by Ron Collins
The Saga of the God-Touched Mage includes:
Glamour of the God-Touched
Trail of the Torean
Target of the Orders
Gathering of the God-Touched
Pawn of the Planewalker
Changing of the Guard
Lord of the Freeborn
Lords of Existence
Other Work by Ron Collins:
Five Magics
Picasso’s Cat and Other Stories
See the PEBA on $25 a Day
Chasing the Setting Sun
Four Days in May
Links to these and more of Ron's work
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Copyright Information
Pawn of the Planewalker
Saga of the God-Touched Mage, Volume 4
© 2015 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Rachel J. Carpenter
© 2015 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
Cover Images
© Curaphotography | Dreamstime.com - Man Of Light Photo
© SpinningAngel | Dreamstime.com - Futuristic Tower In Golden Alien Landscape Photo
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialog, and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Skyfox Publishing
http://www.skyfoxpublishing.com
For Tim, Mike, Jackie, and Ken. And of course, for Lisa.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Appendix
Acknowledgements
About Ron Collins
How You Can Help
Prologue
Braxidane felt his siblings’ presence before he saw them. He had been expecting them, so he watched from his node as Agar and Hezarin flowed through the gray space of connectivity between the thousand worlds.
“Sister!” he said as they entered. “Brother! How fine it is to sense you.”
“Give us our mages back,” Agar replied. His voice was a cold pulse in the media of Existence.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly why we are here,” Hezarin replied in a tone that crackled with the odor of acid on metal. She was like that, Braxidane thought, always oozing exaggerated responses.
Braxidane pulled himself into a tight shape that might have been a sphere if shape had meaning here.
She was right, of course.
He did know exactly why they were here.
His siblings had been fighting over Adruin, a plane of barely moderate import, if that. Each was trying to strengthen their presence by controlling more of the plane’s flow. Agar had endowed his Lectodinian mage with his own form of draining magic, and Hezarin had given her Koradictine caster a burning energy full of fire and consumption. Their two champions had been full-bodied mages of great experience before receiving their god-touch, and were nearly invincible afterward. Yet somehow Garrick—Braxidane’s own champion, a mage barely past his apprenticeship—had managed to snare them in a loop of magic that would, unless Braxidane stepped in, last for eternity.
He shivered with delight. It served his siblings right.
“Don’t lay blame on me, sister,” he said. “Linking Parathay and Jormar was Garrick’s doing.”
“Semantics, brother,” Hezarin responded. “Garrick’s magic carries your touch.”
“Certainly.”
“So his work is your work,” Agar said.
“Come, now. None of us controls every action of any of the mages we touch.”
“We want our champions back,” Hezarin said coolly.
“Actions and consequences,” Braxidane said. “Both of you should have considered that before you broke the agreement.”
“It’s a meaningless plane,” Agar replied.
Braxidane flooded his essence with a hint of blue-green sweetness that said Agar’s defense missed the entire point.
“We agreed,” he said. “That none of us would disturb another existence without everyone’s acceptance.”
“It’s an agreement rarely followed.”
“I have followed it,” Braxidane said, flashing self-righteousness with purposeful intent.
Agar snorted. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Enough!” Hezarin said. Her emotions flashed blue, and a curtain of gold filament floated around her. “Give us back our mages, or we’ll take every plane you control.”
“Dear sister Hezarin,” Braxidane said. “You’re always good for an ultimatum. Do any of them ever work?”
“Are you asking for magewar on Adruin?” she said.
“Do I detect hypocrisy, dear Hezarin? You’re usually so adamant about saving lives and protecting your constituency.”
Hezarin spewed orange sparks.
Agar moved to exist between them.
“Come, Braxidane,” he said. “If we’re to get resolution on this, we’ll all have to get past our jealousies.”
“I don’t see that we have any resolution to come to, brother Agar. My champion’s work is done. There is no value in adjusting it.”
Hezarin could contain herself no further, then. She lashed out at him, her tendrils looping around Agar’s barrier so quickly he could barely constrain her.
Braxidane raised his defenses.
“That’s enough,” he said. “You come into my node, demanding I take action for something I’m not responsible for. You insult me with accusations. And now you attack me physically. If you can’t behave, then get out of my node.”
He twisted his thoughts and pushed against her.
“You’ll regret this,” she wailed as she allowed herself to be swept away.
Braxidane waited silently.
His brother turned even colder than usual.
“I think that was a mistake,” Agar said with his usual reserved calm.
“Actions and consequences,” Braxidane replied. “I’ll take my chances.”
