A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  As carefully as possible they laid Sir Henri on the ground. The knight’s face was gray and his visage contorted. Father Moram fell on his knees beside him. The priest listened to the knight’s ragged breath, his face lined with concern. Father Moram inhaled, letting it out slowly, and placed his hands on the knight’s crushed shoulder and mangled chest, whispering a silent prayer to Aedon. The healing glow spread from beneath his fingers, but it was little more than a trickle of power. Sir Henri cried out again, his voice weaker now. His body began to tremble and blood spilled from the open wounds. Father Moram’s head drooped. He gasped, his eyes looking exhausted.

  “I can’t do it. His wounds are too great. There’s too much damage!”

  “Father,” Sir Henri gasped, gripping the priest’s robes with one trembling hand. Father Moram pulled the knight close, cradling him in his arms.

  “Father, I—” Sir Henri let out a long thin breath, his eyes losing focus as his body grew still. The fingers clutching Father Moram’s robe loosened and slipped from the cloth.

  “No,” Father Moram whispered softly, still cradling the knight’s head in his lap. “He’s dead.”

  Chapter 25

  A wail of terror rose up out of the darkness, echoing along the tunnel, the sound of hundreds of voices crying out all at once in pain and fear. A moment later the frightful noise was cut short and the eerie silence that followed that was more menacing still. Ander turned to Portia, trying to think of something to say that might comfort her. She looked up at him, her face ashen and her eyes wide with fear. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s not too late to turn back. I’m sure Loth and I—”

  “Are you turning back?” Her eyes grew defiant, a look he was becoming all too familiar with.

  “No, but—”

  “Then neither am I. We’re in this together, all of us, until the end, whatever that might be. Besides, I get the feeling our quarry is close and we need to keep moving.”

  Ander grinned, encouraged by Portia’s stubborn refusal to give in to fear or despair. He wished she hadn’t come, but at the same time he was glad she was with him. “As you say, m’lady. But stay behind me at least. Who knows what we’ll run into next.”

  The passage bent around a corner and opened into a large circular chamber. Ander paused, raising a hand and bringing the company to a halt. He moved forward alone, keeping to the wall and peering carefully into the room. The chamber was empty, but he could hear low voices nearby and what almost sounded like singing somewhere off in the distance. On his right was a door and on his left stood a wide passage with an arched ceiling above it. Ander motioned for the others to follow and together the four crept along the inside of the curved wall toward the passage until Ander once more brought them to a halt.

  He crouched and looked around the corner, doing his best to remain hidden. Torches burned in brackets on both walls. The air was murky and a flickering yellow light danced over the stone. The passage terminated at a set of double doors and standing before them were two dark elves, lean figures in black leather armor, as still and unyielding as statues. Ander slowly pulled his head back and let out his breath.

  “Two Warchod,” he whispered, motioning to his companions to retreat.

  Portia nodded her head slowly, taking several steps back. “She’s down there. I can feel her presence, even from here.”

  “How are you doing?” Ander touched her hand. She looked tired, but then they all looked tired, exhausted from hours of searching, running, and fighting. Their plan of slipping quietly into Arrom’s Rock had not gone quite as expected.

  “This is about as good as it’s going to get, but I think I can manage. Besides, do we have a choice?”

  “What’s our plan?” Finn said. “We do have a plan, right?”

  Ander shrugged. “Same as always. Loth and I will walk in, introduce ourselves to these fellows, and ask them to dance.”

  “And if there are more than just the two of them?” Loth asked.

  “Then we’ll do a lot of dancing.” Ander gave his friend a wry grin. “Alright then, everybody ready?”

  “No,” Finn said, “not really.”

  “Good, let’s go.” Ander pushed himself to his feet and started forward, his sword gripped tightly in his fist. When the guards saw him they reacted swiftly, reaching for their own blades. The Northman broke into a run with Loth beside him. The two Warchod barely had time to take a step before Loth and Ander fell on them, steel ringing as their swords met.

  * * *

  Portia heard the door behind her open and turned to see a company of goblins emerge through the doorway. Many of the goblins carried bows and quivers of arrows, and all of them appeared to be armed with short swords. Upon seeing her, the leader let out a squeal and reached for his weapon, while those behind him scrambled to fit arrows to bow strings. Portia raised her staff. The goblin bows creaked as they were bent. At the same moment flame leapt from the end of her staff, streaking across the chamber.

  The arrows, already in flight, were consumed by fire and then so too were the goblins behind them. They screamed as their skin boiled and their clothing caught fire. Four of the goblins fell, writhing on the floor, but others managed to escape the flames and came on, singed, but otherwise undamaged. The leader rushed at Portia, his blade lifted high, while his companions nocked arrows and let fly a second time.

  “Finn!” Portia shouted, scrambling back.

  * * *

  Finn sprang to Portia’s side just as a goblin arrow came speeding at his face. He reared back, but too late to avoid the deadly shaft. A disk of translucent light appeared in front of him and the arrow bounced off it and struck the wall. He reached up and touched the amulet he had taken from the shaman.

