A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  Sir Ducar eyed the growing number of enemies with distaste. “What are they up to now? It’s as if they’re waiting—”

  The words had barely passed his lips when a shout from an archer crouched atop the barricade alerted them to some new peril. Sir Ducar looked up to see a huge orc come charging toward them out of the darkness. It was the biggest orc Ducar had ever seen, heavily muscled and tattooed from head to foot with strange symbols drawn in black ink. The creature hurtled at them, moving at the speed of a ship under full sail, and was up and over the barricade before any of them could move. The orc plowed into a man, sending him flying, and rebounded, hitting the ground hard, but then sprang up again, shaking its head like a wet dog and snarling at the startled figures that surrounded it.

  The orc’s armor was sorry stuff, little more than a few steel plates strung together and draped over its shoulders and arms, and a bullet-shaped helm on its head. In its gnarled fists the orc carried a length of thick chain with a massive spiked ball at the end. The orc’s eyes were wild and bright, as if it was either drugged or insane, like a berserker out of the legends of the Northmen. The orc gibbered and froth flew from its lips. The ball whistled and struck a man in the chest, caving in his ribs and throwing him to the ground in bloody ruin. The orc sprang at Sir Ducar, moving with astonishing speed, and swung the spiked ball at his head, scoring only a glancing blow. Still, it was enough to raise sparks off the metal and throw the knight to the ground.

  Sir Ducar staggered to his feet, the world swimming before his eyes. He took a step forward, but Sir Jon was already lunging at the orc. The knight drove his sword into the creature’s side, a thrust that should have killed the fiend or at least slowed it, but didn’t. The berserker whirled about, wrenching the sword from Sir Jon’s hand. The ball and chain came around and struck Sir Jon on the shoulder, spinning him about and tossing him to the ground. The orc reeled back, ignoring the length of steel embedded in its flesh. It swung the heavy ball, looking wildly around, as if unsure of whom it wanted to kill next. Sir Ducar took a faltering step forward, raising his sword in front of him.

  “Go back to the pit that spawned you,” he snarled, his eyes seeing double and his stomach rolling over inside him.

  The berserker threw back its head and howled something altogether inhuman and unintelligible, then leapt at the knight like one of Urnin’s own demons.

  Chapter 23

  Loth shot one of the orcs while the group was still trying to sort out what was happening and looking alarmed by the ferocious hammering on the doors. His second shot he aimed at the orc in the scarlet robes, a shaman by the look of him, with a gimpy leg and an eye patch. There was a flash of ruby-colored light and the arrow rebounded as if it had struck a wall. Definitely a shaman, Loth thought. He reached for another arrow, but found that his quiver was empty. An orc rushed at him with a raised sword. Loth hastily tried to block the stroke with his bow and the wood was cleanly cut in two. He abandoned the remnants, cursing softly as he swept his sword from its scabbard.

  In the same moment Ander rushed in, swinging his great broadsword and roaring a challenge. Loth slashed his opponent across the throat, then darted forward to support Ander, wondering how long it would take the ogres to break in and catch them from behind. Portia and Finn scrambled to one side as the orcs rushed to meet them.

  Loth parried a hasty sword stroke from the nearest orc and countered with a backhanded slice that opened the creature’s belly. Ander sidestepped a second attacker’s thrust and caught the orc on the chin with a solid blow of his fist. The orc reeled, stumbling into a third opponent, tripping him up. The two fell in a heap. Loth thrust with the point of his sword, impaling another orc. He wrenched the blade free, blood showering his arm.

  The two friends half-turned, putting their backs to each other, and whirling their blades. The orcs crowded around them, fangs bared and eyes gleaming.

  * * *

  Finn stumbled and nearly went over the side of the well, but Portia caught his arm and steadied him. He looked down, seeing nothing but blackness below. The double doors shuddered in their frames and one of them cracked under the impact of a tremendous blow. They wouldn’t hold for long.

  “Go,” Portia said, turning to face the doors. “Help Ander and Loth. I’ll hold off the ogres.”

