The Blood Wars Trilogy Omnibus: Volumes 1 - 3

by T. A. Miles

  After a few moments of collective staring, one young soldier grew brave enough or polite enough to speak. “Master Korsten, we weren’t expecting you here. Have you come to eat with us?”

  “The captain told us mages don’t eat,” another youth said.

  “Not eating is the reason I’m famished,” Korsten replied, lying a little. He actually didn’t feel all that hungry, but he was grateful for the distraction provided by two young men going to fetch him a plate.

  “You do eat, then?” said the youngster sitting beside him, tall and fit with short-cropped dark hair.

  “I think what the captain meant was that we mages do not have to eat as much. That doesn’t mean, however, that we don’t need to or want to. He must have assumed we’d tend to ourselves when the need arose.”

  “There are two of you here, right?”

  Korsten nodded. “Myself and Merran, yes.”

  “Haven’t seen the other fellow around.” The young soldier prodded the food on his plate a bit. “Just you, milord.”

  That explained a bit. Smiling politely, Korsten said, “Merran takes his work very seriously and likes to keep to himself besides. I don’t expect you will see much of him during our time here.” It occurred to Korsten only after he spoke that he was not only describing Merran, but himself as well. The only reason he was socializing at all now was because it seemed the best way to carry on with his investigation into discovering what, other than low morale and Captain Grisch, was plaguing this outpost.

  “My name is Ecland, by the way, milord. This is Rand and Jeren.” The youth sitting beside Korsten indicated the two others, offering him a plate of too much morning meat and bread along with a cup of cider with an unappealing aroma. Korsten grimaced behind his smile while other soldiers began introducing themselves as well. A lengthy question and answer session followed, along with the selective sampling of the food that had been brought to him. Some of the youngsters laughed good-naturedly at his demure manner. His appearance and behavior seemed to make perfect sense to them when Korsten elected to explain that he’d been a scholar and tutor before becoming a mage. Suddenly they all had stories to share about the various educators in their lives, which included a great many nasty pranks orchestrated by boys who had probably never dreamed of becoming anything other than what they were. This was new to Korsten, entirely. He hated to put it so bluntly, but he’d never been in such common company. He’d never really envisioned let alone understood their lifestyle. He couldn’t say that he envied them their place in society, then or now, but he was truly interested in their conversation, and their laughter. Judging by that sound, whatever demon may have been present didn’t have a solid grip on the hearts and spirits of these young men.

  Somehow, weapons practice followed breakfast. Korsten understood that it was part of the soldiers’ daily routine, but he couldn’t recall precisely how he had wound up partaking of that routine himself. At first he was only watching, and then Ecland was handing him a blunted sword. Korsten stared at the crude weapon, looking as if it had been used in well more than a thousand sessions, and wondered for a moment what the youth expected him to do with it.

  “Arms master Bael says that you mages are trained in swords as well as spells.”

  “Arms master….”

  “Bael,” an older gentleman supplied. Actually, he was probably younger than Korsten, but he appeared older and was clearly not as young as most of the men under his supervision. He wasn’t as tall as Korsten—nowhere near actually—but he had a tight, stocky frame. His receding hairline and trim beard gave him the appearance of a rather large and potentially nasty rodent. Gray eyes gleamed with intelligence and cunning. Those eyes were fixed on Korsten, challenging.

  Very well, Korsten decided. He delicately pushed Ecland’s blunted practice blade away, saying, “I’ve never trained with one of those in my life.” Summoning the silver sword stored in his hand, making sure not to give it an edge, he stepped away from the others, toward the arms master. “I prefer something lighter.”

  “Something real?”

  Korsten nodded once. “This is real.”

  Amused, perhaps thinking that he had an unfair advantage, Bael said, “Are you certain?”

  “Quite,” Korsten replied, taking up a relaxed defensive stance. He could tell that he was on the verge of being underestimated.

  “You look as if you bruise easily,” Bael said affably. “I’ll be gentle.”