  “Heidr be praised,” he whispered, invoking the name of the old god of thieves and wanderers as he hurled himself forward again. “I can see why you’re so fond of magic.”

  Finn held a dagger in each hand as he lunged at the nearest goblin. He caught the edge of the goblin’s blade with the dagger in his left and stabbed his opponent in the side with the dagger in his right. The goblin gave a grunt of pain and fell back, gripping the wound as blood spurted between his fingers.

  “I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Finn said as he moved to engage the next opponent.

  * * *

  An arrow sank into the back of Loth’s leg. He cursed but didn’t dare take his eyes off his foe, even for a second. Loth redoubled his attack against the dark elf. He pushed the Warchod back with a series of thrusts and slashes, knocking him off balance. Loth’s last thrust caught the dark elf just beneath the arm and the guard staggered, clutching at the wound as his life’s blood spilled onto the floor.

  Loth fell back. He reached down and, with a grimace of pain, tore the arrow from his flesh. The injury was not serious but stung mercilessly. Blood soaked the fine cloth and that irritated him more than anything. Clothiers were not easy to come by in this part of the world, and now the wretched goblins had ruined a pair of his favorite breeches.

  Loth spotted the goblin archers as they prepared another volley and he sprang at them. He reached the first archer before he could even draw back his bow and cut the goblin in two, following up by removing the head of the fellow next to him.

  Dark spots danced before Loth’s eyes and the world closed in around him. He stumbled and put his back against the wall, shaking his head in an effort to restore focus. He slid to the floor, clutching at his injured leg. Poison, he thought. The damnable creatures were using poisoned arrows.

  Still clutching the wound, Loth spoke the words to a healing spell, sighing as the magic overwhelmed the poison in his veins and closed the wound on his leg. Slowly the darkness receded and the world, such as it was, swam into view once more. His stomach was sour and his limbs felt like they were sheathed in lead, but he would not die, not yet at least. With an effort, he pushed himself to his feet again.

  * * *

  An arrow broke ag
ainst the wall next to Ander’s head. He jerked involuntarily and only narrowly avoided a deadly thrust from the dark elf’s sword. Ander brought up his broad sword, slicing the back of the startled guard’s hand. The Warchod stumbled and the blade fell from his fingers. Then Ander’s right fist came up and collided with the dark elf’s pale face like a sledgehammer. Bones snapped beneath the crushing blow. The dark elf was catapulted backward. He struck the wall, then the floor, and did not rise again.

  As Ander turned, an arrow sliced across the Northman’s arm, leaving a ragged cut. He looked up to see the attacking goblins. He ran at them, but had only gone a few strides when he began to feel a strange sensation. It moved swiftly from his arm to his legs and a heavy fatigue gripped his limbs. Ander staggered and went to a knee, wanting nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep. A pair of strong hands reached out and took hold of him by the shoulders. He heard words being spoken, which sounded strange and archaic. The darkness began to lift and he found himself looking into Loth’s sea-gray eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Loth asked

  Ander looked at him for a moment, trying to remember who he was and deciding that he was a friend. “I feel terrible.”

  “The goblins are using poison. I’ve neutralized its effects, but you’ll probably feel sick for a while.”

  “I hate those little vermin.” Ander shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Loth said, “I don’t think they care for you either.”

  * * *

  Portia made a quick gesture and spoke a few words in Lunovarian. A large spider appeared on the goblin’s bow, crawling toward his hand. The goblin gave a shriek and dropped his bow.

  Finn lunged at the goblin, thrusting his dagger at the creature’s face. The goblin, along with two others, all that remained of the company, turned and fled. Portia started after them, then paused, thinking better of it. She checked the side hall from which the goblins had appeared, but there was no one in that direction and no indication of immediate danger. She turned back and rejoined her friends.

  Finn moved to the far end of the chamber, near the double doors where the two Warchod lay sprawled across the floor. Both Ander and Loth were seated next to the wall. They appeared to be resting. Portia sat down next to Ander and the Northman looked up at her with drooping eyelids and a warm smile.

  “You’re quite dangerous, you know that?” Ander’s voice was thick with his northern accent, as if he had been drinking strong ale. “By the way, you should be careful. The goblin’s arrows are poisoned.”

  Portia gasped and she reached for him, but Ander took her hand in his and pressed her fingers to his cheek. “No, don’t worry. Loth already took care of it. We’re fine. Just a little tired is all.”

  Portia removed her hand from his and pushed back a loose strand of his long hair. “You’re filthy and sweaty. And you’re covered in blood. I don’t think I’ve ever found you more attractive than I do right now.”

  He smiled at that.

  Portia climbed to her feet. She was tired, more tired than she could ever remember being. But there was no time to rest now. “Come along. Let’s see if we can’t find the sorceress and put an end to this madness.”

  “Then what?” Ander asked, climbing to his feet.

  “And then you and I are going to go somewhere where no one will ever find us and live out our days in peace and solitude.”

  “I think that you would quickly tire of peace and solitude,” Ander rumbled, “but it sounds nice all the same.” He straightened, lifting his sword and testing the weight of it in his hand.

  “Come on then. I believe I still have one more fight left in me.”

