Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Did you hear? A summons came from Olyvard King of Dathrond.” Darion recognized the voice. One of the kitchen servants, a scullery lad they called Ferd. Had Lady Alynor left the parchment on the long table the night before? He’d been in such a fuddle he couldn’t remember. The scroll hadn’t been there when he sat to breakfast. Perhaps some rumormongering servant, literate enough to put two words together, had come along and found it…

  “It’s war, come to the shores of Berliac,” said a woman’s voice, “and they say Lord Ulther won’t answer the call.”

  “If he will, he’s not been quick about it,” said a third voice.

  “I think he’s scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Of being too old and fat to fight.”

  The servants howled with laughter.

  “I’ve not seen him lift a sword or don a suit of armor in years, it’s true.”

  “Nor cast a spell, at that.”

  “Aside from those piddly ones he tosses about in the pasture from time to time.”

  “He’s not like to slay any ogres with them,” said the woman.

  “He’s not like to slay a flower with them,” replied the other.

  They laughed again, loud and strident.

  Sir Darion retreated around the corner and skulked off the way he’d come. If his lady wife was in the gardens, he would let her alone for now. He had intended to apologize again for his behavior the night before. In truth, he felt like a fraud around her, but that was no different than he felt around everyone else. Hearing rumors about himself was one thing; hearing them with his own ears, and from his own servants, was quite another. His chest began to ache as if someone had stabbed him there. Suddenly he needed to be alone.

  Ascending the south tower stairs, he came to the door of his private armory, a room he hadn’t entered in months. He put the key in the lock and slipped inside. A shaft of sunlight knifed in through the narrow window, illuminating the layer of dust which covered everything. He hung his keys on his belt, coughing and waving away the stale air.

  Chests of gold he’d never touched sat beside tables laden with artifacts and relics he’d taken from vaults, crypts, dungeons, and the corpses of slain enemies. Some he’d received as gifts from kings, lords, and grateful village elders. A lifetime of memories; people he’d met, relationships he’d formed—even creatures he’d killed—all spread out before him.

  He found his old sword leaning in the corner. Cobwebs broke away when he picked it up. The blade screeched in complaint as he freed it from its scabbard, tarnished and still spotted with old blood.

  It was in apt condition, he supposed, given its name. Bloodcaller was a good sword. Arixval, the dwarves called it. It had borne him through many a battle and carried his spells with a purity unmatched in any other weapon he’d wielded.

  He gave the sword a trial swing, thrilling at its familiar weight in his hand. He could feel the mage-song in its ring; the balance was as perfect as ever, the steel as sharp as the day he’d forged it in Korvane. Holding it made him remember his last time using it, when he’d driven that foul smoke devil Fa’shoul from its lair and sent all its minions fleeing in haste.

  Over the years he’d charged this blade with crackling currents, blessed it with sacred godspells, and set it aflame with perilous bluefire, as when facing the Minotaur Champion Azak-Baidok in the Caves of Kolynor. He slid shaking fingers along the blade, trying to recall the intricate thought-steps of one of his old imbuing spells. As he struggled to recall even one of the precise sequences required, he found the language of magic like a foreign script to him now. Indeed, its tones and sigils were complicated to remember, let alone to place in order and form a spell with.

  A spell is merely a word, spoken in the language of magic, Sir Jalleth had told him that night in the stormy cabin of the Windcutter as the longship rollicked and quaked about them. Magic’s language contains thousands of sigils, like an alphabet, each bearing its own sound and meaning. Many spells, even some of the simplest ones, are a dozen sigils or more in length. If you are ever to become a great caster, the training of your memories will be just as important as your knowledge of the mage-song itself.

  Sir Darion slid into a wide-footed stance, tilting his sword so the morning light burned on the blade like mottled fire. Closing his eyes, he envisioned the first symbol of a spell he had cast not long ago, the liquid form of a clean mountain spring. With some difficulty, he began to recall the runes. He made it to the fifth before he stumbled and had to start again.

