A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1)

by David E. Barber

  “I am no sorceress’s pet,” the dragon rumbled. “I am Ashendraugnir. I am power and will. I am forever and I will have my due.”

  “So you shall,” Jankayla said, “so you shall. But we have a task to perform, you and I, a great task that will shake the foundations of this world.”

  “What kind of task?” The dragon narrowed his eyes.

  “Revenge on all those who once opposed you, the deaths of thousands, perhaps millions of innocents. Is that not a worthy goal?”

  The dragon made a low rumbling sound, deep in his chest. The sound grew into a deep-throated laugh, rising to fill the hall like rolling thunder.

  “It is indeed. Very well then. I will help you in this great task of yours. What choice have I? But when it is done and my debt fulfilled, we shall each go our own separate ways.”

  “Agreed. I believe we have an accord.” The obsidian shard disappeared into the folds of her purple robe. Jankayla raised her hand and spoke a word. Her staff appeared, summoned to her hand by an ounce of will, and she snatched if from the air. She brought the end of the staff down on the stone. It made a dull thumping noise and a thrum of power went across the dais, cracking the stone and splitting the circle in two. Ashendraugnir stepped over the broken circle and was free.

  * * *

  Loth rolled over onto his side, wincing in pain. He put his hand over the knife wound inflicted by Grisnal, drawing what little élan he could find to perform a healing spell. The pain eased and he was able to breathe again, but he was far from whole. He turned his head, lifting his eyes to see the sorceress and the dragon conversing like old friends. The sight chilled his heart.

  Jankayla’s Warchod were strewn across the dais like broken toys, and the corpses of the villagers still hung, suspended above them, forgotten. He scanned the dais a second time, but could see no sign of Ander. Several possible ends came into Loth’s mind, none of them pleasant. Regardless, his friend was likely dead. He felt a sudden pang of loss, the pain sharp as the knife that had so recently pierced his flesh. He would avenge Ander’s death, but first he must care for the living.

  Portia stood at the far end of the summoning circle, looking small and subdued. She will be alone after the others have fallen—those were Grisnal’s words. The thought filled him with sorrow and then anger. She was not alone, not yet. There was one, at least, that could still stand beside her.

  Loth heaved himself up onto his elbows. He picked himself up off of the stone and reached for his sword. While there was life, there was still hope, a chance to fight and, win or lose, make a difference. He started forward, shaking his head to clear away the darkness that crowed in at the edge of his vision. He broke into a run, lifting his blade and letting out an angry cry as he leapt at the sorceress.

  Jankayla was far from taken unawares. She whirled and threw him back with a gesture and a curse, but Loth did not fall. The sorceress was weak from her efforts, vulnerable, or so he believed. Loth reached for her, struggling against her, but Jankayla forced him back, pushing at him with invisible force. Loth raised his sword, inching toward her. Even in her exhausted state the sorceress was still a threat, still powerful. With another gesture she wrenched the sword from Loth’s hand and sent it spinning away. It clattered, slid off the edge of the dais and disappeared.

  Jankayla twisted her fingers and Loth felt a force like a noose around his neck, robbing him of air and forcing him down. Jankayla moved toward him; the dragon, a monstrous shadow with lighthouse beacons for eyes, followed in her wake, rumbling in satisfaction. Jankayla reached for Loth and the gem upon her breast began to glow with a dark fire. Loth felt a blinding pain, as if his heart might burst from his ribcage. He cried out, struggling to resist the foul energy that washed over him. Tiny veins of corruption spread across his torso and neck. He tried to speak but could not draw air into his lungs. Invisible fingers dug their claws into his flesh, tugging at his very soul, and Loth realized with sudden horror what the sorceress was about to do.

  * * *

  Portia stood helplessly, watching as the scene unfolded, as Jankayla and Ashendraugnir sealed their foul bargain. The company had failed utterly. She had failed and the taste was bitter on her tongue. Ashendraugnir lived. Ander was gone and Finn was probably dead as well. Grisnal’s prediction had come true after all. She was alone, alone in her defeat and facing enemies she had no hope of prevailing against.

