A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  Here they met two more guardsmen in the purple and gold of Nachtwald. These men did notice, but the goblins sprang at them while the men were still surprised and cut their throats before either could cry out or give warning.

  In the center of the room was a large contraption, with a number of pulleys, gears, and levers, and a great cylinder and wheel around which two lengths of iron chain were secured. These were the chains that raised and lowered the drawbridge below, or so Sham surmised. Sham gave the wheel a cursory examination, quickly analyzing the mechanism and determining how it operated. He found the lynch pin that held the chain in place and hammered on it with the hilt of his sword until, with a metallic snap, it let go and the heavy chain began to unwind with a roar like a rushing wind.

  Cries of dismay and howls of delight rose from the ground below, along with the squeals and curses of several orcs crushed beneath the falling drawbridge as it came crashing down. Sham and Ugak both leapt to the window and looked down on the army below as they seized the opportunity the goblins had given them. The orcs rushed over the drawbridge and into the first floor of the gatehouse, only to crash into the portcullis that remained closed.

  Sham clapped his hands and gnashed his fangs in excitement at his accomplishment. Surely Mulk would see his value now and reward him handsomely for his ingenuity. Especially if he could manage to open the portcullis and let the whole army into the inner ward. But, before he could carry out this plan, the scrape of boots and an angry snarl pulled his attention away from the skirmish below. He sprang from the window and turned to flee, but was not nearly fast enough. A long sword fell, cutting through his shoulder and deep into his chest, ending all dreams of glory and achievement forever. He fell, choking on his own blood, and the last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him was Ugak’s severed head. Sham had never liked Ugak and that was something at least.

  * * *

  The drawbridge fell, sending a tremor along the wall. There were cries of pain and frightened squeals as some of the orcs died beneath the weight of the heavy oak, and others were pitched over the side, falling into the darkness of the hidden garden below. From her perch on the wall Blayde saw orcs and goblins leaping across the expanse, a wave of snarling faces and swarthy bodies gleaming with sweat. She turned, running along the walkway, her sword blazing with emerald fire in her hand. She reached the gatehouse in a matter of moments and found several men struggling with the wheel and chain, trying to raise the drawbridge once more.

  “They’ve spiked the chain,” one man shouted. “We can’t raise it!”

  Two soldiers lay stretched out on the floor and several dead goblins lay next to them, their blood seeping into the cracks. There were more goblins outside the opposite door into the gatehouse, fighting with soldiers. How did they get inside? There was no time to think on it now. Blayde ran back the way she had come, leaping down the stairs to where Henri was marshaling a handful of men. The orcs were inside the gatehouse now, but the portcullis was still down and it held them back. They cursed and snarled, hammering at the iron with their swords and howling taunts at the men inside. Pikemen thrust at them, stabbing indiscriminately through the slats.

  There was movement behind the pack, and a company of orcs came running across the drawbridge with the iron-tipped ram. They struck the portcullis a hammering blow. The gate shuddered and bent. Bows twanged and several orcs fell, but others rushed forward to take their places. The brutes could smell victory and they threw themselves into the effort with reckless fury. Again and again the ram struck, until the portcullis was bent and twisted. Other orcs ran forward, pushing iron hooks between the slats. Each of these had a length of rope tied to it, and orcs in the rear pulled the ropes taught, jerking and wrenching, pulling at the damaged gate. The portcullis groaned, bent, twisted, and finally gave way with a screech of tortured iron and shattered bolts.

  Blayde did not wait, but leapt at once into the breach, hacking and cleaving at limbs and savage faces. She did not see her brother until he appeared beside her, Rayzer’s twin swords whistling as they cut flesh and cracked bone. At their backs, the Briar Knights, along with nearly all that remained of Nachtwald’s soldiery, pressed forward to support them, adding their weight and their steel to the fray. The next few minutes were a haze of blood, curses, and violent death. But the number of orcs and goblins that opposed them was far too great. Slowly, inexorably, Blayde was pushed back, her boots slipping and sliding in the blood and viscera under foot. Her heel caught and she toppled backward, striking the ground hard. An orc leapt at her and was impaled on her sword. Blayde hurled the corpse from her as other orcs leapt over and past her, snarling like wolves. The devils were inside, and there was nowhere left to run. The end had finally come.

