A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  “Come out now,” Blayde said, her voice low and menacing, “or I’ll start trimming this hedge and you along with it!”

  “Mercy, mercy!” squeaked a terrified voice.

  “Don’t kill us,” begged a second voice. “We surrender!”

  Rayzer moved up beside his sister as a pair of goblins crawled out from beneath the clump of bushes where they had been hiding, both of them trembling almost uncontrollably. Rayzer let out a snarl and moved toward them, but Blayde stopped him with a hand on his chest.

  “We can’t,” Blayde said.

  “Why in Sethiris’s name not?” Rayzer growled.

  “They’ve asked for mercy, and they’ve surrendered. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “If they run, can I kill them?”

  “Yes.” Blayde looked at the two goblins as she said it. The goblins had crawled up onto their knees, their hands raised above their heads, both of them quivering like bowls of pudding.

  “We give up,” squeaked the smaller of the two. The goblin was dressed like a court jester with a floppy hat and curly toed shoes. His eyes were wide and frightened.

  “We’re very important and know all sorts of useful things,” said the second goblin who wore the robes of a shaman with a necklace of bones and a dead lizard for a hat. “We’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don’t kill us.”

  Rayzer and Blayde exchanged a glance. “Just let me cut their heads off,” Rayzer said. “Since when do we take prisoners?”

  Blayde eyed the goblins. She searched along the river path in both directions, leery of a trap, but there was no indication or reinforcements or any other subterfuge. She sighed.

  “I think we’re going to have to make an exception. I can’t kill a foe that is on his knees begging for mercy.”

  Rayzer growled, low in his throat, obviously not pleased.

  “Come on, then,” Blayde said. “You two are now our captives.”

  The two goblins looked at each other, relief written all over their ugly little faces.

  “Thank you,” said the shaman.

  * * *

  Sir Jon Dailaru sat upon his horse, watching as the smoke began to rise over Nachtwald. Thirty armored soldiers, ten of those mounted on horseback, waited in the barbican for their lord’s order to march. The sounds of battle reached his ears, but the scene was blocked from view by the outer curtain wall. However, it was easy enough to guess what was happening. The orcs that had been plaguing the countryside had finally come to Nachtwald.

  Sir Ducar was beside him, his hands folded over the horn of his saddle. The knight’s eyes were half lidded and his face slack.

  “Must they make all that noise. The sound of that horn is splitting my skull in two.”

  “You drink too much.” Sir Jon scowled at his companion. “That’s what gives you a headache.”

  “You’re the reason I drink so much. It’s the only way I can tolerate your ill humor. Would it kill you to smile once in a while?”

  “You were supposed to keep an eye on them,” Sir Jon aimed an accusing look at his fellow knight.

  Sir Ducar let out a long sigh. “Easy enough for you to say. It was that boy, Finnan. He’s a sneaky one, he is. I’m not even sure how they slipped past me.”

  “Probably walked out the front door while you were sleeping. You don’t even know if they’re still in the city.”

  “Of course they’re still in the city.” Sir Ducar rubbed at his forehead. “Where would they possibly go? There’s nothing for leagues around but trees and hills, and orcs at the gate, no doubt. I can’t imagine they would be so foolish as to leave the safety of the walls.”

  “If we lose young Holt’s bride, Baron Guthmundus will have our heads mounted on spikes.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Sir Ducar grinned. “We’ll not likely live out the day. Guthmundus is the least of our worries.”

  Sir Jon gave him a cold stare.

  “So, what do you make of these others?” Sir Ducar asked, changing the subject.

  Sir Jon gave a small snort. “A northern dog and three bloodthirsty elves—and one of them a woman besides. I don’t think much of them at all.”

  “They seem able,” Sir Ducar said, “and brave enough. They risked a good deal to get here.”

  “The Northman wants the girl,” Sir Jon said with some distaste. “I’ve seen the way he looks at her, and the wood elves just like killing, especially the Silver Leaf. There is no honor among them.”