  “You look as if you learn with little ease,” Korsten returned, in an equally good-natured tone. “I’ll speak slowly.”

  With a laugh, Bael moved in on his opponent. His motions were light and quick, but strong as well. Korsten turned back the blows that would have counted and otherwise skipped out of harm’s way.

  “Spry for an old fellow, aren’t you?”

  “Career benefits aside, I’m not all that old.” It was Korsten’s turn to attack. He lunged fast and low, swiping air, and spinning away from the expected counter strike as his opponent evaded him.

  Bael continued with a series of easily blocked jabs toward Korsten’s torso. “I’ll wager you at … no less than … three hundred!”

  “Based on what?”

  “Attitude!” Both of them saw an opening at the same time and went for it, managing to lock up their blades. While they were face to face, Bael grinned, and said “You’re too damned sure of yourself!”

  “Well … my friend,” Korsten said through the strain of trying to hold off a stronger opponent. “That has nothing to do with magehood … and everything to do with breeding.”

  In the next moment, Korsten feigned defeat, quickly unbinding their blades, and stepping aside as Bael pressed forward as if to force his opponent to the ground. The shorter man’s momentum was too much to halt on such sudden notice. He fell forward, onto his hands and knees. Korsten tapped Bael’s shoulder with his thinner blade before he could get up, prompting for a yield.

  The arms master surrendered. He rose laughing while Korsten put away his weapon. “Chase enough demons and you begin to pick up their tactics, eh?”

  Korsten was bothered by that statement, but pretended not to be. “That was perfectly fair, Master Bael. Never assume your opponent is weaker than you, regardless of appearances.”

  “You’re right,” Bael agreed jovially, clapping Korsten on the shoulder. Then he looked at his trainees. “And I hope all of you were watching. When dealing with the enemy, you haven’t won until your opponent’s dead. Cockiness on the battlefield will be your death. Are we clear on that?” The others gave a collective affirmative and Bael added, “All right, then. Pair up and free spar for the next half hour. Tally your results. Whoever isn’t winning, I’ll be around to find out why not.”

  “You have their respect,” Korsten noted. “Not one of them cared to observe the fact that you didn’t win yourself.”

  “They’re good lads, all of them,” Bael said. “Cursing at them and beating them over the head isn’t going to make them any better. Show respect and you’ll earn it back, I’ve always believed.”

  “It seems to be working here. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you, sir. So am I.”

  Korsten looked at the arms master, a little confused.

  “You’ve got a talent for earning respect yourself,” Bael said. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but I think every one of those men would have rushed in to pick you up and dust you off, had I bested you.”

  Odd that the man should say talent, and that at the same moment Korsten should think of what Merran said about his gift of Allurance. Excessive charm, Merran had labeled it. And apparently these men, already impressed with mages, were very susceptible to it. Bael was right. Still, it was odd. Ego usually didn’t bend so easily to charm when dealing with healthy young men, unless the individual doing the charming happened to be an appealing young woman. Korsten knew that the admiratio
n here was not physical, but he felt awkward all the same, because it was magic making these strangers trust him so automatically. Undoubtedly there were some among them who wanted to resent the mage suddenly in their company, but they found themselves unable. It was a mask Korsten had come to wear. A lie. He didn’t want to be here and he didn’t want to be any part of this community. He’d never been to war and each time he’d been faced with a demon, he’d come away near dead. I don’t belong here. These men don’t have any business trusting me. They don’t know me. I’ll only disappoint them. And then what? If the outpost is taken, those who survive will resent the Seminary, maybe turn against it. Ashwin, why did you send me here? Merran doesn’t need my help. I’m not ready.

  A complaint nearby halted his thoughts. Korsten looked to his right, at a young soldier fallen on his backside, green eyes dark with frustration as he glared up at his opponent. The victor appeared at least two or three years older and was inarguably larger. The youth on the ground may have been a tad undersized.

