A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  “Come, my friends. I know you are there. No need to skulk in the shadows like thieves that come in the night. Come, join us. We’ve been expecting you.”

  The statement made Finn’s blood turn to ice water in his veins. Expecting them? How could she possibly be expecting them? He looked at each of his companions in turn. They appeared to be thinking the same thing. No one moved. No one even breathed.

  “Come now. Show yourselves. Don’t be shy.” This was followed by a tittering giggle from the sorceress’s misshapen companion.

  Ander was the first to move. He straightened, shrugged his massive shoulders, and then stepped out from behind the pillar, moving directly to the stairs. Finn and Portia followed, but Loth hesitated, pausing for a moment, as if uncertain what to do.

  As Ander climbed the stairs to the top of the dais, the misshapen little wizard in dark robes lifted his gaze. He clapped his hands together in obvious satisfaction. He watched, eyes shining, as Finn and Portia gained the top of the stairs, and grinned at them, licking his thin lips.

  “What have we here?” Jankayla’s voice was low, almost soothing. “A Northman, by the look of him. And see here, Grisnal, he’s brought some children with him, such sweet young things. How very brave you are.” Her eyes fell on Portia, plum-colored lips curling into an expression that was anything but friendly.

  “Stop what you’re doing.” Ander’s eyes were cold and hard as iron. “Stop it now or I swear by my ancestors I will put an end to you and this misshapen little troll.”

  Jankayla laughed. “How very fierce you are, Northman. But you are a fool if you think you can do anything to interfere with my plans.”

  Grisnal lumbered forward to stand beside his mistress. “I have seen your coming, and I know what the future holds for you. Death! It is already written. The boy, too, will die.” Grisnal raised a gnarled finger, pointing it at Portia. “Only she will live. Trapped and alone after the others have fallen, alone with her sorrow and her failure—”

  Just then Loth climbed the last few steps and moved to stand beside Ander, his naked sword gleaming in the firelight. Grisnal’s eyes went wide and he took a step back, mouth quivering. Jankayla glanced at her companion, irritation plain on her face.

  “Who... are you?” Grisnal’s voice was high and thin, and then he clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Don’t you know?” Loth’s gray eyes were placid. Jankayla’s head swiveled, taking in Loth’s form with obvious distaste.

  “I am the one who will put an end to your foul existence.” Loth turned to Jankayla. “Unless, of course, you abandon this evil scheme of yours.”

  Ander and Loth both moved toward the sorceress, stepping lightly, as if walking over a bed of sharp glass. “You can end this now,” Ander said, “and save us all a lot of trouble. Or we can do it the hard way.”

  Jankayla laughed again, her head tilting slightly as the maniacal sound echoed across the hall. “Oh no, my dear man,” she said, the mirth dying on her lips, “we will most certainly be doing this the hard way.”

  The air around them shimmered and a dozen tall forms emerged from the shadows, vague and insubstantial at first, but quickly gaining substance. Armored Warchod with long spears, the steel heads honed to razor sharpness, suddenly stood on all sides of the small company.

  “Watch out!” Portia screamed, staggering back and narrowly avoiding a spear thrust at her breast.

  “Onar and Iden!” Ander growled, bringing up his sword. He rushed at the dark elves, barreling into them and knocking two to the ground. He hewed at a third, cutting through the dark elf’s leather breastplate and finding soft flesh beneath.

  Portia threw up a shield spell, foiling her attacker, and then followed it with a column of fire that consumed the dark elf’s head and torso. The soldier stumbled back, thrashing and screaming, and went over the side of the dais, crashing to the floor below in fiery ruin.

  Finn darted forward and slashed one of the Warchod across the thigh. The fellow grunted, turned, and tried to remove Finn’s head with a slash. Finn ducked beneath the stroke and stabbed the soldier in the chest and in the belly. The dark elf grappled Finn and pressed him to the floor, but he was already dead. Finn heaved the body off of him and scrambled to his feet. He found himself on the edge of the fight. The sorceress was only a few yards away. He hesitated, uncertain which way to turn. If he could reach the sorceress, he might be able to end this quickly. It was a risk, but that had never stopped him before. Finding his courage Finn sprang forward, racing along the edge of the circle.