Chapter 1
Garrick rode hard atop a lathering charger under a blood red sunset. Fall was soon to give to winter. The air chilled his cheeks and seared his lungs. Hooves thundered against the hard ground of open plain as he bolted across the horizon, determination etched on his face. It was a face growing older than his years, now, a face that had seen more death and more pain than any should. The wind pulled tears from the corners of his eyes.
Hunger flared inside him.
That hunger was a pain, a gnawing flare that bloomed and raged. It was sacrifice and it was horror. It was subservience. He pushed himself harder, urging the horse to race faster, using pure speed and exhilaration to rid himself of the depths of this ache.
Tall grass rolled past in brittle waves, its color the browns and yellows of a dead fall. The animal’s muscles roll
ed beneath him, rhythmic and fluid, forelegs reaching, hind legs driving. Garrick pressed into the stride, driving with all his strength. The muscles of his shoulders and legs burned so boldly they blunted the darkness that had grown within him. The beast snorted a complaint, but Garrick responded by driving the animal harder.
Finally, they crested a hill and came to the edge of the forest, and Garrick, mercifully, brought the horse up. Its breath billowed with misty plumes in the evening air. Its coat was lathered to a sheen.
A hawk soared in the sky.
“It’s not going to work, you know?”
Garrick turned to his left. A tall gray heron with deep black eyes stood beside a large rock that protruded from the hillside. It was his mage superior, the planewalker who was the source of this wicked curse he carried.
“Braxidane,” he said. “I was wondering when I would see you again.”
The heron took a step forward with a motion that was all knee. “You shouldn’t fight your nature,” it said.
“I fight only what makes sense to fight.”
“And it makes sense to fight your true powers?”
“They kill randomly.”
“Randomly?”
Garrick said nothing.
Braxidane dipped his heron head.
“There is nothing random about your powers, Garrick—just as there is nothing random about your responsibilities.”
Braxidane was talking about the Freeborn, Garrick knew. The planewalker wanted to use him to control the new Torean House, but Garrick had no interest in such leadership. He had even less desire to give Braxidane any such boon.
“I never asked for that responsibility.”
“Nor does a coyote ask for his.”
“I am not an animal.”
“That’s right, Garrick. Animals do not fight their destiny.”
Garrick scoffed and turned away. “You make a good jest, Braxidane. But I’m more like a disease than an animal. What destiny does a disease have?”
“You are full of opinions, Garrick. So, let me ask you for another. Just what should a man do when his brothers need him for a task that he has no stomach for?”
Garrick kept his gaze on the horizon. The ride had calmed his hunger, but hollowness still churned within him. He would need to feed again soon. The idea made him shudder. He thought then of the battle at God’s Tower, and the warriors who had died there.
And he thought of Sunathri.
He wheeled to face his superior. “A proper leader doesn’t destroy—”
The heron was gone.
Garrick gritted his teeth and reveled in the pain the sharp air brought to his lungs.
He had been in the wild for weeks now, hunting for Lectodinians, finding them one-by-one, and taking his vengeance upon each. Perhaps it was not as pretty as one might want, but it was something. And it kept the others safe. The Freeborn were in better hands with Darien and Reynard. He wasn’t going to put the men and women of the Torean House in that kind of danger again.
He turned the horse toward his camp.
Will would have dinner prepared, and it was late enough that the boy would be worried.
Tomorrow Garrick had another mage to destroy.
His hunger stirred at the thought.
Yes.
Tomorrow.
He would hunt again tomorrow.
Chapter 2
Wintertime brought raging storms and cold tides that crashed like battering rams against the volcanic cliffs of de’Mayer Island. It was a harsh place, rocky and wind-whipped, isolated. It was due to this isolation that its namesake, the famous general Corid de’Mayer, was shackled here and left to fend for himself in the island’s deepest catacombs. It was also due to this isolation that the Koradictine order of mages had made it their stronghold.
Ettril Dor-Entfar, Lord Superior of that Koradictine order, stood before a water-filled decanter and an empty brazier at the center of his private chamber deep in the workings of Areguard, the ancient fortress built into the rock overlooking the westernmost shoreline. A relief map of Adruin spanned the far wall and told a story that was not to his liking. The order’s losses at God’s Tower had been extreme, and word of their weakness had triggered uprisings across the whole of their holdings. They had never been strong in the eastern half of the plane, but they had lost Mordwood in the northwest, and Daggertooth to the south. They had been run out of Whitestone and the entirety of the Wildlands.
Now, even Badwall Canyon appeared to be shaken.
At least de’Mayer Island was still theirs. For now.
He pursed his lips. He had to rally his forces. The Koradictine order had to make a statement before they lost too much.