  After another several tries he reached the end of the sequence, smiling as he felt rivulets of cold begin to trail from his fingers. Running his hand along the blade from hilt to tip, he let the spell wash over it. The dull cloudiness of the blood-spattered metal cleared away until the steel shone brilliantly, reflecting the morning light like a second sun.

  Now for something a little more challenging, he decided. His next spell was longer, a different set of sigils which seemed to melt together in his head every time he lined them up. Try as he might, the sequence would not sort itself out. He spoke the tones, but they were all wrong.

  Maybe the servants are right, he thought. There’s no hope for me. I’ve taken a path in life from which I shall never recover—the path of the slovenly noble, grown too old and lazy for great deeds. What’s more, I’m every bit as afraid as the servants suspect. Afraid they’ll discover I’m a failure, and that to go out and face these Korengadi scum would be the nail in the coffin that proves it. If I’m to see my fate sealed, I’d sooner live out my days in the safety of mine own castle than die crawling through the mud of some battlefield.

  That settled it, then. He would burn Olyvard King’s summons in the fires of his hearth and be done with it. Let the servants talk. They’d gawk and gossip regardless of which lord held the castle or how he conducted himself. What was wrong with living a simple life—with remaining neutral in times of war? He’d seen war aplenty in his time, and his reasons for refusing the king’s summons were his own. He need not feel an obligation to answer.

  Yet doubt nagged at him still. Orynn King had named him Trollslayer of the Sparleaf for his valor in the Ogre Wars. Now Orynn’s son sat the throne of Dathrond and sought aid from those his kingdom considered friends. Was Darion friend to them still?

  He sheathed his sword, replaced it in the dusty corner, and locked the armory door behind him. I’ll not soon find reason to come here again, he predicted.

  When he turned around, Lady Alynor was standing at the top of the tower steps.

  “Hello, my dearest,” she said.

  “I’ve been looking for you, my lady.”

  “So I hear. You’re a little empty-handed, aren’t you? Seems a visit to the armory ought to gain you a suit of armor.”

  “How do you know what’s in there? Have you been following me? Or have you stolen my key in the night and had a look for yourself?”

  Lady Alynor laughed. “Oh, come now. I’m not as treacherous as all that. Do you truly think me so fraudulent?”

  “I rarely know what to think of you, truth be told.”

  Her face hardened. “Think me a dutiful wife then. I’ve come to release you from your obligations in Laerlocke. You’re to ride for Castle Maergath at once.”

  Darion scoffed. “You mean to send me off like some errand boy?”

  “Olyvard King needs you. The realms need you, my dearest. I would be remiss if I were to keep you away at a time like this. Now go back in there and gather your things. I won’t pry where I’m not wanted. Your secrets are your own; it isn’t for me to force your transparency. What I will do is turn you away from our frivolous excursion to Laerlocke, so that you may be free to answer Dathrond’s call before it is too late. For the good of the realms.”

  Darion set his jaw. “Where I go and what I do is not yours to determine. This is folly, my lady. I’ll not have it.”

  “I’ve made the arrangements already.”

  Darion raised his
voice. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Unmake them. Now. At once. There are to be no arrangements. Am I understood?” He stormed past her down the stairs without waiting for an answer, ignoring the flush of pink appearing around her eyes. A few steps beyond her, he stopped. “And another thing—I suggest you consult with me before making such impetuous decisions in the future. This is bad form, my lady. Bad form, and ill-advised. You’ve disappointed me more than I can say.” With that, he stalked down the steps and left her standing there alone.

  When he reached the inner ward, Darion gathered a hunting party. He rode out from the keep and spent the rest of the day in the wilds. As was the case during many of his hunting trips, his purpose was less to take game than to spend time thinking in the quiet of the wood.

  He could scarce believe Lady Alynor’s disregard for his wishes. She was prone to rash decisions and often changed her mind with the winds. But she normally expended such whimsy on everyday matters, like which dress to wear or what to have for supper. She’d never made such a sudden and unexpected change as this before. What is her aim? he wondered. To push me away?

