A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  The orcs nodded their heads, growling and shoving their fellows.

  “Out there,” Durog said. He pointed one clawed finger in the general direction of west. “Out there is Arkirius, one of the most powerful realms on Ninavar. Arkirius is like a maggot, still feasting on the decaying flesh of the Elathian Empire. It’s old, fat, and ripe for plunder. That’s the prize, boys. Once we take it there’ll be nothing but man-steaks and blood wine for the rest of our days. We’ll rule this land like lords and never have to worry about going hungry again.”

  The prospect of endless food and drink finally igniting their imaginations, many of the orcs made a deep-throated howl that passed for a cheer and banged on their shields with sword and spear. Others looked at The Rock, their dull faces revealing expressions of puzzlement and confusion. Durog sighed. What did he expect from a bunch of stupid grunts? They were soldiers after all, not visionaries.

  He looked down at the little jester who still crouched at his feet. “And as for you two, you cringing little vermin.”

  “We are yours to command, oh master of strong odors,” Retch said and shook his stave so that the bells jangled merrily.

  Durog hauled the jester to his feet, picking him up with one hand and holding him close to his face. “You think you’re funny?”

  “A little,” Retch squeaked in a terrified voice.

  “Pilfer!” Durog roared, his eyes still fixed on Retch. “Get in there and make some light. And you, you pathetic sniveler, you go with him. Anything nasty falls from the ceiling, I want you two under it.”

  “Thank you, your immenseness,” Retch said, voice quivering. Durog dropped the jester and aimed a kick at Retch’s backside as the goblin leapt after Pilfer, who was already scrambling into the dark chamber.

  “Come on, boys,” Durog said, “Let’s go see our new home.”

  * * *

  “You shouldn’t upset him like that,” Pilfer said. The shaman pulled his cloak closer about him. The chamber just inside the door was icy cold.

  “Me? What’d I do? It’s my job to be funny, remember?” Retch crouched behind Pilfer, looking out from beneath the voluminous sleeve of the shaman’s robe as Pilfer raised his arm dramatically.

  Pilfer made a quick gesture near the end of his staff and whispered a word. A ball of light appeared there, perched on the end of the staff, illuminating the interior of the room.

  “You only think you’re funny. That’s what gets you into trouble. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have been skinned and gutted a long time ago.”

  “You? What’d you ever do but get me into trouble with the chief? I was doing fine before you came along.”

  “But I have the chief’s ear. He listens to my advice.”

  “You also have his nose and his chin, but I wouldn’t go bragging about it,” Retch said, tittering at his own joke.

  “Pipe down, you slugs!” Durog growled from behind them. “And get a move on. We ain’t got all night.”

  The two goblins approached the staircase and peered up into the darkness. Holding his staff aloft, Pilfer led the way, with Retch clinging to his robes like a spooked cat as they began to climb. Durog followed close behind. There was a rasp of steel as he drew his sword. Both Retch and Pilfer jumped at the sound.

  “Just in case,” Durog said.

  Retch and Pilfer exchanged a terrified glance.

  “Move it!” Durog barked. The two goblins sprang up the stairs.

  * * *

  The orcs climbed, their labored breathing and the clink of their armor echoing weirdly in the confined space. A short time later they reached the lower halls of Horgar’s fortress and entered a large antechamber, then crept along a short passage to emerge into a much larger hall. Frost clung to the pillars and arches and the dust of ages covered the stone floor. There was, however, evidence of recent passage, some other party of intruders that had arrived first.

  “Okay, boys,” Durog said, turning to face the group, “break out the torches and let’s get a move on. We need to go up another level to the great hall.”

  Torches flared in the darkness, throwing long shadows across the floor and climbing up the walls. Durog took a torch from Golfim, shoving aside the shaman and jester as he strode boldly forward. His army followed.

