A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  “You brought a goblin wizard into Nachtwald?” Sir Jon scowled at her, his eyes hard as granite. “That was a foolish thing to do. Better to have slit the creature’s throat.”

  “And then we would learn nothing. We took the goblin’s staff, bound his hands, and gagged him. He will conjure no spells.”

  “Still, it was foolish, but I would expect no less from a woman.”

  “If you have a problem, sir knight,” Blayde raised her sword as if she meant to stab Sir Jon through the heart, “we can settle it right here and now.”

  Ander stepped between them. “You two should get a room somewhere,” he grinned wolfishly, clearly enjoying Blayde’s discomfiture, “and work out your differences the old-fashioned way. It would do you both a world of good.”

  Sir Jon looked as if he had been struck a blow. Blayde’s face reddened and her eyes went from Sir Jon to Ander. “Say that again and I will cut your tongue out and—”

  “I agree,” Loth interrupted, speaking more loudly than was necessary. “We need to question these two at once and see what they can tell us. We can look at maps all night, but it won’t tell us what is going on out there.”

  “I doubt they’ll want to talk to us,” Finn said. “Why would they? We’re the enemy after all.”

  “I might be able to help with that.” Loth turned toward Finn. “I need water, if you please, or better yet, wine. It doesn’t have to be anything special, just something not too unpalatable.”

  “Uh, okay.” Finn shrugged. “That shouldn’t be too hard to manage.”

  “What are you up to?” Ander asked.

  “I know a spell that will help us get to the truth,” Loth said, “and will weave it into the wine. It only affects weak minds, but I believe it will work well enough on our goblin friends.”

  “Well then,” Finn said, “let’s go see Nodd.”

  * * *

  Finn led the way to the cellars, where they had the butler fill a jug with wine for Loth. He spoke a few words over it, gesturing over the open mouth of the jug. A bubble popped and a puff of pale smoke escaped into the open air, carrying with it a faint odor like cinnamon.

  “It is done.” Loth clapped Finn on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go see what we can learn.”

  Finn led them to the prison tower located near the center of the castle. The tower stood on the north side, overlooking the steepest part of the hill upon which Nachtwald castle was built. The basement beneath the tower was used primarily for storage, but under that, in a sub-basement few ever visited, and counted themselves lucky for it, was a large open chamber with a low ceiling and great stone arches that ran the width of the room. The only way to get down to it was through a trap door in the floor and a steep, narrow staircase.

  There were no windows or skylights in Nachtwald’s dungeon, it was always night there and the darkness was nearly impenetrable. Torches burned fitfully in iron brackets at several points along the walls, and in braziers on the floor. Smoke filled the room, making the air thick and cloying. A faint stench of sweat and decay permeated the stone.

  At one end of the room instruments of torture were neatly arranged—branding irons, collars, a rack, the scavenger’s daughter, and a wide variety of tongs, whips, pincers, and knives. In the center of the floor was an iron grate, and beneath it was what the turnkeys lovingly called the pit. Few who went into the pit ever came out again, at least not with their sanity intact.

  This was the domain of the lord’s jailer, Nodd. He was a man of medium height, pale as milk, and built like a small bear, with hairy arms like tree trunks, a thick neck, and small hands that were soft as a woman’s, although capable of immense cruelty.

  “Hello, Nodd,” Finn said as he descended the stair.

  At the far end of the room was a row of cells, little more than small, hollowed spaces fronted by iron bars. The goblins had been placed into two of these and Nodd’s turnkeys were busily prodding them with sticks and giggling maniacally when they made either of the goblins squeal.

  “We’re here to see the prisoners. That is if you’re done playing with them.”

  “Is that so?” Nodd turned his head to regard Finn with small, dark eyes. “And what if I says no. I takes orders from your father, not you, little lord. Old Lusive ain’t around to protect you no more, so’s you might just get hurt down ‘ere if you ain’t careful.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s protection, and you will let us see your prisoners—”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you and I will have a very uncomfortable conversation,” Ander said, coming down the steps. “Uncomfortable for you at least.” Loth, Rayzer, and Blayde were close behind him, with Sir Jon coming last.

