A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  “Now, I have things to do, and so do each of you. Make whatever plans you feel are necessary and I shall gather as many of the townsfolk as possible. We will meet in the courtyard outside the great hall at dusk.”

  “Whatever for?” Sir Jon asked.

  “I want everyone to know what is happening here,” Father Moram said. “They deserve to know what they’re up against.”

  The Priest of Aedon gave them a last stern look, like a schoolmaster who has intercepted a group of truant students, and then he walked away. Blayde watched him go but said nothing. She waited, anticipating Sir Henri’s next words.

  “It appears,” he said, slowly, grudgingly, “that we must work together. I will command my knights, but I will follow your lead until such time as you are killed in battle.”

  “Your confidence is overwhelming,” Blayde said. “I’m sure we can come up with some ideas on how to stay out of each other’s way.”

  “Ducar.” Sir Henri turned his back on Blayde. “You should have that arm looked at. While you’re doing that, I will confer with the wood elves on how best to defend the city.”

  Sir Jon gave Blayde a cursory look and then strode away without a backward glance.

  Rayzer spit. “I’d like to see that wretch crawling on the floor with his guts hanging out.”

  “You may yet,” Blayde said. “So far this day has been full of surprises.”

  * * *

  The next hours were filled with activity as the defenders did what they could to prepare. After a tense conversation with Sir Henri, it was decided that they would split up their meager forces, with Sir Jon and Sir Ducar taking command of the city’s postern gate, while Blayde and Rayzer commanded the soldiers on the city’s main gate, as far from the knights as possible. Sir Henri would remain in the castle with a few men, to watch over the elderly and the very young, as well as the wounded and anyone else unable to fight. All noncombatants would be housed in the castle keep, the last place likely to fall. The rest—every man, woman, or youth able to lift a sword or pull a bow string—was to be armed and armored with whatever was at hand. After that it was up to the gods to decide who lived and who died.

  * * *

  Blayde and Rayzer stood beside the Briar Knights and Father Moram on the stairs outside the great hall. Blayde surveyed the crowd, examining their faces. They were merchants, farmers, laborers, and craftsmen. They were not warriors, yet here they stood, covered in whatever padding and armor that could be found, armed with bows, notched swords, axes, clubs, and even pitchforks. They were plain folk who wanted nothing more than to tend their crops and raise their families in peace and safety. But the night ahead would be far from peaceful, and there would be no safety for any of them. Many who stood here now would be dead by morning, and there was little she could do to prevent it. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.

  Father Moram appeared lost in his own thoughts and concerns. There was fear and doubt in the priest’s eyes and something close to despair.

  “Worried, Father?” Blayde said.

  “What? Oh, yes, of course. These people,” he made a sweeping gesture, “they are my care, my reason for being here. I fear for them—for us—for all of us.”

  “Put it aside, Father. There’s no time for it now. I’m sure you will do what’s necessary to protect them, but ultimately only the Apportioners can decide their fate.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “All of you.” Blayde turned away facing the assemblage. “If I could have your attention for just for a moment.” The rain continued to fall. There would be no moon tonight, even if the clouds lifted and darkness settled over Nachtwald like a shroud.

  “These past few days have been filled with tragedy.” She paused, considering her words with care. “Baron Cedric is dying.” She must tell them the truth. Everything must be revealed. “Sir Ardunn has betrayed us. He was revealed as a spy in service to our enemies.” A ripple of fear went through the crowd, shock and disbelief on every face. “And Sir Eris is slain, a victim of Sir Ardunn’s treachery.”

  There were shouts of anger and cries of dismay from every corner. Men and women looked to each other in fear and consternation. The news was too grave to be believed.

  “What about Lord Finnan?” Someone shouted.

  “And his daughter?” said another. “Where is our beloved Portia?”

  Blayde looked to Father Moram for support, but his face remained troubled.

  “They are with my kin,” Blayde said, “the elven archer named Loth, and with Ander, the Northman who arrived here with us. The four of them have left Nachtwald and gone to face a sorceress who resides at Arrom’s Rock. It is she whom we believe is the source of all our woes, who is helping the orcs to invade this country.”