  Grisnal moved forward and raised a hand. A shaft of emerald light shot from his outstretched fingers. The shield spell appeared around Finn as the emerald bolt struck and rebounded upward, shattering stone. But then the amulet exploded, an eruption of jagged shards that flew in every direction. The force of the blast threw Finn backward. He hit the floor, knocking the wind out of him. He lay there gasping for air and tasted blood from a cut lip.

  Loth swept past him, leaving a trail of dead and dying Warchod in his wake, and leapt to attack the sorceress. Before Loth could reach her, however, Grisnal intercepted him.

  “Why did I not see you?” the wizard grumbled, chewing his lip. “Who are you?”

  “No one of importance.” Loth said as he brought his sword down, intent on cleaving the wizard in two. But Grisnal made a quick gesture and a dome of pale red light turned the blade aside.

  Finn staggered to his feet, struggling to draw breath into his tortured lungs. He picked up his daggers and walked slowly toward the sorceress, a little unsteady on his feet. Jankayla watched him, unconcerned. Finn moved to within an arm’s length of her, raising the dagger in his right hand to strike at her slim white throat. Her eyes fixed on his and he paused. She was tall and beautiful, seemingly young and perfect in nearly every aspect of her form and carriage. Jankayla cocked her head slightly, smiling at him. Her dark eyes bored into his soul, and Finn found that he was no longer certain what to do. He hesitated, dropping his arm. It seemed unthinkable to harm such a creature. Perhaps, Finn thought, just perhaps, he was fighting on the wrong side.

  Chapter 26

  Durog flew high above the city, watching as it burned and reveling in the city’s destruction. How many years had he dreamed of this moment, when the orcs would take back the north and become the conquerors they were always meant to be? Too long had they roamed the cold wastes of the Dark Lands. Too long had they hidden in caves and fought over bones and scrap heaps, forever battling the Wudu tribes, the Northmen, and the border guards of Arkirius and Briganthan—not to mention the bloody Silver Leafs of the Rowanin—for possession of a fallen kingdom that was little more than dust and ruin. It was all so pointless. But not anymore. This was but the first of many victories to come.

  Nachtwald’s defenders had pulled back inside the castle and barred their gates, not that it would do them any good. It was only a matter of time before his orcs and goblins broke through, and then the real slaughter would begin.

  Durog had enjoyed watching his army as they overcame one obstacle after another, enjoyed viewing the scenes of mayhem and death from above. It was, in fact, quite useful to have this aerial view of things, to be able to see and hear everything that was happening all at once and not have to wait for reports from scouts and commanders, which were often confused and conflicted with one another. But, fascinating as it was, it was not as good as killing. He was feeling the need to rend someone’s flesh up close, to feel his sword cut into muscle and bone, and watch the light go out of their eyes. He needed to hurt someone.

  But before he allowed himself to join in on the murder and debauchery, there was still one more thing to do. He had come to Nachtwald with a purpose. Grisnal told him he would find the Golden Phial, that it was in this city. With the Golden Phial in his possession Durog would become invincible. The army that held the Golden Phial would never know defeat, so the stories said. With it Durog would be able to march south, all the way to the Elathian Sea. All of Ar
kirius would be his—but first he had to find it.

  Durog wheeled his mount over the western half of the city, steering the wyvern toward the ruined tower in the center and brought the beast down onto the green sward directly in front of the Blessed Church of Aedon. The great stone church was all but untouched by the violence around it. It stood alone, cold and silent, mute witness to the atrocities that had befallen Nachtwald.

  Durog threw a leg over the pommel of his saddle and slid down, dropping lightly to the ground. He drew his two-handed sword from the sheath across his back and stalked across the lawn toward the church. A number of orcs and goblins, who had been busily ransacking the neighboring houses, rambled over to join their warlord, thinking some new sport was to be had inside the humans’ grotesque house of worship.