  Chapter 29

  Loth leaned heavily on his sword as the company of Grisnals moved to encircle him. The Grisnals all reached into their robes simultaneously and came away with knives in their hands, ugly looking weapons with thick, wavy blades.

  “You cannot win,” the Grisnals all said, their voices shrill as a harpy. “You will lose this fight. I know. I have seen it! You will never overcome my mistress. Never!”

  “But you didn’t see me, did you?” Loth gave the wizard a vicious smile.

  The wizard’s lips trembled and there was fear in his eyes. Every visage of Grisnal betrayed the same doubt and terror.

  There was a crack like thunder and the chamber floor shook, the stone trembling as if struck a blow from a giant’s hammer. Loth lost his footing and went down. The Grisnals too were thrown back by the violence of the quake and toppled over with much cursing and wailing.

  As Loth crawled to his feet, moving like a man half-asleep, he looked toward the center of the circle where the dark orb had been transformed into a doorway, a black tunnel that opened onto a vortex of swirling energy that seemingly plunged all the way to the center of the world. A huge monstrous shadow was rising from its depths, a great winged shape as vast as the night that writhed and boiled like a living storm cloud. Long ethereal fingers reached up to claw at the edges of the vortex, as the great form struggled to extricate itself from the undulating blackness that threatened to pull it down again into oblivion. Eyes like twin suns burned in the depth of the shadowy form, eyes burning with hatred and lust.

  Jankayla raised her arms over her head, her white skin gleaming, her long, dark hair flying behind her. Words spilled from her mouth like water from a cistern. In one hand she gripped the obsidian shard. It pulsed with the power of the black lumen, raw energy as deep as the night and as old as the universe. Loth struggled forward, but he knew already that he could not reach her in time to prevent the summoning. Ashendraugnir would be born again and he was helpless to stop it.

  * * *

  Portia watched in horror as Finn was lifted into the air and thrown from the dais. She screamed, her arms reaching out for him, but too late, too late and too far away to prevent his fall. She thrust out her staff, producing a column of flame so hot it burned a hole through the torso of a dark elf soldier who rose up to block her path. She ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time. With tears in her eyes, she rushed to her brother’s side, dropping her staff and grabbing hold of his tunic. He lay, unmoving, on the cold stone floor. There was blood on the back of his head and he would not wake, no matter how much she pleaded with him.

  A sound, like the belch from a furnace, made her turn her head. She looked up to see a shadow rising from the center of the dais, a great sulfurous cloud that grew larger with each passing second. The sight gripped her, as if invisible hands clasped her shoulders and would not let her turn away. She stared, eyes wide.

  Portia released her hold on her brother, absently wiping the blood from her hands as she stood. She picked up her staff and started back up the stairs, entranced by the darkness that was now churning and swirling inside the circle like a living thing. Eyes like cauldrons of fire looked out at her and she found that she could not avoid their gaze no matter how much sh
e might want to. The demonic eyes called to her, silently urging her to come closer.

  * * *

  Ander struck down the last of the Warchod, his broadsword cutting the man nearly in two. He swung around, looking for more foes to fight, but found only the dead. He turned, staggering, his limbs leaden with fatigue, but his blood on fire. Adrenaline and desperation were all that kept him on his feet, but it was enough.

  He stumbled forward, intent on reaching the sorceress and putting an end to this madness. But the thing now rising from the black hole at the center of the dais filled his vision and slowed his charge. A dark cloud rose before him, a swirling mass of corruption. The blood that had pooled in the etched circles flew upward, like rain falling in the wrong direction, and was consumed by the shadow that even now began to take on form and substance, modeling itself into the shape of a gigantic winged serpent.