  “Pardons, my lords,” Nodd’s voice dropped an octave, “our young master does not tell me he brings guests.” Nodd gave Finn a look that promised retribution. “Yous and your friends are most welcome.” He smiled at the others, revealing rows of blackened teeth, bobbing his head and bowing as he backed away.

  “You two!” Nodd barked at the turnkeys. “Off with you now. Can’t you see we got visitors?”

  The turnkeys slunk off, mumbling and cursing, clearly annoyed by the interruption to their fun.

  The two goblins huddled in the shadows, looking shrunken and forlorn.

  “Let Loth and I talk to them,” Ander suggested. “I’m sure they’re frightened enough already.”

  “They’re our prisoners,” Blayde argued.

  “And no one disputes that,” Loth said, “but I think Ander and I might be a little less threatening than you are just now and, of course, I have my little gift to offer them.” He tapped the side of the jug.

  “Fine,” Blayde folded her arms across her chest and glowered at them. Rayzer mimicked her stance, but remained silent.

  Ander and Loth moved to stand in front of the two cells, looking down at the captives, one of whom looked like a jester, while the other wore the robes of a goblin shaman. The goblins came forward, moving slowly, their eyes darting back and forth as if seeking their tormentors, suspicious of some new game to abuse them.

  “This is all your fault,” said the shaman, addressing his fellow prisoner. He had apparently freed himself of the gag Blayde had used. It hung loose around his neck. “If you hadn’t tried to run off and gotten us into trouble, we wouldn’t be here!” The shaman’s arms were bound at the wrist, and his fingers wrapped in swaths of cloth to prevent him from gesturing.

  “My idea?” said the jester. “That was your idea!”

  “Was not.”

  “Was too.”

  Ander crouched before the jester’s cell, examining his motley attire and curly toed shoes. He looked at the three-pronged hat, each point sporting a silver bell. The goblin’s face was painted white, with bright red around the mouth and black slits over the eyes. The impression was that of a clown, although the makeup looked rather ghoulish on the goblin’s over large features.

  “What’s your name?” Ander asked, keeping his voice low and friendly.

  “I am called Retch,” the goblin squeaked, clearly afraid. He rubbed at his shoulder, where the turnkeys had been poking at him.

  Ander looked at the second goblin. He was slightly taller and fatter than his companion and wore something that looked like a desiccated lizard on his head.

  “And you?”

  “P— Pilfer, my lords. I am Pilfer, third shaman of the Little Fist clan.”

  “We’re very sorry if you’ve been mistreated,” Loth said. “It will not happen again.” He shot a warning look at Nodd who remained at a distance, wringing his hands in agitation.

  “Humans are wicked and cruel,” Retch scolded, eyeing Ander with more than a little concern.

  “They can be,” Loth agreed. “But I assure you that we’re not going to hurt you.” He gave the goblin a conciliatory smile.

  “Not yet,” Rayzer said, showing them his teeth.

  “You’re not helping.” Loth shot Rayzer a disapproving look.

 
“See here. We’ve brought a gift for you, a peace offering of sorts. No doubt you are thirsty after your adventures.” He motioned to Finn, who took the jug and poured wine into two large cups, then handed one to Loth and the other to Ander.

  “Come,” Ander said, “have a drink with us. Then we can all be friends.”

  “It’s poisoned!” Pilfer howled. “You mean to poison us with your evil drink.”

  “Nonsense. See, there is nothing but sweet wine in this cup.” Loth put the cup to his lips and drank, smacking his lips in obvious appreciation.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.” Loth offered the cup to Retch.

  The little jester hesitated for a second, then reached through the bars and took the cup from Loth’s hand. He looked at his companion for support, but Pilfer shook his head violently.

  “Don’t drink it,” Pilfer said, and that was all the encouragement Retch needed. The jester upended the cup and drank it all down, then belched loudly.

  “Ah.” He extended the cup to Loth. “More please.”

  “Wait! What about me?” Pilfer put aside his earlier objection and pressed his face against the bars. “You’ll have to untie my hands.”

