to accept Astin’s leadership.

  Level-headed and smart, the youth balanced the needs of the various forces, allowing Princess Ora to care for her people without constantly fighting with Senin, for whom she still harbored a grudge.

  For the next hour Alydian dealt with a myriad of conflicts, smoothing transitions and easing tensions. She offered advice to all, pleased to find the respective generals had begun to trust her insights. Whisper remained largely silent, and she hoped that meant its power was waning.

  “It appears we are ready to invade the Empire,” Elenyr said, finding Alydian as she left a tense negotiation between two elven captains and a gnome.

  Dressed in rather plain clothes, the former high oracle seemed distant and secretive. She hadn’t said anything, of course, but she had grown increasingly withdrawn in the weeks since Skykeep. Alydian tried to recall the last time she’d seen her mother and realized it had been days.

  Alydian cast a bird of light and sent it fluttering into the air. Several minutes later it would land on Astin’s shoulder, informing him that the last of their allies had arrived. With the addition of the dwarves their army topped forty thousand, enough to challenge the Empire. Alydian hoped that before it came to a battle, they would be able to gather more troops from the pockets of resistance within the Empire.

  “We do not depart until the morrow,” Alydian said. “And Astin has things well in hand.”

  “He shows remarkable leadership for one so young,” Elenyr said.

  Alydian stole a glance at her mother, wishing there was a way to lift her mother’s spirits. When she was present, Elenyr directed questions to Alydian. Many still regarded her as the high oracle and expressed confusion at the deflection, but Elenyr handled it with poise. Already the various leaders of the army looked to Alydian for advice, going first to her instead of her mother.

  Alydian knew the shift was necessary, but the more Elenyr deferred to Alydian, the more her mantle shrank. Alydian worried that after a lifetime of authority, Elenyr didn’t know what to do with her time.

  “I need an hour with you,” Elenyr abruptly said. “Alone.”

  “Now?” Alydian asked. “We march on the morrow, and there is much to accomplish.”

  “It will all be for naught if you do not find this time.”

  Alydian turned to face her and smil
ed. “I thought you couldn’t see the future.”

  Elenyr did not return the smile. “One does not need farsight to have wisdom. Meet me outside the western wall. Don’t bring Devkin.”

  “Mother . . .” But the woman was gone.

  Confused and intrigued, Alydian dealt with the countless captains and generals seeking direction. Astin had taken to his leadership role well, but many of the veteran soldiers took issue with following the young man into battle. Devkin had suggested he seek private training and he’d thrown himself into the effort, rising before dawn each day in order to hone his swordcraft.

  Alydian resolved conflicts and then slipped away, making her way through the fortress to the western gate. Less traveled than the east, the region west of Seascape was home to trappers and woodsmen, their roads little more than game trails.

  Alydian departed the fortress and slipped into the trees alone. Bright light cascaded between the trunks and filtered through the canopy into beams of illumination. Dust swirled inside the light as if eager to be seen, and she smiled, passing a hand through the shafts of light.

  It was the first time she’d been in solitude since her prison, and it left her feeling disconcerted. It should have been familiar, yet a part of her wanted to turn and sprint back to the castle. She suppressed the emotion and used her farsight to find her mother in a clearing a short distance from the castle.

  “Mother,” Alydian said, stepping into the open. “What’s this all about?”

  “You,” Elenyr said. “It’s time you tell me of your escape.”

  Alydian had avoided the answer because of shame, but when she met her mother’s eyes she realized she could delay no longer. Without judgment or condemnation, Elenyr wished to support her. Alydian swallowed and began to speak.

  “I augmented my arm hoping to break the walls which held me bound,” she said, lifting her hand to show her augmented flesh. “But even with a strength charm the anti-magic refused to yield. Then I realized the voice of madness I heard was the magic of rage, and I gave myself over to it . . .”