  * * *

  The shadow rose up suddenly, sweeping through the air, rising high above the dais and then crashing down onto the bones of Ashendraugnir. The darkness penetrated the ancient bones, causing them to rattle and bounce on the floor. The bones creaked and groaned, sinew and muscle slithering over them, writhing around them, pulling the disconnected pieces together to form a monster unlike any other, the greatest dragon the world had ever known.

  The dragon rose up on unsteady legs, skin stretching across its reptilian form, muscles still undulating beneath. It stood, heaving and snorting, its eyes filled with a malevolent gleam. It unfurled its wings and let out an ear splitting roar that echoed off the walls of the chamber. At the same moment Jankayla’s laughter rose to a feverish pitch, a mad sound that was awful to hear.

  Portia reached the top of the stairs and moved to the edge of the circle. Her body was on fire, her skin gleaming with sweat. Some part of her longed to be possessed by this thing, consumed by it, anxious to know what it felt like to be touched by so much raw power. She hesitated, another part of her knowing that to cross over into the circle meant death, or something far worse than death. She lingered there, only for a moment, and then raised her foot to take the final step.

  * * *

  Ander spotted Portia, moving toward the edge of the circle, walking as if in a dream. He sprang past her, pushing her back as he leapt into the circle and rushed to meet the newly risen Ashendraugnir. The dragon laughed, a sound like stones rolling down a mountainside. Ander swung his sword, hewing at the beast, steel flashing in the light of the braziers. He scored a long cut across one of its legs, but the wound was superficial at best. The two circled each other, the dragon, clumsy as a newborn, clawing and tearing at Ander. It snapped at him with its impossibly wide jaws, while the Northman strove to drive his sword into the beast’s soft underbelly.

  “Ander!” Portia shouted. The spell was broken and she was again herself.

  He half turned, raising his eyes as Portia lifted a spear, taken from the hand of one of the Warchod, and flung it toward him. He caught it, turned again, and fell back across the floor, scrambling to get out of the way as the long spiked tail came around, striking sparks off the stone. Ander flung himself to the side, whirled, crouched, and then heaved the spear with all the might of his arm. The shaft slid through the air striking Ashendraugnir in the chest, the shaft sinking several feet into the beast’s flesh. Ashendraugnir only rumbled in amusement, seemingly unhurt. With an almost casual effort the dragon reached up and pulled the shaft free, snapping it in half and dropping it to the floor.

  “Fool of a mortal, you cannot kill me,” the dragon rumbled.

  Scales erupted across the monster’s back, springing up like blades of grass, covering the thick hide in an impenetrable armor. Ander fell back again, exhausted, reeling on unsteady legs. He sucked air into his lungs in hot, burning gasps. He could do nothing to stop the dragon and his strength was nearly gone. The dragon laughed again as it lashed out at Ander with its taloned fingers. Ander hewed at Ashendraugnir, the blade tearing a ragged cut across the dragon’s newly armored side, but the stroke was barely a scratch.

  Ashendraugnir swung one of its forelimbs, a back handed blow that caught Ander in the chest. The blow lifted the Northman off his feet and threw him across the dais. For a moment he hung in the air, a rag doll that had been cast aside, then he struck the floor hard. He slid, rolled, and finally tumbled over the edge of the open tunnel in the middle of the circle. He clung there for a moment as the air churned and boiled around and beneath him. With a final effort he tried to haul himself up, but then his strength gave out completely and he slipped back, falling, disappearing into the yawning vortex, and the endless darkness that waited below.

  * * *

  “No!” Portia screamed. She staggered forward, but hesitated at the edge of the circle. She was already too late. She screamed Ander’s name, bright tears running down her face, but there was nothing she could do. Ander was gone.

  In blind fury Portia raised her staff and unleashed a column of blinding white flame at the dragon. For a moment the space inside the circle erupted like the center of a star, an explosion of heat and energy so fierce that it raised blisters on the fingers of her hands as she gripped the staff. The flames enveloped the dragon, dancing over its hide in undulating waves. Ashendraugnir reared up, inhaling deeply, his broad chest expanding exponentially, as he absorbed the heat and fire. He sucked it all in with a rumble of pure satisfaction, and then exhaled a roiling cloud of sulfurous smoke that momentarily blinded Portia and filled her lungs with noxious fumes. She fell back, coughing, gasping for air, her strength utterly spent and her mind overwhelmed by despair.