  Then something miraculous happened. Loth, who had collapsed after his struggle with Grisnal, rose from the floor. Portia had thought that he too was dead, but it was not so. He still had strength and a will to fight. The sight gave her hope, but only for a moment. Then that brief spark was extinguished as Jankayla dominated the elf, flinging his sword away and crushing him with her foul magic. Loth fell to his knees in the grip of pain and Portia was certain beyond a doubt that he would not win the struggle, not without help.

  Portia drew herself up, holding her staff out before her. Her legs trembled so that she could hardly stand, but she would not give up, even now. For the sake of her friends, for her own sake, and for all the people of Nachtwald, she would not give up—not now, not ever—not until life fled from her body. She couldn’t hurt the dragon with fire, but she might be able to do something against the sorceress. And Portia desperately wanted to hurt this woman who was responsible for so much pain and suffering. Portia summoned what élan she could find, feeding it into her staff, and adding her anger and her sorrow. She aimed the staff at Jankayla’s exposed back. The length of rune-etched wood glowed with power.

  But before Portia could unleash her spell, Jankayla, seeming to sense the imminent threat, turned her gaze on the young wizard. Jankayla released Loth from whatever magic she was using to hold him and turned to face Portia. In the same instant, the sorceress raised her staff in one hand and clenched her opposing fist. The staff in Portia’s hands shuddered, and then exploded, bringing a cry of shock and pain from Portia’s lips as the blast threw her back across the floor. She landed hard, her body wracked with pain and her hands stinging.

  “You think to challenge me?” Jankayla snarled, moving toward her. The sorceress was unsteady, her steps wandering, her face bathed in sweat, but the fury in her eyes was palpable.

  “Insolent pup. I have seen the passing of a thousand years. I have crushed armies beneath my heel and brought kingdoms to their knees. What are you but some idiot child, the spawn of a forgotten lord in a forgotten land? What could you ever possibly do that would harm me?”

  Portia climbed slowly, wearily to her feet. She was barely an arm’s length from the sorceress. Ashendraugnir rose up behind Jankayla, his immense shadow falling across both of them, a tower of menace and smoking ruin. The dragon tilted his head, curious, watching the tableau unfold with some measure of interest and amusement. Portia flexed her fingers, wincing at the painful ache that ran through her digits.

  “You are right.” Portia’s voice was low and subdued. “I cannot defeat you with magic. But I am far from helpless.” With that she pulled back her arm and punched Jankayla square in the face.

  The sorceress, unprepared for such an attack, took the blow full on the chin. Her head snapped back and she toppled onto the stone floor. She lay there for a moment, dazed and confused, then sprang to her feet spitting blood and fury.

  “You will die for that, girl, most horribly!” She raised her staff again.

  Portia didn’t care. She had hurt her and that was all she wanted. She clutched her hand to her breast wondering if her fingers were broken and if she would ever be able to use them again. It hardly mattered. Her damaged hand was the least of her concerns.

  Jankayla’s bloodied lips began to move as the words to what was no doubt a truly ruinous spell began pouring from her mouth. But she had barely begun when the air between them began to boil and churn. Portia took a few steps back, wondering what new terror was upon them as the collected dust, dirt, and debris of ages rose up from the floor spinning around the sorceress and the dragon both, an ann
oying spectacle at first but building in strength.

  “Portia...”

  Portia looked sideways at Loth. The elf was still on his knees but he had his hands stretched out toward the sorceress and Ashendraugnir, his fingers weaving a pattern in the air.

  “I need you.” His voice was low, desperate.

  Portia glanced back at Jankayla. The sorceress had taken several steps back, off balance and raging at the sudden wind that swirled around her and the dragon, but her words were lost in the growing tumult. Portia turned and ran, expecting to be struck down from behind, but the blow never came. She stumbled forward and dropped beside Loth.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “Help me.” He bowed his head. He reached blindly for her and she took his hand in hers, ignoring the pain in her blistered fingers. The wind was coming from him, but he was nearly spent. He would not be able to maintain it for long. She understood. He needed more élan to feed his spell. But she had she no more to give.