  Durog pushed against the great double doors and found them barred from within. If anyone was hiding inside, Durog would make damn sure they regretted not running. His blood was up and he had no patience for dealing with locked doors. He raised the great sword and brought it down, hewing through the wood and sending splinters flying in every direction. The orcs and goblins gathered behind him snarled their approval. Durog struck the doors again and again, delighting in the feel of the sword in his hands. If only this were some living creature of flesh and blood. He imagined what the sound of their screams would be like. On the fourth stroke the bar split in two and the doors sprang open, slapping the walls with a sound like a thunderclap that reverberated across the interior of the church.

  Durog stepped over the threshold, half expecting the ghostly form of Aedon to appear and strike him down, but nothing supernatural happened. He moved slowly across the foyer and into the nave, his boot heels clicking on the floor, the sound echoing off the walls.

  He marched between the rows of pews, his eyes roving back and forth, wary of any living thing. The interior of the church showed all the signs of a hurried and chaotic departure. The Priests of Aedon had stripped it of valuables, knowing that its destruction was likely imminent. Durog could almost smell their fear, along with the dust, stone, and old wood, like the aroma of an overcooked meal, still clinging to the walls.

  Behind him his followers hovered on the threshold, fearful of entering. They growled and shoved at one another until, at last, one of them was courageous enough to leap inside. Warriors were a superstitious lot, and defiling a church was high on the list of ways to incur the wrath of the gods. Not that Durog believed in human gods, not the Old Gods of Ninavar, and certainly not the Enuran. Aedon was another matter, for he had once been a living man, powerful in life, why not powerful in death?

  Orcs worshipped the Gods of Corruption, the elder gods of death and darkness, ancient beings who lived in a realm outside the worlds of men and elves. The dark gods had once been mortal creatures who walked among the living but who eventually conquered death. They grew in power until they could no longer be contained, not by this reality or any other. Some believed the dark gods were still present, that they moved between the worlds, and that they occasionally intervened in the affairs of their worshippers. Durog had never seen one, but it seemed like a bad idea to piss them off, so he was always careful to make his offerings of blood and flesh.

  He entered the chancel at the rear of the church, moving past the font to the altar. Above him rose a series of paintings that depicted Aedon in life and after his ascension. The paintings were ridiculous in their betrayals, obscene in their splashes of color and one-sided narrative. Durog hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat it at the nearest painting, missing the canvas and spattering the frame instead. He snorted. His eyes drifted down to the altar, then down to the floor, where he spotted something round lying in the shadows. He leaned down and reached for it, drawing the object to him and picking it up. He held up a cup, a tall slender vessel that had been shaped to look like a flower. The cup was made of gold and obviously precious, but somehow had been left behind. Was this the Golden Phial? Was this the magical cup given to Aedon?

  Durog lifted it, holding it close to his eyes for inspection. Orcs and goblins crept forward to the middle of the chancel, fearful of getting too close but anxious for a glimpse of what their warlord had found. Durog turned the cup. He looked inside it and beneath the circular base, half expecting to see a maker’s mark, but there was none. Grisnal said he would find the Golden Phial in Nachtwald, on this very night, when the moon was hidden and the dark powers were at their height. But this, this was not the Golden Phial. There was nothing magical about it, nothing extraordinary that he could see, or feel, and he was certain he would know when he found it.

  Durog brought the cup down onto the edge of the altar, putting a long dent in the side of it. He laid down his sword and gripped the cup in his hands, twisting it like a human neck. The soft gold gave beneath his fingers, collapsing in on itself. It was nothing. A few coin’s worth of gold, but that was all. Durog tossed it to the floor. It rang like a bell as it struck the stone, wobbling back and forth. One of the goblins rushed forward and snatched it up, but only for a moment, before one of the orcs clubbed him on the ear and took it away.

  “Melt it down,” Durog growled, “it’s useless for anything else.”

  He picked up his sword and turned his back on the paintings, feeling angry and defeated. He did not like the sensation. It made him want to kill something. It made him want to taste blood, thick and hot, from an enemy’s throat. Fortunately, there were plenty of enemies to be had close at hand.

