Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

His first sign of trouble came when he tried to exit the keep. All its doors had been sealed off for the night, so he climbed out a low window and made for the postern gate near the stables. A single guard stood before the arched doorway, whose high wrought-iron gate granted access between the castle’s inner and outer wards.

  “I’m off to the tavern for a drink,” Darion explained when he saw the guard eyeing him.

  The guard said nothing.

  As Darion passed through the gate, he could swear he saw the man gesture to someone atop the castle’s interior wall. I’m only seeing things, he told himself.

  There was just one more postern gate to get through before he was outside the castle. Hurrying along beneath the shadow of the wall, he could hear the click of footsteps on the stone parapet above. He glanced up to see a guard signaling to someone on the outer battlement.

  Panic struck him when he rounded the corner to see Dathiri soldiers assembling at the postern gate. He continued in that direction, hoping the soldiers were gathering for some other reason but knowing it was unlikely.

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go any further, Sir Ulther,” said the garrison commander, standing at the front of the assembly.

  Darion stopped a few feet from him. “I would visit the tavern for a drink. Am I a prisoner here? If so, it would appear his majesty has forgotten to lock me in his dungeons.”

  “The gates will reopen at dawn,” the man said. “You may leave the castle at that time.”

  “I must report to the king at dawn,” said Darion. “And I’m thirsty now.”

  “For his majesty’s safety, I am unable to let you leave.”

  “If his majesty’s safety is your primary concern, perhaps your men should be on the walls where they belong, instead of down here staring at me.”

  The commander shifted on his feet. “That’s quite a sword you’ve brought for a brief visit to the tavern.”

  “It’s the same one I always bring,” said Darion. “A sword does one no good sitting at home.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the commander, “you must return to your bedchamber.”

  Darion grasped the hilt with a casual hand. “You’re braver than you ought to be, commander. I’m impressed.”

  The commander reached for his own sword, but did not draw. “I won’t say it again, Sir Ulther…”

  “No,” Darion agreed. “You won’t.” He began to chant. “Koll. Prar. Inji. Kovl. Caiel. Ninm. Norn. Shadh.”

  The commander drew. His guards leveled their spears and moved to surround Darion.

  The mage-song woke, a bright sparkling globe in the darkness. When Darion lifted his hand to grasp it, all other sound faded away to nothing.

  He spread his fingers. White light flared from his palm, followed by a burst of wind so strong it knocked the soldiers backward like a hammer to the chest.

  Darion left the semicircle of recumbent soldiers groaning where they lay and strode through the postern gate. Pride and dread twisted within him like two strands of a pernicious braid; his practice had paid off, yet he had used his newly regained skill to subvert the king’s own soldiers. It needed to be done, he convinced himself. This is my chance to redeem myself for years of falsehood. My chance to save the realms for good and true.

  He hugged the castle wall until he came to the path leading out of the city and into the foothills of the Mountains of Driftwater. There he made his winding way toward the distant docks on the shores of the Maergath Sea. The moon bathed the landscape in a silver sheen, lighting his way as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  An hour’s brisk walk brought him within sight of the seashore, and another quarter-hour took him to the dockside, where a dozen ships of various size lay at rest. All was quiet save the lapping of water against the boats and the gentle crash and fizz of waves running along the shoreline.

  Two men sat in silence on the deck of a small fishing boat, drinking horns of ale from a keg propped beneath a hanging lantern. They were the only people in sight, so Darion approached them and offered a wave of greeting. The younger of the two men waved back; the elder craned his neck and squinted for a better look.

  “I mean you no harm,” Darion said amiably. “I’m looking for a boat to take me across the sea. Do you happen to know if any of these might be for hire?”

  “At this time of night?” said the old man. “Unlikely.”

  “It’s an urgent matter. I can pay gold for the trouble.”

  The old man set his horn on the side table and leaned forward. “What kind of urgent matter?”

  “I am a servant of the realms,” Darion explained. “I am bound for the Dathiri Ford.”

  “Have you not heard? The ford is under siege.”

  “I know. I mean to end it.”

  Both men laughed.

  “You? All by yourself?” asked the younger.

  Darion hesitated. He hadn’t wished to resort to name-dropping, but he was in a hurry. Alynor’s attempt had worked well enough on the rivermen in Falcon Falls. “I am Sir Darion Ulther. A Warcaster. I have come to put a stop to this madness.”

  “A Warcaster, is it? Well then, why don’t you fly? Or summon a mighty winged roc to carry you there?”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Darion.

  “Sure it isn’t,” said the old man. He snatched up his horn and raised a mocking toast. “Good morrow to you, Sir Warcaster.”