  “That’s insane. You can’t—”

  “I’m alright. I’m a wizard. If I can defeat a troll, I can certainly handle these two ugly brutes.”

  Finn hesitated, but the look in Portia’s eyes convinced him there was no arguing with her. He pulled a dagger from a hidden sheath, twirling it in one hand. Ander and Loth were all but surrounded, but the orc shaman remained where he was in the center of the room. What to do?

  The orcs had built a fire ring using bricks and bits of broken stone. A large blaze burned in the middle of it, painting the room in a reddish glow and filling the air with smoke. The shaman pranced around it, an amulet bouncing on his chest. He stumbled about on one foot, waving a scepter of polished wood with feathers tied to the end of it. The orc’s face was tight with strain, arcane words spilling from his lips. The fingers of his free hand tracing a pattern in the air. Finn knew enough to know when a wizard was performing magic. He had no idea what the spell might be, but the shaman was definitely getting ready to do something, most likely something terrible.

  Finn threw himself forward, raising the dagger with murderous intent. The attack was clumsy, but it was enough to disrupt the spell. The orc reacted by knocking the dagger out of Finn’s hand with his scepter, wielding it like a club. Finn caught hold of the scepter and grappled the shaman for it. The orc, although not large, was bigger and heavier than Finn. He knocked Finn down, crushing him to the floor. Finn reached out, searching for his lost dagger, but it was out of reach. The shaman discarded his scepter, grabbing Finn by the throat with one hand and trying to throttle him while at the same time drawing an ugly looking knife from his belt. The shaman raised the knife, a smile twisting his lips.

  * * *

  Sweat beaded on Portia’s brow. Her hair clung to her forehead in wet strands and her face grew hot with the exertion of her will. She held the staff in both hands, employing a shield spell and using it to apply pressure to the doors in an effort to keep the ogres out. The doors groaned, shuddering with the force being exerted on them from both sides. Portia backed away, her lips trembling as she recited the words to a second spell while trying to maintain the first. Zerabnir had warned her about this, about the difficulties of using magic in real life-and-death situations. She wished that the old conjurer was here with her, or better yet, here without her.

  The heavy bar over the doors snapped and fell away. The two slabs of rough oak began to inch open. Through an ever-widening gap Portia could see the huge shapes pushing against them. Angry voices cursed and snarled. It was too much. Portia released her will and the doors flew open, striking the walls with a thunderous boom. Dirt and mortar rained down from above. Tiny shards of broken stone bounced and scattered across the floor. In the darkness above her, the earth let out a belch that echoed across the chamber and Portia wondered if the ceiling was about to come down on them.

  Wort and Yaug tumbled into the room, tripping over each other in their haste. The ogres clawed their way to their feet, brandishing weapons and ready to pounce. Portia lifted her staff, summoning élan. She recited the words and thrust the staff forward. A ball of flame leapt from it and roared at the two ogres, slamming into Wort.

  Wort squealed, as much in indignation as pain, while Yaug slapped at him with frying pan-sized hands, trying to put out the fire. The well was a dark abyss behind her and Portia backed slowly around it, away from her friends and the battle that was being fought only a few feet away. She wondered what lay at the bottom of that gaping hole, if it even had a bottom. Perhaps it went all the way down to the halls of Isod, deep beneath the earth. She was certain she didn’t want to find out.

  * * *

  An orc lunged at him, but
Ander blocked the stroke and caught his assailant on the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. Bone and teeth cracked. Ander slammed the orc into the wall. The creature gave a grunt and slid to the floor, his face a ruin of meaty pulp.

  Another orc thrust at the Northman with a spear. The serrated blade ripped away a piece of leather harness and grazed the flesh beneath. Ander caught the shaft of the spear in a vice-like grip. The orc gnashed his teeth, cursing as he fought to free the weapon. Ander swung his sword, snapping the spear in two. The orc was left, quite literally, holding the shorter end of the stick. A backhanded swing left a bloody swath across the orc’s chest, the force of the blow drove him into a bookcase. The shelves gave way, boards and dust cascading onto the floor, half covering both Ander and the orc. A moment later the two had extricated themselves from the debris. Ander pummeled the orc with fierce blows until he found an opening and drove his blade home.