  “That’s one for Eisley,” Bael said, directing his voice at the nearby pair. “Back on your feet, Trev. Come along now. There’s a good lad. Not so rigid! Eyes on your opponent!”

  “He seems very young,” Korsten commented when Bael was finished instructing his student.

  “Most of the soldiers here are,” the arms master replied. “They don’t last long here, before they get sent out to the field.”

  “The front is supplied from here?” Korsten asked, looking at the man.

  Bael nodded. “It has been for the last six years. Morenne has been active along the border. More so than they have been in decades. Edrinor’s getting smaller, and they know it. They’re taking us a little at a time, making it comfortable for themselves. What’s the use in rushing when the enemy’s ruled by ghosts and plagued by demons?”

  “Why is it that the Vadryn tend to dominate in Edrinor?” Korsten wondered aloud.

  “The filthy beasts feed on despair and suffering,” Bael reminded. “You’ll not find a better supply of it than right here in Edrinor.”

  Or a better supply of magic, Korsten added to himself. Morenne doesn’t have enough of it. The Essence flows continuously into and out of the Seminary. It’s us. Gods, we’re to blame. All this time, mages have been trying to protect this land and its people, and in doing so they’ve only brought more danger. That’s why the Vadryn attacked Vassenleigh. They want the magic. They must know how much of it is being stored there, in the lilies. It doesn’t matter how many mages they kill, the magic always goes back. That’s why they tried to take the Seminary directly. But how could they have known exactly where the magic went? Did they follow it at one time? Perhaps after murdering Edrinor’s ruling family? Was one of them … could one of the Rottherlen family have been infected? If they were, you would have tried to save the individual, wouldn’t you, Ashwin? You couldn’t, though … could you? It broke away, and broke the Barriers … and let its fellows in.

  Korsten couldn’t be certain his scenario was accurate, but it fell into place very easily in his mind.

  Ashwin … is that the pain you’re carrying? Is that your guilt? How could you blame yourself for something like that? What else could you have done, when faced with attempting to save your beloved ruler or destroying him in order to destroy the demon that’s taken him? It was your decision, though, wasn’t it? It was your decision alone and that’s why you assume complete responsibility. That is what happened, isn’t it? Somehow I feel as if I know. Perhaps, knowing you, that just seems like something you would do, out of love.

  Days passed Korsten by. He counted actually seeing Merran twice. Both times his fellow mage had nothing of special importance to report on his manner of investigation, whatever that was. Korsten forgot to ask him just what he’d been up to; presumably it was something Grisch approved of, else Korsten believed he would have heard about it. As it was, he’d had several unpleasant meetings with the captain concerning his interaction with the soldiers; how his foppish behavior and obscene displays of magic were causing too much distraction and how he should have been spending even more time than he was already with Lars, improving the defense strategies. As if that was why he’d been sent to Lilende to begin with.

  “How,” Korsten wanted to know, “am I supposed to ferret out a potential spy … possibly a demon … if I don’t have any interaction at all with the men who he or it may be hiding amongst?”

  “No one said you couldn’t have any interaction at all,” Grisch replied in his typically low and unfriendly tone. “But you’ve become a spectacle! A joke! The troops look at you as if you were some foreign entertainer, come to—”

  “They do not! Those men respect me, as does your arms master, and—”

  “Bael is notoriously soft,” Grisch interrupted. “He has been on the troops for years and I can see that he’ll make no exception for total strangers. He can teach, when he’s not trying to befriend every living thing that comes within a mile of him. He is exceptional with a blade. That’s why he’s still here, but I’ve always believed he does better without distraction … and you have certainly proved to be that, haven’t you? “

  “This is absurd,” Korsten replied, pacing the man’s study with his arms folded across his chest.

  Leaning over his table, fists braced upon the edge, Grisch said, “You are absurd! Look at the way you dress, your hair, even the way you walk!”