  Baron Cedric appeared, crossing the barbican with Sir Eris and Sir Ardunn walking beside him. A trio of horses waited for them at the front of the company. Sir Henri was there as well. As captain of the Briar Knights, it was his honor to ride in the vanguard. The three men swung into their saddles and Baron Cedric gave the order to open the gates.

  “Finally,” Sir Jon said.

  “When did you become such a sour old man?” Sir Ducar pulled on his helm. “And who made you judge and jury over everyone and everything that is not of the order? Stop being so grim, and let’s go teach these orcs the error of their ways.”

  With that, Sir Ducar dug in his spurs and the company began to move. Sir Jon urged his own horse forward, donning his helmet as they rode out the gate.

  “Stop being so optimistic all the time,” Sir Jon said. “I think I’d rather see you drunk than so damn optimistic.”

  Sir Ducar laughed. “See, that was funny. You can be funny when you want to be.” He closed the visor on his helm and drew his sword. They rode down the length of the barbican, then out through the castle gates. From there the road ran almost in a straight line from the castle to the city gates where men waited to throw them open. Sounds of fighting and terror came from beyond the wall, and smoke rose high into the air.

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Sir Jon growled.

  “I know. That’s what makes it funny.”

  The two men dug in their spurs and swept across the market square, bending low in their saddles and racing to join the battle.

  * * *

  Nachtwald’s soldiers were putting up a brave defense, but they were too few to hold back the tide for long. The orcs fell on them like starving wolves. In the midst of the carnage, Ander continued to battle the troll, hewing great chunks out of the creature’s hide and narrowly avoiding being eviscerated by the thing’s claws or crushed beneath the huge war hammer. He fought ferociously, but it was clear that he could not win against the troll, and he was rapidly tiring.

  Finn, for his part, was doing his best to fend off any orc or goblin that drew near, and doing better at it than Portia would have thought possible. She knew her brother to be resourceful and sometimes brazen, but she had never thought of him as much of a fighter. In fact, he had done almost everything in his power to nurture the idea that he was all but helpless. Despite that, when threatened, he responded with great courage and resolve. After losing his first two daggers in an effort to wound the troll—and she was still trying to absorb the idea that he had attacked the troll in the first place—he had produced a second pair from hidden sheathes inside his jacket. He used these to ward off an orc’s clumsy attack. After breaking the orc’s wrist with a movement too swift to follow he had slashed the creature’s leg. The orc howled and retreated, stumbling away down an alley.

  “I guess Sir Eris’ instruction did some good after all,” Finn said, his voice sounding high and strained. “But how he, or any knight, can fight with all that metal on I’ll never know.” With that he struck at a goblin that was bearing down on them. The goblin hewed at him with a huge cleaver, but Finn managed to knock the blade aside and stabbed the goblin in the throat.

  There was a horn blast, very loud, and very near, and a column of armored men suddenly appeared, sweeping past them on their great horses. Baron Cedric, mounted on a large black destrier, led the charge. His sword swung in a glittering arc, catching an orc on the chin and cleaving the fiend’s head in two. The force of the blow threw the orc backward, toppling three of h
is fellows. Armored men on horseback and on foot plunged past, hitting the marauding orcs with the force of a hammer driving a nail, and sending goblins scurrying for cover. The air was suddenly filled with the howling and screaming of dying men, horses, goblins, and orcs. More soldiers, some wielding pikes and others swords, came running down the street. There was a flash of silver and white as an armored figure rushed past and struck down an orc, the great long sword smashing the orc’s shoulder and cutting into its torso with incredible force. Portia turned to see the broad frame and unmistakable girth of Sir Ducar. The Briar Knight saluted her with his bloody sword.

  “Found you at last!” he shouted above the din of the battle. “Stay close, my lady. I will protect you from any foe that draws near!”

  A goblin rushed toward them. Sir Ducar brought down his sword on the goblin’s skull, splitting it like a melon. He turned, a splash of scarlet soaking into his cloak. He parried the thrust of a spear and stepped on the haft, snapping it. The long sword swept through the air, humming with the swiftness of the stroke, and the orc’s severed arm leapt away from its body.