  Loth pushed his opponent back with a series of feints and jabs. The orc growled and stabbed at him with a spear, but Loth nimbly avoided the repeated attempts to skewer him. The long sword lashed out, scoring a cut on the side of the orc’s throat. Dark blood poured from the wound and the orc tried to cover it with one hand. The spear was knocked away and a second later the point of Loth’s sword tore through the orc’s torso. The gleaming eyes went dark and the orc slid to the floor and lay still.

  * * *

  Finn grabbed hold of the shaman’s robes with both hands and, using his legs for leverage and the orc’s weight against him, threw the orc over his head and onto the floor. Finn sprang to his feet, snatching his fallen dagger. He lunged at the shaman nicking the orc’s shoulder and leaving a line of red that soaked through the filthy cloth. Primal rage gripped the shaman’s features. He struck out at Finn, stabbing at his face with the knife. Finn tumbled backward, rolled to his feet, and retreated several more steps. The shaman pressed his attack, murder shining in his one good eye.

  Finn found his footing, drove the shaman back with a sweep of his dagger. The orc’s good leg collided with the edge of the fire pit and he nearly fell in. Finn lunged again, catching the shaman in the throat. The orc gagged, slid to his knees and tried to crawl away. Finn drove his blade into the shaman’s back. The orc gasped, shuddered, then slid to the floor and did not move again.

  Finn pulled his dagger free and rolled the body over. He looked down at the dead shaman’s face, dull and lifeless now. He couldn’t help but notice the amulet the shaman wore, a small red gem set in bronze. He had seen Loth shoot at the orc, and how the arrow had rebounded away from him. Finn reached down and snatched the amulet from around the shaman’s neck and hung it around his own. At this point, he decided, he could use all the protection he could get.

  * * *

  Wort’s torso was smoldering and steaming, but for the most part he appeared undamaged by the flames, except that it had burned away his clothes, what little he wore, and most of his leather harness. The sight of the nearly naked ogre was unsettling to say the least. Portia had never imagined a being of such proportions and was very certain she didn’t want to come within reach of those massive hands—or anything else.

  Portia tried clear her mind, to focus. She took up a position beside the well, her staff held in front of her. She was feeling a bit wobbly on her feet and her arms trembled. She was not used to throwing magic around like this and was finding the experience wearying. It was much easier to cast a spell when you had time to prepare, and it was difficult to remember anything, even your own name, when an ogre was bearing down on you with bared teeth and murder in his eyes.

  As Wort came rushing toward her, she used her staff to push a shield spell, creating a half dome of ruby-colored energy in front of her. She tried to judge the angle just right. The ogre, arms outstretched to grasp and crush her, crashed into it, skidded sideways, tripped over the low wall, and toppled into the well. Wort fell, scrabbling at the edge and pulling loose several stones before disappearing into the darkness with a surprised squeal of terror.

  Yaug gave a cry of horror that nearly stopped Portia’s pounding heart. The ogre shouted his brother’s name, his voice sounding unusually high and strained for such a fierce creature. He lunged forward, bounding to the edge of the well, and leapt in after Wort. Portia heard their frenzied howls for several moments, fading and growing more distant, then nothing.

  Portia backed away from the well, shaking all over. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed several orcs coming toward her with obvious intent. Portia’s knees were weak and she feared she might faint. The expenditure of power had left her unsteady. Dark spots danced before her eyes and she shook her head, trying to clear her vision. A blur of motion swept past her and Ander collided with the orcs like a charging bull. Loth sprang to his side. His sword whistled through the air and one of the orcs went down, his head cleft nearly in two.