  “I think not, but I will help.” Ander lifted the cup to Pilfer’s lips and held it for him as the goblin greedily drank down the wine.

  “Mmm,” Pilfer said.

  Finn filled the cups once more and again the two goblins drank, both of them trying to outdo the other with their burps and belches, and then giggling at the absurd game.

  Retch took a step backward and wobbled on his feet. He slapped the sides of his head and hiccupped. “That’s good wine.”

  “It is,” Finn said, “pilfered from Nachtwald’s very own cellars.”

  Retch snorted. “He said ‘pilfer’.”

  Pilfer laughed too, a low gurgling sound in the back of his throat. He shook his head. “Woo. I feel dizzy.”

  “Now then,” Loth said, half turning to wink at Finn. “We need to talk. We have a few questions that we believe you might be able to answer for us. Pilfer, perhaps you first.”

  “Wait, wait!” Retch cried, stamping his feet and setting his bells to jangling. “Don’t talk to him. He doesn’t know anything. You should talk to me first. I’m the one with all the answers.”

  “Don’t waste your time,” Pilfer said, leaning against the bars of his cell. “I know much more than he does. I’m smart, and I know all about—”

  “I know a secret. I know lots of secrets.” Retch squeaked.

  “No you don’t, you little maggot.”

  “I do so, dung breath!”

  Finn’s gaze drifted from one to the other. Loth’s enchanted wine appeared to be working. Both goblins now appeared quite anxious to share what they knew with their captors, but they also seemed equally intent on doing it at the expense of the other.

  “Ask me.” Retch said. “I’m the one who knows everything. The boss tells me more than he tells him.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.” Pilfer shook his head. “Don’t trust him. He’s a liar and a cheat. And, worse, he thinks he’s funny—”

  “Hah! You’re the liar.” Retch said. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for you—”

  “Bickering between yourselves isn’t going to help matters,” Ander said. “Only by talking to us can you improve your situation.” He stood and placed his fists on his hips, scowling down at them.

  “Now you did it,” Pilfer said, “you upset him.”

  “You did,” Retch stuck his hands through the bars and flailed them about. “It’s all your fault, beetle brain!”

  “This is going nowhere,” Blayde said, scowling.

  “I’ll get the truth out of them,” Sir Jon said, his voice low and deadly. He took a step toward the nearest cell.

  “Wait, wait!” Pilfer cried. “We just want to go home. We’re not warriors. We don’t care who wins the war.”

  “Yeah.” Retch rattled the bars of his cell. “We just want to go home, as quick as we can.” He paused. “Run away, run away,” he added, singing the words in a wistful voice.

  “Then tell us what you know,” Loth said, “and perhaps we can help.”

  “It’s all a mistake!” Pilfer shouted. “We shouldn’t be here—”

  “Me first,” Retch insisted. “I know—”

  “No, me—” Pilfer said.

  “Wait a moment,” Ander growled at the shaman, “we’ll get to you in a minute. Right now I’m talking to your friend.”

  The shaman whined pitifully.

  “Now then,” Ander said, turning back to the jester, “what is it you think you know?”

  “Tell us something useful,” Loth said, “and we’ll make sure you are treated properly. We’ll have food brought to you and no more poking and prodding. You have my word.”

  Retch motioned for them to come closer. “Durog,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Durog,” Ander repeated.

  “What is a Durog?” Loth asked.

  “Not what. Who! Durog is great orcs warlord. Durog attacks city. It is Durog who leads. We serve Durog—er, served Durog—until today, that is. Durog does not have a much sense of humor.”

  “Why is Durog attacking Nachtwald?” Finn asked.

  The jester looked nervously at each of them. He rubbed his hands together and attempted a grotesque mockery of a smile that looked more like a grimace of pain.

  “The Golden Phial,” Retch said, his voice quavering with something akin to religious fervor. “Durog wants it. He knows it’s here and he wants it for his own.”

  “You’re lying,” Sir Jon said, his eyes hard as granite. “No one knows where the Golden Phial will appear again, or if it will ever appear. It’s impossible.”