  A foot soldier fell next to Portia, writhing on the ground. A black-feathered arrow lodged in his chest. Portia dropped to the ground beside him, laying her staff aside.

  “It... hurts...” the man’s face was contorted by pain, his hands clutching at the shaft. Portia hesitated, uncertain what to do. Finding her courage she pressed one hand against the man’s torso and gripped the arrow tightly with the other.

  “I’m going to pull the arrow out,” Portia said. “Ready?”

  “No,” the man groaned. “Please...”

  What the please meant she wasn’t sure. It might have been a plea for her to stop, or confirmation that he needed her to do it. She didn’t know and there was no time to think it through. With a quick movement she tore the arrow out of the man’s chest. He let out a scream, arching his back as he clawed at the ragged hole from which blood now spurted. His eyes fluttered. He fell back and lay still.

  “Aedon help me,” Portia whispered, placing her hands over the bloody wound. She began whispering the words to her healing spell and a faint glow radiated from beneath her palms. It grew brighter for a moment, and then slowly faded away.

  The man gasped and his eyes snapped open. He sat up, rubbing thoughtfully at the pink flesh beneath his torn jerkin. A bewildered look traveled across his pale face. He turned his eyes on Portia and he gave her a faint smile. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Portia stared at the blood on her hands. It worked. The spell had worked.

  * * *

  Ander hit the troll again and again. Countless times his blade scored wounds that would have killed a man, but the troll kept coming. Ander dodged to left and right, narrowly avoiding the crushing blows of the war hammer, scrambling to avoid the lethal claws. His shield was battered and broken. He tossed it aside, gripping his sword in both hands. The blade sang as he struck at the creature’s head and shoulders, trying, if nothing else, to keep it off balance. Claws raked across his chest, tearing ring mail and scoring a bloody swath across his skin. The troll’s fetid breath made his stomach churn, but he could not turn away, nor drop his guard for an instant. The troll’s eyes showed nothing but fury as it drove him back along the street, away from the bridge where the orcs and goblins fought with Nachtwald’s soldiers, trying to gain the gate.

  Ander had lost track of Finn and Portia. Surely they could not have gone far, or perhaps they had finally heeded his warnings and run for safety. He hoped it was the latter. A glancing blow from the hammer erupted in white-hot pain inside Ander’s skull. He went to his knees, tasting blood. He spit it out on the dirt. Dark shapes danced before his eyes and he shook his head trying to clear it of the ringing noise that drowned out the battle around him. He thought he heard a horn blowing, but couldn’t be sure if it was real or imagined. The troll loomed over him. Ander felt his strength ebbing and knew that the fight was very near the end. His arms felt as if they were encased in stone and his throat burned with thirst.

  The troll grabbed Ander in a vice-like grip, long fingers, like twisted roots, closing around his neck as it lifted him off the ground and hurled him back. Ander crashed heavily against the earth, his sword clattering away from his hand. He tried to move, tried to breathe, but there was no air in his lungs and his body was wracked with pain. The troll took a step forward as it raised its hammer.

  * * *

  Portia wiped the blood from her hands onto her dress as she stood. She picked up her staff and walked into the middle of the road. All around her was chaos and death, but it seemed far away, removed from the reality through which she traveled. Ander lay on the ground, perhaps 50 or 60 feet away. He was still alive, still moving, but feebly, desperately. The troll stood over him. It raised the massive hammer preparing to crush its bothersome foe, but the creature hesitated, taking time to savor its enemy’s defeat.

  Too close. Ander had said she was too close. Perhaps it was only a matter of distance. And now that the troll was farther away...

  Ander also said fire would harm it, and Portia knew how to wield fire. She lifted her staff again, placing a hand over one of the runes etched into the wood. The staff would focus her energy, but would it be enough to hurt a troll? Probably not. For that she would need élan, and she was fairly certain her reserves would not be enough. She needed more.

  Loth said there was magic in Nachtwald. Portia had searched for that magic and couldn’t find it, but perhaps that was because she was using the wrong method to look. She needed more than just her eyes. She needed to feel it.