  “Burn it.” Durog made for the door. “Burn it all. Tear it down, stone by stone, if you have to. There’s nothing here worth taking, and the dark gods shall have their due.”

  He marched out into the darkness where the wyvern waited for him, its malevolent yellow eyes gazing toward the castle, its nostrils flaring as if scenting prey. If the Golden Phial was in Nachtwald, it was there, behind those high stone walls. Fortunately, walls were not much of an obstacle to him now. How dare these puny humans defy him. How dare they hide this precious thing and keep it from him. What fools they were to deny his destiny. They couldn’t win. They must know that. He would make them pay for their defiance, pay with their lives. They were all prey now and he was the hunter.

  * * *

  A small crowd gathered around the still body of Sir Henri Billaud. Father Moram remained as he was, on the ground with the knight’s head in his lap. Sir Henri’s arms hung loose at his sides, his eyes closed and his face almost peaceful.

  Sir Jon stood over them, unmoving. His red-rimmed eyes were full of despair and his hands, red with his brother knight’s blood, were knotted into fists at his sides. Sir Ducar stood a pace behind him, his head bowed and his shoulders trembling. Blayde had not realized the depth of the bond that existed between the Briar Knights until that very moment. Despite their differences the three were committed to each other, as close as kin, and Blayde couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at Sir Henri’s passing. She looked up at the sky, wishing for a glimpse of morning, hoping for a sign that the long night would end. The storm clouds had moved off, drifting to the south, and the sky was clear again. The stars shone above her, cold and remorseless.

  A sudden warmth, like a wind out of the south, crept over her, soothing Blayde’s hurts and inexplicably lifting her spirits. She sensed a presence, even before she saw who it was, and turned to see Ren walking toward her, trailed by a pair of nervous looking acolytes. The boy looked up and smiled reassuringly. Blayde returned the smile, still uncertain as to whether Ren was fearless or just simple, for she had never seen him in a state of agitation or terror, even now, in the midst of so much wanton destruction and bloodshed.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” said one of the acolytes. “He was most insistent...” the youth’s voice trailed away.

  Ren moved between them. He knelt beside Father Moram and, without preamble, laid his small hands on Sir Henri’s mangled form. The effect was immediate—and astounding. A warm light, like the birth of the sun, flowed over the knight’s form, envelopin
g his entire body in a cocoon of brilliance. There was a soft cracking and popping sound as bones knitted together, as torn muscles mended, and rent skin closed. All those gathered around looked on in wide-eyed wonder, their mouths agape. Blayde was no less in awe at the demonstration of the boy’s hidden power. She had known healers before. Even Loth was capable of relieving small hurts, but this was something extraordinary, something unexpectedly potent, something almost god-like.

  Sir Henri gasped, a sudden, violent inhalation of breath. The knight’s eyes fluttered open and he looked wildly about. He drew a long, shuddering breath and raised his hands to his chest. His wounds were completely healed, gone as if they had never been, although the torn armor and bloodied tabard still hung from his frame, evidence of the violence done to him. Blayde shook her head. Ren had done more than simply heal Sir Henri. The boy had, somehow, brought Sir Henri back from the abyss.

  “What has happened?” Sir Henri looked at the faces that stared down at him. “We are inside the castle, but—”

  “You were dead!” Sir Ducar took a hesitant step forward.

  All eyes turned on Ren. The boy stood up again, absently wiping away the dirt from his knees. He might have been any other small boy in the world, except for the light of his golden eyes and the calm demeanor that clung to him like a mantle. Ren looked at Blayde and gave her a small self-deprecating shrug of his narrow shoulders, but said nothing.

  “What just happened?” Sir Ducar took another step.

  “A miracle,” Sir Jon said, his voice cracking. “Nurta has given us a miracle, praised be his name.”

  “Jon, help me up,” Sir Henri lifted his hand. Sir Jon and Blayde both moved to help the knight climb to his feet. Sir Henri stood and looked at each of them in turn, his eyes clear, his face relaxed, free of pain. He looked last at Ren.