  Durog led them through a maze of passages and hallways, past dark chambers and hidden alcoves. The layout of the fortress was like that of a giant wheel with smaller wheels, one inside another, intersected here and there by long passages, spokes that ran from the center to the outer ring. The effect was rather disorienting, and direction was difficult to determine, but Jankayla had given Durog a map to follow. The crumbling parchment was decorated with dwarves runes and symbols. Durog had studied it at length during their journey south, all the while wondering how she had come by it. He was certain there was at least one moldering corpse somewhere that knew the answer.

  They climbed another staircase to the upper halls, emerging into a narrow corridor with open doorways on either side. The second level of the fortress was much larger than the first and Durog was thankful for the map. Orcs were used to traveling underground, but it might have taken hours for them to locate the hall without it. At last they came to a pair of huge wooden doors, dark with age. Durog stepped forward and smote one of the doors with the hilt of his sword.

  “Open up in there!”

  There was the sound of shuffling feet from inside the chamber, then a deep reverberating groan as the gigantic doors swung inward on creaking hinges. Torchlight and the amber glow of an open fire spilled from the chamber. Large pink hands grasped the edges of each door and heaved them back, revealing a pair of monstrous faces with blood-shot eyes. Tusk-like teeth protruded from wide mouths and rings of silver and polished bone hung from enormous ear lobes. Firelight reflected off the shaven pates of the creatures’ skulls. Each of the massive figures was at least nine feet tall, vaguely humanoid with heavily muscled torsos and thick arms covered in the blue lines of faded tattoos and countless scars.

  “Ogres,” Pilfer whispered in awe. Retch crouched behind him and mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Welcome, Warlord Durog,” one of the ogres said in a gravelly voice that sounded like stones being ground together. “Everything’s ready for your arrival.”

  “Good, good,” Durog said as he strode forward into the hall past the two ogres. Durog knew their names to be Wort and Yaug. The dark elf witch had recruited them specifically to serve as door guards, and no one was getting past these two. The orcs followed, huddling close together, and the goblins came after them, shivering in terror beneath the ogre’s fearful gazes. Wort and Yaug might be loyal to Durog, but they were still ogres. One never knew when an ogre might get hungry, and goblins made a tasty a snack. Only the trolls seemed indifferent to their presence. Trolls had skin like tree bark, and no one was particularly interested in eating them.

  The great hall was a long, rectangular chamber with a high ceiling supported by arches and square-cut pillars. Orcs, goblins, and trolls shuffled in, lining the walls and filling the great room. In the center of the hall was a long pit lined with brick. It contained a roaring fire. Beyond the pit was a massive throne-like chair carved out of stone. Jankayla sat in the chair, watching as they entered.

  “Greetings, Warlord Durog. Welcome to your new kingdom.”

  Durog strode purposefully toward the throne, his sword still in hand. He eyed the sorceress with his burning gaze. “I believe you’re in my chair,” he said, his voice low and full of menace.

  Jankayla slid down, twisted, and threw her long legs over one arm of the throne. She was clad in black robes, trimmed in purple, which fell back to reveal a slim form sheathed in dark, supple leather. “I must say, for a monstrosity made of granite, it is surprisingly comfortable.”

  There was a long moment of silence. A shadow fell between them. The Warchod, who stood at the back of the hall, took a step forward and the orcs nearest Durog tensed, anticipating a fight. Then Jankayla swung a
round again, her robes swirling about her as she stood. She stepped to one side and extended an arm toward the throne in a gesture of welcome.

  “Just keeping it warm for you.” She smiled.

  “My thanks,” Durog said stiffly. He moved forward, turned and sat, planting the point of his blade between his feet, with his hand resting on the pommel. The chair was indeed warm.

  “This is the hall of Morburg,” Durog said, addressing the assemblage. “Aedon himself once sat upon this throne, but that was long ago. Aedon is dead. Now it’s our turn. I rename this place, orc-anaker, the meeting place of orcs. From this hall we will bring fire and death to the humans. We will take their villages, one by one, and destroy anyone who stands in our way.”