  “There is power here.” His voice was barely a whisper. “In the earth. Beneath us. We can use it.”

  At first she didn’t understand. What élan existed in this dark place had been all but exhausted. But Loth said it was beneath them, in the earth. Could there be some other source of power? There was in Nachtwald, why not here? Of course, Portia thought. Why else would Aedon have chosen Arrom’s Rock? Why else would Horgar and his people have built here? And, more importantly, why would Jankayla have chosen this place for her ritual? Ashendraugnir’s bones lay here, true, but there was more to it than that. Arrom’s Rock was special, a place of power as old as the mountains.

  Portia put her free hand on the stone. She reached out with her mind, searching for something that she did not quite understand. Zerabnir had told her once about the lines of power that ran through the earth, but never explained to her what they were or how to reach them. Regardless of that, she had to try.

  “Help me,” Loth said again.

  Portia searched the darkness, extending her awareness. She felt like a lost child wandering in the dark, alone and afraid. She could feel Loth’s hand, the strength of his fingers against hers, like a tether anchoring her to the world while her mind wandered in a ghostly landscape somewhere outside the physical realm. Zerabnir had hinted at such things in his lectures. He had talked of hidden wells of energy that one could tap into at need, but only as a hypothetical concept, never as a real thing that could be achieved. What she was attempting now was beyond her skill, but need drove her and to fail was certain death.

  “There.” She was not quite sure if she had spoken the word aloud. In her mind’s eye, she could see a vein of fire, a ribbon that ran through the darkness. She reached for it and felt a surge of energy course through her limbs. She gasped, unprepared for the sudden onslaught and her body seized.

  Beside her Loth jerked, arching his back. A thin whine of pain escaped his lips. His face was hard and his teeth clenched together. He raised his hand higher, shouting words in Lunovarian as the winds grew in fury, transforming from a mere dust storm into a tornado of epic proportion. The villagers’ bodies, hanging from the ring around the center of the broken circle, were pulled into the storm, as were the slain dark elves whose torn corpses floated above the floor and began spinning about.

  Portia felt as if she were being pulled apart, as if the skin covering her body was slowly being sliced away, but she would not let go. She could just see past the raging vortex of hurricane force winds, dark with the refuge and filth of the vast summoning chamber. Beside her Loth’s eyes rolled back in his head, his lips moving swiftly as he repeated the spell, drawing more power into it, adding to the fury of the funnel cloud that now dominated the surface of the dais, rising nearly all the way to the opening in the ceiling above.

  Looking up, Portia could see that the sky above the summoning chamber was brilliant with the light of the coming day. The sight was like a soothing balm to her soul. To make it to a new dawn seemed no small victory considering the terrors and suffering she had endured through that long night.

  Then she saw something else. Ashendraugnir was rising in the center of the vortex, his immense wings beating the air, bearing his impossibly huge body aloft. Clinging to the monster’s back was the sorceress. Her bruised face, pale as moonlight, shone like a beacon in the midst of the storm, her black hair dancing around her head like a living thing.

  “This is not over, girl!” she shouted from her perch. “You and I shall meet again, and soon. I swear it.”

  Slowly, the dragon ascended, his powerful wings fighting against the hurricane gale that threatened to pull him down again. He and the sorceress rose up the shaft, the dragon’s vast form filling the tunnel and blotting out the light of the new day, until at last they reached the open air hundreds of feet above. The dragon roared, a merciless sound, a challenge to the outside world, then he turned and swept across the mountain, disappearing from view.

  Portia let go of the élan she had been channeling, retreating from the ribbon of fire. It was difficult at first, as if the ribbon were a living thing that wanted to hold her, to claim her for all eternity. But she was strong, stronger than she herself would have guessed. Slowly she withdrew. The sensation was much like being pulled from a well. The absence of that energy left her feeling cold and frail. She let go of Loth’s hand and leaned against his shoulder, shaking and utterly exhausted

  “They’re gone,” she said breathlessly. “Jankayla and Ashendraugnir. They flew away.”