  Darion did not want to go to Dathrond. He didn’t want to go anywhere, truth be told. If forced to choose, a war in the eastern kingdoms did sound better than a stuffy wedding feast full of meddlesome strangers. He’d studied over half his life to learn magic and become a warrior, and he would sooner put his talents to good use. The gods knew he’d stepped on enough shoulders to get there…

  By the time he returned home that night, Darion had begun to consider Lady Alynor’s offer. He realized it was the sudden change in plans which had startled him more than the plans themselves. A trip to Dathrond would be a chance to escape Alynor’s cold cordiality for a while, though he could not say whether her intentions were pure. Did she want him to answer the call because she cared for the realms? Or was she letting him go for her own sake? Surely she isn’t doing it for mine, he thought.

  Alynor was asleep when Darion went to bed that night, and gone when he woke the next morning. It wasn’t until they sat to lunch that afternoon when he finally made his decision and took the chance to speak with her. “My lady… I have considered what you said yesterday.”

  She looked up at him through tired eyes, but said nothing.

  “I’ll go.”

  She blinked. “To Dathrond?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Alynor sat unmoving for so long Darion wasn’t sure whether she’d heard him. “Are you sure?” she finally said.

  There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to apologize for letting his consternation over the king’s letter drive him to lash out at her. He wanted to tell her he knew this was the right thing to do, despite his fears and hesitations. Somehow, staring into her cold, tired eyes made him reconsider. All he could bring himself to say was, “I’m sure.”

  Alynor brightened a little. “I am… glad to hear it, my lord.”

  She was still sore at him, he knew. She never called him my lord except when she was sore at him. He supposed that was to be expected. “I’ll gather my things from the armory.”

  Alynor stood. “Bring everything you’ll need for the journey and meet me in the stables. I’ll remake the arrangements.”

  “Would you… like to see it?” Darion asked, keys dangling from his hand.

  Lady Alynor opened her mouth, closed it again. “Some other time, perhaps. There’s much to be done.”

  Darion could not help but notice the spring in her step as she turned and left the high hall. He entered the armory a few minutes later, wondering if he ought to regret his decision. “Back so soon?” he asked himself in the empty room. “Why yes. Apologies for the intrusion, my friends. My lady wife has seen fit to show her true colors. She’s packed me off to war, bound for certain death, while she makes north to prance about with lords and ladies and find herself a new husband with whom to spend my fortune after I’m dead.”

  He began pillaging the chamber for his preferred armament, slamming chest doors and tossing priceless relics aside as if they were bedclothes, muttering to himself all the while. It took him half an hour to assemble a full suit of plate and gather a selection of other items. He donned gambeson and armor, finding both a snug fit, then belted on his sword and slung the sack of items over his shoulder.

  The tower steps were wide and shallow, but it was a long way to the bottom. He could feel the sweat soaking through his arming doublet by the time he reached the inner ward. He entered the stables and let the sack crash to the ground.

  Lady Alynor was present as promised. When she turned to look at him, she stared blankly for a moment. A broad smile spread across her face. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Then she was snorting, trying in vain to choke back the gale, but having no success. Her cheeks flushed with color, and she had to lean against the stall to keep from doubling over. “I am… so sorry, my dearest,” she said when she was able to speak. “It’s just that…” She trailed off into laughter again. After another apology, she managed, “It’s just that… you look absolutely ridiculous.”

  Darion frowned. It wasn’t her laughter that upset him so much as what he had begun to notice about their surroundings. For one thing, there was a groom saddling Alynor’s gelding in the next stall. For another, Lady Alynor was not wearing a household gown. She was dressed in her traveling clothes. “Escorting me to the edge of the Breezewood, are you?” he asked, confused. “That’s thoughtful of you.”

  She sobered. “A little further than that, my dearest. I mean to come with you.”

  “To Maergath?”