  Portia took a deep breath, reaching out with her mind, opening herself to the world around her. At first she could feel nothing, could sense nothing, but she was convinced it was there. The elf had said so, and she believed him. Portia tried to relax, to calm her emotions and, little by little, she was able to. Something stirred, some force beyond nature. She felt it, like a memory, like a well that was hidden to her until that very moment. It was power. And there was more élan than she could ever have imagined. She could feel it in the air, in the people, in the sunlight that fell across her shoulders, and in the earth beneath her feet. There was power everywhere, power she could use. For the first time in her life she was truly aware of it. The sensation made her feel giddy and a little light-headed, but she had no time to indulge her senses. She had to focus.

  “Portia, what—” Finn touched her on the shoulder.

  “Stay back. Let me concentrate.” The rune on Portia’s staff began to glow as a mystical breeze stirred her hair. She recited the words to her spell, focusing her will, and thrust the staff at the troll.

  Fire erupted from the end of her staff, a white-hot column that roared down the middle of the street, striking the troll’s head and torso with a ferocious impact. The troll screamed, as much from surprise as from pain, as the flames enveloped its body. The massive hammer fell to the earth with a resounding thud as the troll staggered back, the fire spreading over its frame. The troll waved its arms futilely, turning, grasping for purchase, and then it toppled, crashing to the earth with a noise like a felled tree. It lay, twitching, while the fire devoured it, turning it slowly to ash.

  Portia smiled. She felt lighter. She felt whole and complete. She gave a small laugh. It worked. She had finally found the power she had always sought. She sighed. Her eyes rolled back and she fell, dropping slowly, like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Finn caught her before she hit the ground and held her close.

  * * *

  Baron Cedric reached the end of the street and wheeled his horse around, digging his spurs into its flanks. The destrier leapt forward, crushing a goblin beneath its iron shod hooves. Cedric swung his sword, cleaving a snarling face. His soldiers were around him and they fought valiantly. No matter how many of the enemy there were, they could not withstand armored horsemen. The orcs would break at any moment, and then he would send these foul creatures running for the hills. Cedric was in a rage. Ho
w dare they attack his city? When this was done he would gather his men and they would hunt the villains down to whatever dark hole they had been hiding in and destroy them all.

  He charged down the street, letting the battle lust take him. It had been years since he had an enemy he could kill, one that he could lay low with swords and spears instead of trying to placate with parchment and quills. In truth he had been spoiling for a fight for a long time. He welcomed the opportunity to be a man again, instead of a politician, or worse yet, a father. He felt as if he had failed on both counts. His position at court was tenuous and his children hated him. Somewhere along the line it had all gone terribly wrong.

  He pushed the thoughts aside. There was no time for it now. Now was the time for killing. He traded blows with a pair of orcs, cutting down one, then the other. He wheeled around again, intent on another charge, and then he saw her. She was on the ground, barely moving, and someone was holding her. Her hands were covered in blood and there was blood on her clothes. His beautiful girl, so like Katherine that it sometimes hurt him to look at her. How could she be here? He had thought her safe behind the castle’s walls. The man holding her looked up, and he realized with sudden horror that it was Finn. He should have known they would be together, but it was madness for them to be here at all. Portia stirred, her eyes opened and she reached up to touch her brother’s face.

  An orc lunged forward, driving a spear between the horse’s forelegs. The destrier screamed. Its legs tangled and it pitched forward, plowing into the ground with the force of a battering ram. Cedric was thrown from the saddle. He experienced a moment of weightlessness before he crashed in ruin upon the ground. He lay for a moment, shaken and confused, his fine armor twisted and dented, his helm gone. He tasted dirt and blood, and could smell death all around him. He tried to sit up, but the world swam in circles, tilting at extreme angles. An orc rose up before him, the same orc with the spear, or perhaps another, he could not tell. The orc drove the spear at his exposed head. Cedric managed to roll to the side and staggered to his feet. He reached for his sword, but it was not in his scabbard. Then a white-hot pain tore through his guts. He reached for the pain and found a shaft of thick wood, the orc’s spear, protruding from his mid-section.