  There were more bewildered cries and angry shouts. The crowd undulated as neighbor turned to neighbor, everyone talking at once, everyone trying to express their fear and anger simultaneously, their voices rising, shrill and loud, trying to be heard.

  “Good people!” Blayde shouted. “Good people, please! You must remain calm.” Blayde felt something brush past her leg and looked down to see Ren standing beside her. The boy looked up at her with his golden eyes, innocent and full of kindness.

  “Ren,” Father Moram said. “What are you doing here?”

  Ren took the priest’s hand, smiling up at him without saying a word. Father Moram returned the boy’s gaze, clasping his hand as if it were a lifeline tossed to him in the midst of a stormy sea. The priest took a breath. His face brightened and he gave a little laugh. “You do require some looking after, don’t you?” Ren nodded his head in agreement.

  “He’s not the only one.” Blayde returned her attention to the crowd. The volume inside the courtyard was increasing with each passing moment. Blayde looked to the Briar Knights, but it was clear that Sir Jon and Sir Henri had nothing to offer. Sir Ducar shrugged helplessly.

  Father Moram took a step forward. “Silence!” he commanded, his voice booming like a wave against the shore. He slammed the haft of his hammer against the stone, sending a shockwave of power, like a blast of hot wind, across the entire courtyard. People staggered under the impact, their eyes wide with surprise, their words dying on their lips. All heads turned to regard the priest and silence settled over the crowd.

  “Thank you,” Father Moram said, more softly. Ren was still beside him, still holding the priest’s hand, his face placid and calm.

  “I know you are afraid,” Father Moram said. “As am I. But fear benefits no one. It’s true that we have already suffered losses, terrible and unexpected losses, but we are not alone. These brave knights,” he indicated the Briar Knights with the head of his hammer, “they are here to help and protect us.

  “Blayde,” Father Moram paused. “Sir Blayde wears the armor of Sir Veryan Emrallt, the greatest of Aedon’s Nine Valiants. She carries his sword, the same sword that defended this city long ago. She and her brother Rayzer came to us as strangers, but now they are our defenders and they will lead us through this terrible ordeal. Aedon will see it done.”

  Father Moram took a step back, nodding to her to continue. Blayde cleared her throat. “I know I am asking a lot of you, but all of you must find the strength and the will to fight! Your friends and families are depending on you. All our lives depend on how well you meet the challenges of this night.”

  She watched the faces. They were considering her words. They stood like stones in a field, weather beaten but strong, worn down but still standing. Blayde laid a hand on the hilt of her sword and felt a surge of energy. She saw again the images of Nachtwald’s houses engulfed in flame, the screaming children and crying mothers, the blood flowing in the streets. She felt a wave of helplessness wash over her, too. It was too much to ask, and what difference could she possibly make?

  “Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” said a deep male voice. Blayde looked up to see a tall, square-shouldered man. He took a few step
s forward, emerging from the crowd. His hair was graying at the temples and a rusted pickaxe rested on his shoulder.

  “I think I speak for all of us when I say that we mean to fight these buggers with everything we got.”

  There was a good deal of nodding and approving words from those nearest him.

  “I been workin’ that field out yonder for nigh on twenty years. Dug stumps outta that ground big around as a wagon wheel, plowed, planted and harvested in every kind of weather imaginable. Me and my wife, we raised us six children together. After all that, I reckon we can handle a few orcs and goblins.”

  Blayde allowed a smile to spread across her face. The man was no soldier, but he was courageous nonetheless. There was none so bold as a man defending his home and nothing more dangerous than a woman defending her children.

  The man grinned back at her, his face broad and friendly. He half turned to address the crowd. “‘Sides which I ain’t never met me an orc as mean and ill-tempered as my wife when I come draggin’ home from the Three Legged Goat at midnight. No sir!”