  “What is the Golden Phial?” Blayde asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s a legend,” Loth said.

  “A cup given to Aedon Arturas by Enu himself.” Finn said. “Any army that possesses it can never be defeated, or so the story goes, but no one’s seen it in hundreds of years. It is most likely lost, if it ever existed in the first place.”

  “A cup that guarantees victory? That would certainly come in handy,” Ander said. “Especially to an orcs warlord with an army at his back and a burning desire to invade Arkirius.”

  “Durog has an army, a mighty army with many orcs and goblins,” Retch said, almost as an afterthought.

  “How many?” Loth asked.

  “Thousands,” Retch said, “thousands of orcs and more thousands of goblin folk. He has trolls and ogres too. He wants to destroy city. He wants to take all the lands and rule, like in old days.”

  “It’s an invasion then,” Sir Jon said. “We should send riders at once to Anhalth and to Elathia. We must have help—”

  “Too late,” Pilfer said. “Durog’s army has surrounded city, burned all the villages, and taken your people. He watches the roads and rivers.”

  “No one can escape,” Retch said. “Not even us.”

  “And Durog has a wyvern.” Pilfer gave a small shudder.

  “A what?” they all said at once, turning to look at the shaman.

  “There are no more wyverns,” Blayde said. “They died out long ago. It’s not possible—”

  “What wyvern?” Ander scowled at the shaman. “How does Durog have a wyvern?”

  “She gave it to him.” Pilfer’s eyes were wide with terror. “The sorceress. She used dark magic to bring it back from dead. We saw it! Durog will come soon. He will ride the wyvern into battle. His army will come, and everyone will die. Everyone! That’s why we have to go.”

  There was a long silence. The shaman’s words hung in the air like a dark specter of impending doom.

  “Is it possible?” Ander looked at Loth.

  “No,” Sir Jon said. “It can’t be.”

  “Anything is possible where magic is concerned,” Loth said. “The dark elves once raised wyverns, using them as mounts in battle. But if this sorceres
s has resurrected one, the creature would be an Eidolon, not a true wyvern. Its actions would be unpredictable, unless—”

  “Unless they’re controlling it by magical means.” Finn completed the thought. Some of Portia’s ramblings about magical theory had clearly sunk in.

  “I know, I know,” Pilfer shouted, banging his head against the bars in his excitement, “I know how the wyvern is controlled!”

  “Alright then, tell us.”

  The shaman nodded his head vigorously. “Grisnal. Grisnal made a thing, a talisman.”

  “A talisman?” Loth asked. “What kind of talisman?”

  “And who, in Onar’s name, is Grisnal?” Ander asked.

  “Talisman is sympathetic magic,” Pilfer said. “And Grisnal is half orc, half dark elf. Most unsettling. He helped with spell and bound the wyvern to a talisman that looks like itself. Whoever holds it controls the wyvern.”

  “So, all we have to do is find this Grisnal fellow and take away his little toy. Then, the wyvern is ours,” Ander said.

  “Or we have a wyvern that is completely out of control,” Loth said. “I’m not sure that is any better. There’s no guarantee that holding the talisman will give you control of it. There’s likely more to it than that.”

  “Wait, back up,” Blayde said. “Did he say, ‘dark elves’?”

  “She. She is dark elf,” Pilfer said.

  “Who is she?” Finn asked.

  Pilfer looked at them, each in turn. He hesitated. “Jankayla,” he said after a moment. “She is Jankayla.”

  Loth looked at Blayde, his eyes revealing a hint of fear. He took a step back from the cell and rubbed at his chin. “It can’t be,” he muttered.

  “Can’t be what?” Ander said. “What can’t be? Who is Jankayla?”

  “A story. A very old story.”

  “What story? What are you all talking about?” Sir Jon growled.

  Loth frowned at him, shaking his head. “Few remember, but among the elves there are tales of a powerful sorceress. Some say she first appeared during the Dreamland Wars. That seems unlikely but not impossible. However, she was a part of the Dark Elf Uprising and was single-handedly responsible for the deaths of a thousand Wudu tribesmen, along with a great many others.”