  “Magic cannot solve every problem,” said Darion. “I know a respectable number of spells very well, and several others which I could awaken given time and effort.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” said the man. “Be off with you, and leave us in peace.”

  “As you will,” Darion muttered. He started to move off along the docks, but the younger man’s voice halted him.

  “Wait, father. I know that man’s name. Excuse me, sir. Come back.”

  Darion turned.

  The young man was standing up now. “Just a moment, sir. Might we speak a moment longer?”

  Darion returned to where he had been standing before.

  “You are Sir Darion Ulther, you said.”

  “I am, and that is no lie.”

  “Sir Darion Ulther smote the Ogrelord of Galyria with his mighty blade, Bloodcaller. If you were Sir Darion, you would possess the blade the legends speak of.”

  Darion did not wish to draw attention to himself. Neither did he wish to make his whereabouts known to the king or his soldiers. But if it helped him find a way across the sea, he would show them he was who he claimed to be.

  Wordless, he drew his sword and uttered the sigils of a simple spell. When he touched his palm to the crossguard, the blade erupted in shimmering golden light like a sea of falling stars. He lifted Bloodcaller high to let it shine from hilt to tip.

  The old man shrieked in astonishment. Both men covered their eyes and shied away as Darion’s light radiated across the nighttime beach. He sheathed the blade and came a few steps closer. “I will break the armies of Korengad and Berliac and send them fleeing for home,” he promised. “I will free Dathrond from these invaders and set us on the path to peace, if only I can reach the ford before it is too late.”

  “Why don’t we take him, father?” asked the young man.

  The elder shook his head. “We’ve a hard day’s fishing ahead of us tomorrow, Cale. There isn’t time.”

  “We’ll be fish food ourselves if the Korengadi break through the ford,” said Cale. “Those barbarians are naught but thieves and rapers.”

  “Mind your tongue, son,” the old man tried.

  Cale was vehement. “How many days of fishing would it take to put gold in our pockets? More than it will take us to ferry him across the sea, surely.”

  The old man pondered. He turned a squinting eye toward Darion. “You have gold, you say? How much?”

  “I’ll pay a gold piece for every day it takes to get there,” Darion offered.

  “And one for every day back,” the old man countered. “We’ve our losses on
the return voyage to consider.”

  “An extra five gold for the journey back,” Darion agreed.

  A smile crept over the man’s face. “Congratulations, spellsword. You’ve just hired yourself a boat.”

  Chapter 18

  Alynor Mirrowell was livid, and had every right to be, as far as she was concerned. Last she remembered, her husband had gone to use the privy in the middle of the night. She’d rolled over and fallen back to sleep, expecting his return at any moment. When she’d opened her eyes to find herself alone in the bedchamber with morning light streaming through the window to illuminate the missing sword and gleaming armor in the back corner of the room, fear had run through her like a bolt of lightning. She’d dressed herself before opening the chamber door to speak with the guards in the hallway outside.

  “Did you see my husband leave here last night?” she asked.

  “No, milady,” said one.

  “Were you nightblind, or only sleeping?” she snapped.

  “We only arrived an hour ago, milady,” the other informed her. “The overnight guards did say they’d seen him leave. Word round the castle is he’s gone missing.”

  “Is that for a certainty?” she’d muttered dryly, storming past them. “What do they pay you people for, anyway?”

  Alynor had sought the king and queen in their chambers, but found the way heavily guarded. She sent word of Darion’s disappearance and received a message in return that the king had been notified and would meet her in the great hall in an hour’s time. She was surprised she hadn’t worn a hole through the soles of her slippers by the time Olyvard King arrived nearly two hours later.

  “It is a most unfortunate thing, Lady Mirrowell,” the king said as he entered the throne room backed by a retinue of guards in place of his usual throng of advisors.

  “There you are,” she said, on the verge of insolence. “Where is my husband?”

  “I was hoping you might tell me,” said the king. “It would seem Lord Ulther has grown no less brazen in his old age. He attacked a contingent of soldiers in the yard early this morning. He escaped before anyone could detain him.”

  “Escaped?” she said. “I was unaware my husband had anything to escape from.”

  “These are times of war, Lady Mirrowell. I’ve decreed that the castle is to remain sealed from entry or exit between dusk and dawn, except by my leave. Lord Ulther did not have my leave.”

  “Surely you do not believe he attacked your soldiers unprovoked,” she said. “He must’ve had good reason for leaving the castle.”

  “There is no excuse for treason, Lady Mirrowell.”

  “Have you any idea where he might’ve gone? Have you sent anyone after him?”