  A ragged howl went up from the army, reverberating off the walls of the large chamber. Now that they had a comfortable hole to hide in, their spirits appeared to improve. Durog smiled approvingly. Everything was working out just as they’d planned. The sorceress had done her part well. As promised, she had helped him to bring the clans together and provided this opportunity. Durog doubted whether he could have managed it all on his own. He looked up at the sorceress and, catching her eye, bowed his head and touched his brow in a sign of respect. He had to admit she had been a great help to him. Nevertheless, he would not hesitate to cut her throat the first chance he got.

  * * *

  The peak of Arrom’s Rock was flat as a table, an area roughly three acres in size, occupied by a once mighty castle, and surrounded by cliffs that fell more than 500 feet to the forest canopy below. A steep bridge of land had once climbed up from the valley floor, terminating at a gatehouse. From there travelers would pass through a long tunnel to a portcullis and second gate guarded by a tower on the ridge above. The main gate, two stout doors of six-inch timber banded in iron, was set in a cleft of rock, a formidable obstacle to any would-be attacker.

  But the land bridge had been destroyed long ago, and the tunnel collapsed, as had the gatehouse and upper portion of the tower. The main gate had been torn from its hinges and lay broken in the tall grass. The only way to reach Arrom’s Rock now was to climb the sheer cliff walls. Unless, of course, one knew about the back door and the dwarves’ fortress beneath, both closely guarded secrets.

  Jankayla walked alone among the broken stones and blackened walls. Much of the interior of the castle was overgrown with tall grass and bracken, but she knew the layout well. Slowly she made her way toward the center, to the courtyard where the final battle had taken place more than six hundred years ago. In the middle of the courtyard there had once been a glass dome 30 feet in diameter, but the dome had been shattered. Only the outer ring of stone and steel remained intact. Standing at the edge of the ring she looked down a long shaft into a well of darkness.

  Ashendraugnir had come in the night, destroying the land bridge first and cutting the defenders off from any help. Then he had attacked the main keep, reducing it to rubble in a matter of minutes. Sinthari, dark elf soldiers mounted on the backs of wyverns, attacked the walls with spears and long bows, and rained fire and lightning spells down on the defenders inside. Wyverns had been plentiful in that time, and the dark elves tamed them and kept them as mounts. The Sinthari had been masters of the sky in those days. But the wyverns were all gone, along with dragons, and there had not been a battle like it since.

  Inside The Rock, Aedon Arturas, King of Elathia and future Emperor of the Elathian Empire, played host to Tiluren, a powerful elven wizard, and Horgar, a rune smith risen to King of the Dwarves. Together the three had gone out to meet the dragon, and together they had slain the beast, here on this very mountaintop.

  What was not known at the time was that Horgar and his people had long been at work on the subterranean halls beneath The Rock, and that they had made a back door, a secret portal protected by runes and dwarf magic, by which many of Aedon’s people had escaped. Aedon, with the help of his new allies, had turned what should have been a crushing defeat into one of the greatest victories of all time.

  But that was ancient history. Jankayla was about to write a new story, one that would blot out the memory of Aedon forever. Then, just as it was at the opening of the Dreamland, the elves sought to befriend their enemies. They had negotiated a peace with the humans when they should have conquered the wretched fools who dared to invade their lands, and it was happening again. Prince Candellar of Asiron was calling for a summit that included humans and dwarves, an opportunity to restore old friendships and establish new avenues of trade and cooperation. If the three nations were again united, it would most certainly mean trouble for the dark elves.

  Jankayla contemplated the darkness beneath her, remembering that day and all the bitter ones that followed. Ashendraugnir had plunged down onto the courtyard, pierced by countless arrows, and the three champions had been there to meet him. The dome was shattered in the conflict and the great dragon, mortally wounded by Aedon’s sword, had fallen into ruin. But, even as he fell to his death, the great dragon had managed to pull his assailants down into the darkness with him. Had it not been for the magic of Tiluren, they all would have died and much trouble been averted.