Ettril spoke magic and strolled carefully around the decanter, choosing the right moment to slowly spill its water into the basin. Leverage points passed energy from Talin, the plane of magic, through his link. The water boiled with the smell of curdled blood. More water flowed into a thin layer at the bottom of the basin, cooling it, then shimmering with the beginnings of an image. Ettril lifted the spell further, pulling detail to the surface until it became a woman’s rounded face.
Iona, ranking mage of Badwall Canyon.
Her wiry hair was unkempt and her lips were thick and red. She seemed to be out of breath.
“Your timing is impeccable,” she said. “The Lectodinians are here, and they are here in force. They've convinced the townspeople to revolt. The situation is dire.”
“It is good to see you, too, Iona,” Ettril replied.
“I don’t have time for this, Superior.”
“I’ll be brief, then. Badwall Canyon cannot fall. I need you to lead a counter-attack, crush any and all resistance.”
Iona laughed.
“You are an old fool, Ettril.”
“Be careful how you address me. I’ll not take insolence lightly.”
A pounding came from behind her, the sound of footsteps in an outside corridor. Iona glanced nervously over her shoulder.
“The order is dead, Superior. It may not appear that way sitting in the comfort of your island. But even if I wanted to execute your orders, there is no one left here to command.”
“You are a coward!”
“No, Superior. I'm just a mage trying to stay alive.”
The pounding came from the door again, this time accompanied by shouting voices that Ettril couldn’t make out.
“And right now,” Iona said, “I’m a mage who has to get out of town before its citizens string me up. News travels, Superior. They know we’re weak, and they’re making us pay for our boldness this past spring.”
“Iona, I demand you stand and fight.”
“Goodbye, Ettril.”
“I’ll execute you myself if I have to.”
“Then I’ll be seeing you soon. But right now, I’m leaving before the sheriff breaks the door down.”
Iona stood, and the basin clouded.
Ettril sat back with acid flaring in his stomach. She was fleeing Badwall. Casius was holding Farvane, but not as a Koradictine stronghold. Jormar was lost in God’s Tower, somehow defeated by the Torean champion. No Koradictine leader had faced such upheaval in the centuries since Koradic himself had founded the order.
“Bosic!” he called to his assistant.
Rustling came from the hallway, and the door whispered open.
“Yes, sir?”
“Come here,” Ettril said with a calmness that belied his emotions.
Bosic shut the door behind him, and scuttled in with a shambling limp caused by his club foot. His robe was Koradictine red with a dark blue collar turned up. Its sleeves hung loosely at his wrists.
“What can I get you, Superior?”
“I need every high mage on the island here tomorrow morning as the sun rises.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
Ettril thought. “No.”
“It will be done, sir.”
Then Bosic went away quietly.
That was more
like it, Ettril thought. A rapid response to a direct command. And it would be done, too. Bosic had been his apprentice since he was a child. He would never, of course, be a high mage. Some things just weren’t meant to be. But Bosic never stopped trying, and he knew his place—both traits that were sorely lacking in many these days.
Ettril stood and faced his library.
He was getting old. His back ached, and a pop came from one knee. That didn’t matter, though. He was still strong enough to control the order, and the first rule of control was to make sure no one got the wrong message.
It was time to make a statement.
And over his lifetime he had found that nothing commands obedience like the sight of a dead body.
Chapter 3
Garrick crouched down in the hallway.
He felt the Lectodinian’s presence on the other side of the door. It was Tevaran Kigg, a powerful mage who was now in the middle of casting an intricate spell forged with energy from the plane of magic. Kigg had been among those who had joined the raid on his superior’s manor so many months prior. It was time to exact his revenge.
His hunger reached out and touched the mage’s life force. It was raw, and bold, and firmly connected to the man’s body. He felt the mage’s connection to the plane of magic in ways that were deep and disturbing. He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed of himself for having such an intimate connection, or angry at himself for the fact that he had grown to enjoy it so greatly. Garrick could feel, for example, how every scrap of the Lectodinian’s attention was consumed in his spell work, and that now was exactly the time to strike.
One sharp kick broke down the door.
He cast raw magic about the room as he drew his blade.
“Wha—” Kigg said. “What are you doing?”
“Avenging a wrong,” Garrick growled as he swung.
The blade became red and blood–gored.
The mage’s life force peeled off its body, tasting sweet and powerful. Garrick breathed it in like something physical, like blood, or like a heart beating inside a man’s chest, as natural as an arm or a leg, as essential as breathing itself. He shuddered as he fought its panicked dance, and gasped as the life force struggled against the pull of his god–touched gravity. It was like a fish fighting on the line, a steady string of vital pulls that eventually faded to dead weight.