  Many people laughed and there was a smattering of applause. Even Sir Henri and Sir Jon brightened at the farmer’s easy words. Blayde took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Hell, if it was easy, where would the challenge be? Ander and Loth had gone off to confront the sorceress. The odds against them were just as bad, but they were willing to fight for Nachtwald, even though they had no reason to, no reason to save anyone, except that it was the right thing to do.

  A horn blew and there were shouts along the wall, warning shouts and cries to take up arms. Their brief respite was over.

  “Fight for your homes!” Blayde shouted. “Fight for each other and together we will see the dawn.”

  “Everyone to your posts!” Father Moram cried. “And Aedon protect you all.”

  The crowd dispersed as horns continued to blare. Blayde and Rayzer hurried from the castle, passing over the drawbridge and down the street through the market square. In a few minutes, they arrived at the city’s main gate and climbed up to the top of the wall.

  Around them soldiers scanned the darkness, glancing at one another with fear in their eyes. A vast army of orcs and goblins had been spotted coming down from the northeast. Blayde could hear them now, the tramp of their feet like the rumble of distant thunder. The orcs gathered along the edge of the Barleyrow and in the woods below Southside began to shout and cheer, welcoming the army’s arrival.

  “I would say we’re slightly outnumbered,” Rayzer said, “by about ten to one, or maybe twenty to one—something like that. I’m not good with numbers.”

  “There are a lot of them,” Blayde agreed. “But that just means that when they come, they’ll be tripping over each other trying to get at us. You won’t be able to swing a sword or shoot an arrow without hitting something.”

  “That should help.” Rayzer eyed the mismatched collection of townsfolk and men-at-arms who stood beside them. He cleared his throat. “So, do we have a plan of any sort?”

  “Hold them back.” Blayde took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Kill as many as we can. Try to survive the night.”

  Rayzer gave her a sideways look. “And then what?”

  “I don’t know. The sun comes up. We see another day. Issondenarion willing, maybe it’ll even stop raining.”

  “That would be nice.” Rayzer shook the water from his hair and reached for his swords.

  Chapter 21

  There was a soft pop and then a blinding flash of white light filled the corridor. For a moment Loth could see nothing save for a faint after image of the great hall in front of him. He heard the others—Ander, Portia, Finn—they were all talking at once. Loth realized that someone had just cast a light spell, a big one, meant to intentionally blind them. The goblins. The goblins had betrayed them.

  Loth rubbed at his eyes and blinked, the scene slowly coming into view. There were two ogres coming straight toward him. Fortunately, they did not seem to be in any hurry, but their intentions were clear. Loth lifted his bow and put two arrows into the ogre on the left, the one called Wort if he had heard correctly. The great brute grunted, but otherwise appeared not to notice.

  “A waste of arrows,” Loth grumbled as he shot a third. The ogre knocked it away with the back of his hand, as if swatting an annoying fly.

  The ogre lunged, swinging his mace. Loth dodged out of the path of the great spiked ball. Blunted and scarred from heavy use, it hit the floor with the force of a felled tree. Loth launched himself forward, slinging his bow and drawing his long sword, rolling across a table and landing on his feet. He moved sideways. The ogre waited for him to clear the end of the table, then swung the mace. Loth danced back, out of reach. A moment later he darted forward, slashing the ogre and scoring a bloody line across the monster’s forearm. The ogre snarled and fell back a step, crushing a wooden bench under foot.

  “I’ll teach you some manners, yet.”

  Loth shook his head. He was still seeing spots at the edges of his vision, but he could see well enough. His opponent was difficult to miss, at any rate.

  Loth hazarded a glance to his right and saw Ander engaged with the second ogre, the one called Yaug, hewing at the monster with his broadsword. The ogre, more agile than one might expect for a creature of its size and mass, was doing a fair job of avoiding the Northman’s sword strokes. The ogre swung his mace in a whistling arc meant to crush Ander to pulp. Ander managed to avoid the blow. The mace fell on a table instead, smashing it to bits and sending deadly shards of wood flying in all directions.