  Jankayla drew a swirling pattern in the air and stepped off the edge of the well. Circles of power shimmered beneath her feet as she floated, gentle as a leaf on a morning breeze, down the long shaft to the stone floor far below. She made a quick gesture, and a ball of light appeared at the end of her staff, the sudden brilliance driving back the darkness. The space she stood in appeared to be a natural cavern that had been hollowed and shaped, for what purpose only the dwarves could tell. Jankayla looked up, the top of the shaft small and distant, the stars fading as morning approached. The air in the cavern was foul with the stench of decay and silent as a tomb.

  She stood atop a stone dais, a large circle positioned directly beneath the shaft. The dais was littered with broken glass, stones, and bits of earth. At one side a broad staircase descended to the floor. On the other, a wide platform stretched from the dais to the back wall, where an arched doorway indicated another chamber beyond. In the midst of the platform was a pool of dark water as smooth and still as the surface of a mirror.

  Jankayla walked to the edge of the dais. There a mound of what looked like moss-covered stones twisted and stretched for nearly 60 feet, some of it spilling over onto the staircase and the floor below. Jankayla approached the mound slowly, almost reverently. When she reached it, she stretched out her hand, digging her long white fingers into the loam, tearing it free, and hurling it away. She laid her staff aside and clawed at the mound with both hands, digging and tearing, until her black nails struck something solid. She smoothed away the dirt. The smell of corruption was strong in her nostrils, and the air around her grew darker. Beneath centuries of earth and decay glimmered white bone. She excavated more of the bone, revealing what looked like a protrusion over an empty eye socket and a long, tapered jaw, grinning with sword-like teeth. With a smile of obscene pleasure, Jankayla looked into the eye of Ashendraugnir.

  Jankayla stepped back to survey her handiwork. Her arms were covered in filth to the elbow, but she hardly noticed. She removed as much of it as she could on the hem of her robe and then reached into a hidden pocket. She removed the wooden box and opened it to reveal the obsidian shard. She lifted it, holding the shard up in the faint early morning light that filtered down from above, turning it in her hand, admiring the eerie beauty of the thing. Jankayla held the shard like a dagger, her arms outstretched as she turned in a circle, laughing and filled with joy. The great work had begun.

  Chapter 5

  It was just after noon when Portia burst into Finn’s room without bothering to knock or even announce herself. Finn was sprawled across his bed, barefoot, stripped to the waist, his arms and back a patchwork of bruises and cuts.

  “Aedon’s mercy! What’s happened to you?”

  Finn turned his head ever so slightly, one eye half open, and looked at his sister. Portia was only two years older than hi
m, but somewhere along the line she had changed from a skinny, scabby-kneed girl into a beautiful young woman, with large, perfect breasts, rounded hips, and a face like an angel. He tried not to think on that too much. She was his sister after all, and fortunately for him, just as annoying as ever.

  “Hello, dear sister,” Finn mumbled into his pillow. “By all means, do come in.”

  “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry, but honestly, what have you been up to?”

  “Morning lessons with Sir Eris, if you can call it that. More like extended beatings with brief interludes for humiliation and useless historical reference. I assure you it wasn’t my idea. Father is determined to make a man of me, but I fear he will be gravely disappointed.”

  Finn rolled over and raised himself gently onto one elbow, “I do think Sir Eris is trying to kill me. At the very least he seems to find some demented satisfaction in the torture of young boys.”

  Portia crossed the room and sat on the bed next to him. “Hold still.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and closed her eyes. She recited words in a language Finn didn’t understand but recognized as Lunovarian, the language of magic.

  “What are you doing?” Finn asked, a little nervously.

  “Quiet. I need to concentrate.”

  A warm glow began beneath her fingers and the pain in his back began to recede. He saw that the cuts on his arms were closing. The large purple bruises on his skin faded to yellow and then disappeared altogether. He began to feel whole and healthy once more. Portia withdrew her hands, smiling at him, almost embarrassed.

  “That’s some trick,” Finn said. “Don’t let father see you doing magic. He’ll skin you alive, or have Sir Eris do it for him at any rate.”