  Korsten stopped while Grisch was complaining, looking himself over. “There’s nothing absurd about the way I … what’s wrong with my … the way I walk? I walk as normal as the next man. Well, maybe a little better balanced than most, but….” Korsten dropped his arms, shaking his head in exasperation. “This is personal, isn’t it? You’ve done nothing but glower at me from the moment Merran and I arrived. I thought at first that it had something to do with mages, but I’m beginning to see now that it’s something else.”

  Grisch’s expression calmed considerably just then. He wasn’t scowling anymore, but forming a trace frown behind his mustache that bordered on professional. He straightened his stance, and said simply, dismissively, “Stay out of the barracks and don’t interfere with training.”

  Korsten’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll do what I must to perform my duties to the Seminary.”

  “You’ll do as I command while you’re at my outpost!”

  And that was all Korsten’s was going to take. “I don’t know precisely what you’re used to dealing with, captain, but I am not one of your recruits. I’m not a boy or a simple….” Korsten stopped himself short, thinking of the many young men he’d recently come to know and was on the verge of insulting.

  Grisch smiled at him, nastily. “A peasant? Is that what you were going to say?” The blond man tucked his hands neatly behind his back, satisfied to discover that his estimate of Korsten was none too true. “Well, most of the men you’ve been associating with are peasants, and quite simple-minded. They are easily amused by your fool’s antics and quickly impressed by your status with the Seminary. They have time for neither.”

  Sufficiently chastened, Korsten spoke quieter now. “My actions have not been to entertain or to impress. My intention was to have their trust and to distract them only from the true nature of my assignment here.”

  “Which is to prepare for a possible attack on this outpost. Your colleague will see to the other affairs without your assistance, as he has been.”

  Startled, Korsten was momentarily speechless, almost breathless. Frowning, feeling a sudden uncontrollable sting in his eyes, he said. “What do you mean? He isn’t … he can’t perform the search alone.”

  “He can,” Grisch contradicted mercilessly. “He is. In fact, he suggested to me that it would be best if you concentrated on tactical matters while he did so.”

  “He didn’t … say anything to me.”

  Still smiling, just a little. “Perhaps you should take that u
p with him.”

  Thoroughly defeated … hurting, actually, Korsten decided to excuse himself. He did so, and without waiting for Grisch’s acknowledgment, he left the study.

  It was some hours before Merran returned to his room. He appeared suitably shocked to find someone already in it. Shocked for Merran, at any rate. His face deceived, as did his words … and his touch. I thought we’d become friends, Korsten thought glumly from his perch on the floor beneath the window. He’d started out in the window, but decided later that he didn’t want to be spotted. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, until he’d talked to Merran. More than half a day later, he wasn’t so certain he wanted to talk to Merran after all.

  “I’ve just been knocking at your door,” the other mage informed, closing his own quietly behind him. When Korsten said nothing, he proceeded gradually into the room. “Is this the best place to look for….”

  “Go to Hell,” Korsten muttered suddenly. Then he turned his face toward the window over his shoulder. Warm tears slipped down his cheeks.

  Silence filled the room utterly for a moment. And then Merran said, “Grisch told me the two of you had words, again. It isn’t personal, Korsten. He simply doesn’t agree with your method of….”

  “I don’t give a god’s damn about Grisch,” Korsten murmured. “I’ve had my share of men disliking me, beginning with my father. I hope that he died miserably, by the way, and alone. But I know that he didn’t. And I’m sure that once he discovered what became of Haddowyn, he was none too pleased. With me dead, as he would have immediately assumed … as he would have prayed … there would be no more need to attempt to justify the bastard he’d adopted as his heir in place of me. He would no longer have had the embarrassment of telling those who inquired that his first son was emotionally unfit to inherit his estate and responsibilities. ‘Emotionally unfit’? I can only wonder how people looked at him when he formed that excuse. I can only wonder what they must have thought about me.” He glanced at Merran without turning his head to fully look at him, adding softly, “I can only wonder what you think of me.”