  “Quite,” she said. “I’ve packed your things, and Goam has been kind enough to saddle that dreadful beast of yours.”

  “But… we’d be gone for months. What about the wedding?”

  “Curse the bloody wedding. We’ll have a much better time together in the wilds, don’t you think?”

  “No, I do not think. Who will see to the affairs of the castle? Who will manage the accounts?”

  Alynor wrinkled her mouth. “The same person who always has, my dearest… our rather capable castellan, Master Appleby. I’ve spent the morning making all the necessary arrangements for our departure. Everything is in order, I assure you. Goam, make a saddlebag of Sir Darion’s effects, will you?”

  When the stable boy came near, Darion snatched up his sack and clutched it to his chest. “No need for that. Bridle me a pack mule and I’ll stow them myself.”

  “Nonsense,” said Alynor. “A pack animal will slow us down. We travel light, lest the war be decided by the time we arrive.”

  That would not disappoint me… though I doubt you’d share the sentiment, he wanted to say. “Do you truly mean to come, my lady, or is this some farce?”

  “You must think me a tedious person to play such a cruel trick on my adoring husband,” she said with a grin.

  “This is war, not one of your fancy dinner parties. I’ll not allow you to put yourself in harm’s way.”

  “Then it’s a good thing it isn’t up to you,” she said, still smiling.

  “It is up to me,” he shouted, “and I say you’re not coming with me.”

  “Am too,” she insisted.

  How like a child, he thought. He brushed past her and began loading what he could fit from his sack into Kalo’s saddlebags.

  Alynor followed him into the horse’s stall, fists clenched and voice raised. “Now you listen to me. I am coming with you. I’ve made up my mind.”

  Kalo’s eyes went white at the commotion. The stallion backed a step and yanked at his reins, but the hook held him fast.

  “Silence, woman,” said Darion. “You’re like to get yourself kicked if you don’t hush up.”

  Alynor’s look was fierce. “You’re mistaken if you think my only purpose in this marriage is to say yes milord, no milord, and do otherwise as I’m told.”

  “This was your idea,” he screamed. “Leave me be, woman, and let me die a hero instead of a hen-pecked dis
grace.” He mounted his stallion and wheeled the black beast around.

  Alynor stumbled backward through the stall door and tripped into the hay beyond. Kalo shook his mane and reared, nearly dumping Sir Darion on his back. Somehow he managed to keep the saddle and guide the animal around to keep from trampling her.

  Kalo trotted to the stable door before Darion managed to halt the animal. He reined up and dismounted, rubbing the stallion’s neck to soothe him. Mounting a frightened horse had been a fool thing to do, and he should’ve known better. He was lucky the animal hadn’t thrown him.

  Darion handed the reins to Goam and turned back to find his wife standing with one foot beside a pile of smeared dung, her boot caked and her hair wild about her face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. In that moment, she looked so helpless—so weak and thin—that he could not help but pity her. When she spoke, her voice was pleading, as if all her cold pretense had melted away in an instant. “I only thought to please you, my lord. I can see now that I have not… nor may I ever.”

  Please me? he thought. Who does she think I am, some bloodthirsty barbarian? “You’ve not displeased me, my lady. You’ve surprised me, is all. I cannot say I’ve ever been one for surprises.”

  “That is something,” she said, wiping her eyes, “that I shall have to keep in mind.”

  He shrugged, armor squealing. “I suppose I never wanted to attend that wedding, in any case. Been to Laerlocke a hundred times. Never cared for the place.”

  “That is something else I never knew about you,” she said. “There are so many of them… things I don’t know about you. I’ve been wanting to, you see. You’ve never told me about your travels, or how you earned all these titles of yours. I never got to go on any of your adventures. Truth be told, I’ve never had a proper adventure in all my life.”

  “No such thing as a proper adventure. A dangerous one, yes. A foolhardy one, aye. This one is like to hit the target on both counts. Though it’ll be no more proper than kissing the boil on this horse’s arse.”