  Portia leaned against a wall, using the brief respite to recover some of her strength. The stone was cool beneath her fingers and the air smelled of dust, smoke, and blood. She felt sick and feared she might purge the meager contents of her stomach onto the floor. Hands grasped her arms and Portia lifted her eyes to see Finn. He looked far too pale, but his eyes were bright in the dimness. He looked much older than he had the day before, his face streaked with dirt and his hair wilder than usual.

  “You okay?”

  Portia found herself saying yes, but she did not feel okay. She felt as small and fragile as a porcelain doll.

  There was a groan from the darkness above and it sent a sudden chill through her veins. “We have to get out of here.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Finn reached for her but she pushed him away.

  “I’m alright,” she said roughly. “We must hurry. We have to find the sorceress. I fear that we will come too late to do any good, and I do not wish to have suffered all this for nothing.”

  No more than 10 feet away Ander and Loth fought the remaining foes. A great number of orcs lay dead at their feet, but those who remained seemed unwilling to give up the fight. The ceiling let out another belch and dust filtered down onto their heads.

  “That ceiling won’t last.” Finn went to the doorway and looked out into the hall.

  “Ander, Loth!” Portia shouted. “We have to go.”

  “We’re a... little busy... right now.” Ander said through gritted teeth.

  “The ceiling is about to collapse!” Finn stood in the doorway, pointing up. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  There was a sudden pause as even the orcs looked up, awareness of imminent disaster seeping into their slow minds. They noticed the cracked ceiling for the first time and their eyes filled with fear. The dust on the floor was an inch thick and tiny pebbles and debris continued to fall.

  “I’m convinced.” Loth sprang back and away, and Ander followed close on his heels.

  Portia ushered them through the doorway and out into the hall where Finn waited, and then they were all running for their lives. The orcs came running as well, but too late. There was a loud crack and a sudden rush of air. The curses and howls of the orcs were drowned in the rumble of falling earth and stone. A cloud of dust boiled down the passage, overtaking the fleeing humans and elf. Portia coughed, gagging on the choking air. Ander put his arm around her and propelled her forward, half lifting her off her feet in his haste. The corridor curved to the left and in a few moments, they came to a stop, having outrun the worst of it.

  “That was close,” Portia said, coughing again and trying to clear her lungs. A few random stones bounced along the floor and a gray haze hung in the air behind them, but the collapse appeared to be over.

  Portia looked down at her hands. She was filthy from head to foot and wondered if she would ever feel clean again.

  “You’re still beautiful.” Ander seemed to read her thoughts, and he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” Portia hugged him hard.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” Loth sai
d, “But we have to go.”

  “We’re coming.” Portia took Ander’s hand and started forward. She wished that they were back in Nachtwald, that she and Ander were alone together as they had been the night before. Best not to think about it now. At this point all that mattered was getting through the next few hours. They still had to find the sorceress and prevent her from waking the dragon. She had no idea what would come after that, if anything.

  Chapter 24

  Sir Ducar lunged forward, scoring a glancing blow off the orc’s helm. The berserker turned on him with a snarl, swinging the length of chain. Sir Ducar ducked, narrowly avoiding a decapitating blow, and fell back. The massive ball whispered through the air as the orc whirled it on its chain, moving toward him. It struck with the quickness of a serpent, catching Sir Ducar on the side of his leg. Metal screeched and the knight cried out in pain, blood welling from the wound to his thigh.

  Sir Jon snatched a sword from one of the frightened men standing close and rushed the berserker, an oath issuing from between his bared teeth. So intent was the orc on Sir Ducar that it did not at first notice the other knight coming toward it. Sir Jon’s first stroke cut through the wrist of the hand that held the chain. The massive ball sailed through the air and punched a hole in the wall of one of the houses. The knight’s next stroke disemboweled the creature, but the orc somehow ignored the injury and sprang at Sir Jon, reaching for his throat. Its feet became entangled in its own entrails and it staggered and slipped. Before it could free itself, Sir Jon brought the sword down onto the monster’s helm, cleaving it in two and splitting the skull beneath. The berserker collapsed in a quivering heap, arms and legs still working as if trying to rise once more.