  Loth’s sea gray eyes flickered into view. His face was drawn with strain and his limbs trembled. He dropped his arm and all at once the howling winds subsided. Corpses fell from the air, striking the floor with meaty slaps and the crunching of bone, the terrible sound amplified in the sudden stillness. Loth winced at it, and Portia pressed her face against his shoulder.

  “Ander,” she said after a moment.

  “I know. You needn’t say it aloud.” He put his arms around her and the two of them climbed tiredly to their feet, still clinging to one another. They stood that way for several moments. Loth was breathing hard from his exertions and the steady beat of his heart in Portia’s ear was like a song.

  “What about Finn?” Loth asked.

  “I don’t know.” Portia withdrew from him and turned away. He followed, moving slowly.

  Together they descended the stairs to the floor below. Portia went to where her brother lay on the floor, fearing the worst. She knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap and smoothing the tangled hair away from his face. His eyes were closed, but his skin was warm and his chest rose and fell with blessed regularity.

  “I can’t believe you’re sleeping at a time like this?”

  Finn opened his eyes, blinking at the light that fell on them from the shaft above the dais. He looked up at his sister and smiled at her.

  “Portia?” His voice was thick and his eyes confused. “I’ve had the strangest dream.”

  Chapter 30

  Blayde watched as the wyvern rose above the curtain wall, a harbinger of death and destruction, its bat-like wings sweeping the air with powerful strokes. It settled for a moment on the parapet beside the gatehouse, a monstrous vulture surveying the flock below, looking for the choicest meat to pluck from the herd. The few soldiers who remained on the wall withdrew, falling over themselves in their haste to retreat down the stairs, but the wyvern paid no attention to them. Durog leaned forward in his saddle, clearly enjoying the moment. He barked laughter, raising his great two-handed sword over his head as he dug his heels into the wyvern’s sides and snapped the reins.

  The beast flung itself from the wall, pushing away from the parapet with a stone-cracking thrust of its powerful legs. It dropped, slowly, born up by the sweep of its wings and landed in the midst of the courtyard, scattering defenders and assailants alike. It wheeled, lashing its tail and snapping its powerful jaws. Men, goblins, and orcs fell back, their strife momentarily forgotten as they scrambled to get out of the b
east’s path. The long tail lashed out, spearing a man through the chest. The townsmen gave a short, startled cry as he was lifted off the ground and hurled into the midst of the undulating throng.

  “Enough of this!” Durog shouted. “Give me the Golden Phial!” His voice boomed like thunder in the enclosed ward. “Give it to me now and I will withdraw my forces from this city and leave you in peace.”

  “Liar!” Blayde shouted, her voice all but lost amidst the screams and shouts. She struggled to reach the orc warlord, but was carried backward instead, driven by the terrified crowd and the press of their attackers to the very steps of the great hall. She had lost Rayzer in the confusion and Father Moram as well, but the Briar Knights were beside her.

  Durog spat on the ground. He turned in his saddle to regard the faces of the soldiers and townsfolk who ran from him like frightened rabbits, and grinned. Blayde glanced up and was surprised to see that the stars were fading and the sky was growing lighter. Dawn was near. How she longed to see the sun again and to find an end to this long, terrible night, even if death followed soon after.

  “Come now,” Durog snarled, the smile falling away from his lips and his old cruelty returning. “You know what it is I want. You have it here, hidden in your dung heap of a castle. I can just as easily kill you all and take it.”

  The orc surveyed the courtyard, his eyes falling finally on the doors to the great hall, and then rising to the top of the keep. Blayde followed his gaze. There were women and children inside that hall, the very young and the very old, all that remained of Nachtwald’s citizenry who were unable to fight. Blayde gripped her sword tighter. She would not allow the orcs to enter, not one of them.

  Durog wheeled the wyvern in the direction of the great hall. “You might as well give it to me now while some of you still have breath.” The warlord urged his mount forward.