  The furniture in the hall provided some useful cover, but their supply was dwindling fast. Loth darted forward again, slashing at Wort. The ogre reached for him, and Loth was forced to fall back out of the way or be crushed by those massive arms. He slipped beneath Wort’s grasping hands and came around behind the ogre. Loth spun and aimed a cut at the ogre’s exposed back, but the wound was superficial at best. Still, it brought a cry of pain from the brute. Wort turned to face him, murder in his small pig-like eyes. The two circled each other, weapons poised to strike. However, before Loth could move to attack he heard a loud noise and, looking in the direction of the sound, saw a small band of orcs enter the hall from the side door.

  * * *

  The door on the right, beneath the arch, banged open and four orcs came rushing into the hall, no doubt drawn there by the sounds of battle. The orcs looked as if they might be more than a little drunk, staggering into each other, their eyes dull and sleepy. One of the orcs still clenched an empty flagon in one hand and a sword in the other.

  At their appearance, Portia turned to face them, feeling as if her knees might buckle. Time had suddenly sped up and everything was happening too quickly. All she wanted to do was run, but she could not and would not abandon her companions. She stood her ground, took a quick breath, and raised her staff. She placed her hand on the rune for fire, reaching into her reservoir of élan as she spoke the words. A ball of flame leapt from the end of the staff, streaking across the hall. It made a terrible whining noise as it flew, but the spell was hurried and not nearly as powerful as the one she had thrown at the troll in Nachtwald. Still it had an effect. The lead orc took the blast in the face. He howled in pain, blinded, and stumbled beneath the arch, retreating back the way he had come. The two behind him looked at each other, and then, swearing oaths and snarling like dogs, rushed at Portia. She needed to hit them with another spell, but her mind was reeling and fear took hold of her throat.

  She ran toward the center of the hall, putting the huge stone chair between her and her pursuers. The orcs circled, coming at her from both sides. But a random swing of an ogre’s mace took off the corner of the chair and caught one of the orcs on the side of the head, smashing his skull and throwing his body a dozen feet across the room. The corpse landed in a bloody heap and lay still. The second orc, hardly seeming to notice his companion’s sudden misfortune, ran at her and managed to catch hold of Portia’s cloak as she turned to
flee. He pulled at her with clawed fingers, licking his lips, and grinning.

  * * *

  The remaining orc, still carrying his empty flagon, ran at Finn. Finn barely had time to pull a dagger from his sleeve, forgotten until that moment, before the orc was on him. The orc swung his sword and Finn fell back, dodging the blows with desperate agility. He tripped over a bench and fell to the floor, his dagger slipping from his hand as he tried to catch himself. The orc dropped his empty flagon and leapt over the bench, aiming a sword stroke at Finn’s head. Finn barely managed to roll out of the way and grabbed hold of the same fallen bench just as the orc was swinging his sword a second time. The orc buried the blade in the wood. Finn twisted the bench, pulling the sword from his assailant’s hand, and heaved it to one side. The orc fell on him in an instant, wrapping its big scarred hands around Finn’s throat and choking him.

  Finn gasped, certain his windpipe would be crushed. He had just enough sense left to reach for his fallen dagger. His groping fingers found the handle and he plunged the blade into the orc’s side. The orc grunted in pain but did not let go. Finn’s vision began to fade and he knew he had only seconds before he lost consciousness. He plunged the dagger in again and again until the orc’s grip finally loosened. The orc relaxed, slumping forward across Finn’s body.

  Finn clawed his way out from beneath the corpse and clamored to his feet. He felt sick and his throat burned, as if he had downed a pail of scalding water. He was shaking and trembling all over, but there was no time to rest. He retrieved his dagger and, for good measure, drew a second blade from a hidden sheath as he ran to help Portia.

  * * *

  Portia swung at the orc with her staff, but the orc knocked it from her grasp. She was able to pull the knife from her belt and slashed at her assailant’s hand, scoring a cut across his fingers. Free of the orc’s grip, she ran for the door, but the orc caught her again and threw her to the floor, pinning her arms and leaning in close to her face. His breath was hot and fetid, stinking of rotted meat and sour wine.