  “Poor little wizard,” Ashendraugnir purred, his deep voice echoing across the hall. “You think you can strike me down with fire? I am fire, girl, fire and magic incarnate. You cannot harm me.”

  The dragon took a lumbering step forward. Portia rose to meet him. She waited, standing defiantly at the circle’s edge, her eyes bright and her visage turning to stone.

  “I may not be able to hurt you, but neither can you touch me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Ashendraugnir growled. The dragon extended his massive head, but came up short, thumping his nose against a wall of force stronger than steel. He snarled in irritation, turning away suddenly, and eyeing the sorceress who stood at the far side of the circle. Ashendraugnir moved toward her, crossing the circle in two long strides, but again came up short. The circle remained intact. For all his power, the dragon could not leave it, not without Jankayla’s permission.

  * * *

  The Grisnals sprang at Loth, coming at him from all sides at once, the cruel daggers raised in their hands. Loth swung his sword in a glittering arc, but encountered only smoke and illusion. The knife slashed his arm. Loth whirled, but could not tell which of the Grisnals had struck him. He was cut again on his leg and again across his back. The Grisnals moved, circling, and Loth turned with them, examining the faces of each of them, trying to locate which was the true wizard.

  Loth heard Portia’s scream and spun in her direction. He saw her standing at the edge of the circle with Ashendraugnir bearing down on her, but where was Ander? A terrible thought ran through his brain and he opened his mouth to cry out to her. Then the wizard’s dagger sank into his flesh and Loth grunted in pain.

  “Die, elf, die!” The Grisnals howled, their eyes wild, as they raised their knives to strike again.

  A bead of sweat ran down the side of the wizard’s face, but only one face. Loth caught hold of the wizard’s wrist, wrenching his arm, and throwing the deformed dark elf off balance, then Loth drove his sword through Grisnal’s belly, angling it beneath his ribcage and up into his heart. The wizard gasped, as much from surprise as from pain. He gripped the sword as he fell back, blood spurting over the blade and splashing onto the floor. Around them the other Grisnals retreated, faded, and disappeared. The wizard’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came from it. His eyes grew dull and he slid, lifeless, to the floor.

  Loth hurt everywhere. He was bleeding prof
usely from the stab wound to his side, blood soaking the rich linen of his tunic. He reached inside his shirt, placing a hand over the symbol tattooed on the left side of his chest, the one his father had placed there at the beginning of Loth’s adolescence. Loth had been angry with Giltharthian at the time, interpreting the mark as a brand his father had placed upon him, identifying him as the sacred property of the famous commander of the Seventh Legion. That was long ago. He had since realized how dangerous it was to be the son of a powerful member of the Ellyldan court, and being invisible to magical scrying certainly had its benefits.

  Loth leaned down and wrenched his sword free of Grisnal’s still form, then rose and took a step in the direction of Jankayla. The world suddenly pitched sideways and he went to his knees. The wound to his side was deep and he was losing too much blood. He had to close the wound, but he was so weak, so very tired. Perhaps if he rested a moment. He slid sideways to the floor. The stone was cold against his cheek, but it felt good, soothing. He closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Ashendraugnir towered over Jankayla, an immense shadow rippling with power and menace. “Release me!” the dragon growled, its baleful eyes staring down at her. “Release me now or I will destroy you.”

  Jankayla smiled. “You cannot hurt me.” Her voice was low and soothing. Her limbs trembled slightly, not from fear but from the exertion of power. Her long hair, drenched with sweat, clung to her pallid cheeks, but a zealous fire still burned in the depths of her dark eyes. “You owe me a great debt and are bound to me until that debt is paid. Agree to do my bidding and I will free you, and when we have finished our work together, you may wreak ruin and death on the world as you please.”