  * * *

  Finn opened the door, and after a quick glance to either side, slipped into the hall. Loth, Ander, and Portia followed, pushing the door closed behind them. Together they crouched in the darkness, looking out across a vast chamber that went on forever. They stood at the top of a wide staircase that descended into what could only be the summoning hall they had been searching for. Finn could hear a voice, which he assumed to belong to the sorceress. He could hear her song clearly now, an eerie melody to be sure. She was chanting in the Lunovarian language, and even though he could not understand them, the words chilled him to the bone. He could hear the crackle of flames and smell blood and something else, an animal smell that raised the hairs along the back of his neck.

  From this vantage point they could see a great distance. The chamber measured at least 500 feet across, maybe more. A balcony ran around the interior of the room with deep alcoves cut into the walls, darkened spaces from which observers could view the proceedings below. Massive stone pillars rose to the ceiling at regular intervals along the circumference, stone sentinels with flat, black faces, worn away by time. The floor of the hall was sunken, some 30 feet below the balcony, and could only be reached by this single staircase.

  In the center of the hall, a shorter set of stairs climbed up to a raised dais, a wide circular space that a hundred or more men could have easily occupied. A second ring of pillars surrounded the dais, although some of the pillars were broken off, like the shattered ends of spears. Iron braziers burned at intervals around the dais, casting crimson light across the floor. In the ceiling above was an open shaft, nearly as wide as the dais beneath, that appeared to run all the way to the surface of Arrom’s Rock, hundreds of feet above. There was something else, dark shapes suspended above the circle, and Finn felt a sudden jolt of horror as he realized what the things were. His mouth went dry and his fingers tightened on the handle of his dagger.

  The sorceress stood at the far end of the dais, at the edge of a large, ornately carved circle that appeared to have been etched into the stone. The circle was 60 feet in diameter and was actually a series of rings, one inside the other, with runes and arcane symbols occupying the spaces between. There was another figure on the dais beside her, a bent figure in dark robes that capered about, adding his words to the sorceress’s chant.

  Inside the circle was a great heap of bones, bones as big as tree trunks, yellow with age, and a skull that could belong to no other creature than the great dragon, Ashendraugnir.

  In the center of the circle was a large stone, a pale, luminous rock that looked like the yolk of an egg but with the coloring of a pearl. As the sorceress spoke her words, something moved beneath the surface of the stone, something that slithered back and forth. The darkness deepened around the sorceress and her strange companion. The braziers glowed as if filled with molten steel, but the light they cast was noticeably dimmed.

  “It’s already begun,” Portia said, “the ritual is happening now.”

  Ander and Loth exchanged a look of resigned weariness.

  “Okay,” Ander said, “you take the ugly one on the right. I’ll take the sorceress.”

  “They’ll see us coming. There’s no way for us to get down there without drawing attention.”

  “Don’t you know any spells that can make us fly or make us invisible?” Finn said, looking at Portia. “That would be handy just about now.”

  Portia shook her head. “No, I haven’t learned those yet.”

  “She is calling Ashendraugnir,” Loth said, “If she succeeds in summoning the dragon, we won’t be able to stop it.”

  “There’s nothing for it.” Ander said through gritted teeth. His jaw was set in a look of fierce determination. “We have to go now.”

  With that he started forward, swiftly descending the stairs, moving with purpose and doing his best to keep to the shadows of the massive pillars. Loth followed, and Finn and Portia, after a pause, went after them.

  They reached the base of the staircase without incident and started across the floor toward the dais in the center. The air was thick with smoke and heat. Finn felt as if he had just walked into a burning house. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his face. He wiped it away, absently, with the back of his hand.

  “Why are there
no guards?” Ander whispered. “There should be more Warchod.”

  “They’re here.” Loth’s eyes searched the chamber. “We just haven’t seen them yet.”

  The four crowded together behind a shattered pillar, a stone’s throw from the base of the stairs that climbed up onto the dais. Finn peered around the pillar, looking up at the chains hanging down from an iron ring suspended just below the opening of the shaft. Portia looked up at the same moment and let out a gasp. The dark shapes suspended from the ring were people, an entire community by the look of it, men and women taken from villages raided by the orcs. The villagers hung like ripe fruit, chains wrapped about their ankles. Their arms hung down and their bodies were limp. The villagers’ throats had been slashed, as if by a single sharp blade that had swept around the entire circle in one broad stroke. Blood ran down their faces and arms, dripping from the ends of their fingers, falling, to fill the deep grooves etched into the floor. The lines of the circles pulsed with the life’s blood of murdered innocents.

  “Whatever you do, don’t cross into that circle,” Portia said. “If the dragon appears, it will be trapped inside until the circle is broken, but you don’t want to be in there with it.” Her voice was strained and her eyes were full of loathing. Finn had never seen her like this, and the sight made him a little afraid.

  At that moment, the sorceress paused in her chant and a terrible silence descended over the room, interrupted only by the crackle of flames in the braziers. There was a long pause as the four companions crouched in the darkness, uncertain if they had been discovered. Then the sorceress’s voice drifted down from above.