  “It is believed Lord Ulther makes for the Dathiri Ford by sea. I have sent men after him, yes. One, in particular, is rather skilled in such matters.”

  “You mean to have him killed.”

  Olyvard laughed. “Worry not. Your husband will be brought back alive. We simply cannot have him casting spells where it is not warranted, so I’ve sent someone who can ensure his compliance.”

  “You would bring him here by force? Has he suddenly become your enemy?”

  “Your husband is a traitor to the crown,” the king said matter-of-factly. “He has defied my command and left me without his protection. By putting my life in jeopardy, he has done worse than any assassin.”

  Alynor knew a scrap of poor logic when she heard it. The king wasn’t telling her everything. Yet she dare not speak out against him, or his majesty might find her in contempt as well. If Darion had gone to the ford, it was to break the siege and end the war, she knew. She only hoped the ship that carried him was faster than the king’s men.

  Despite knowing the truth of Darion’s past, Alynor would’ve liked to think of her husband the same way everyone else did. Champion of the Realms, they called him. Savior. Protector of Orothwain. But he wasn’t. He simply wasn’t that man. She wanted to believe in him—to believe he could win this war for Dathrond. That he could turn the tide of battle and send the Korengadi fleeing. But if he had never truly saved the realms all those years ago, what made him think he could do so now? “I should like word brought to me when my husband is found, if it please you, your majesty.”

  “I shall do better than that, I hope,” said Olyvard King. “I shall send Lord Ulther himself to you when he is found.”

  Alynor’s heart was pounding in her chest. She did not like the look on the king’s face, or his tone of voice, but she gave him a low curtsy and said, “You are most gracious to do so, your majesty.”

  “As you say, Lady Mirrowell. Guards. Show Lady Mirrowell to her cell.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Guards flanked her to either side and stamped their spears. They made no move to touch her, but her heart beat faster all the same. Where is my husband when I truly need him? she thought. Sailing the Maergath without me. Going to war; doing what he came here to do. She knew he only wanted to do something good, but he’d chosen a rather reckless way to go about it.

  “You ought go with them now, Lady Mirrowell,” said the king. “I do not wish to make a spectacle of this.”

  “What is my crime?”

  “You are married to a traitor.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “It is your potential for wrongdoing which condemns you, Lady Mirrowell.”

  “You think me unfaithful to the crown because my husband is?”

  “Do you swear that in all things, you will forsake your husband to serve the realm with unyielding loyalty?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated.

  “That is all the answer I need. Take her.”

  The guards cuffed her upper arms with gloved hands and pulled her away from the throne. She cried out, but the king paid her no mind. He was already doling out his next set of commands to the remaining guards. Alynor fought them all the way through the room, wriggling free of their grasp once they were outside the doors. They let her walk ahead the rest of the way, directing her when necessary.

  The dungeon stairs were dark and smelled of wet things. When they opened the door at the bottom, the smell grew worse. They brought her to the end of a long arched hallway and through a second door, where a wide circular room served as junction to several narrower offshoots. They took one.

  At the far end of a corridor lined with thick wooden doors, a smaller door led into an isolated chamber divided by iron bars. A spotted old man appeared from the recesses, keys rattling on his belt. He was scrawny and withered, but when Alynor saw the small leather case on his belt molded into the shape of panpipes, she knew appearances were deceiving.

  “My, my,” said the man, in a voice as dry and cracked as old leather. “The young Lady of the Greenkeep has come to pay us a visit. Old Geddle will make her feel at home.” He chuckled to himself as he unlocked one of the cells and stood by while the guards prodded Alynor into it. He swung the door shut, then sent the guards on their way.

  “How do you know who I am?” Alynor asked him.

  “Old Geddle knows,” he rasped. “Geddle the Wise, they call me. I often know. Yes. I do.”

  “Did the king tell you to expect me?”

  Geddle shook his head and pointed. “He did.”

  A man sat slumped against the rear wall of another cell. Long black hair hung past his thin shoulders, cascading over a tabard which was little more than a tatter of red linen. Alynor assumed the crimson color to be blood at first, but in the faint glow from the high windows she could make out the emblem stitched there. The white ram’s head of Korengad.

  “Who is he?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “Korengad’s very own Rylar Prince,” said Geddle.

  “This is the great Warcaster I keep hearing about?”

  “Not so great anymore, I’ll wager,” Geddle said with a chuckle.

  “How long has he been captive here?”

  Geddle scratched
his chin. “Oh, nigh on a year now. Maybe longer.”

  Alynor suddenly felt faint. She understood now. The King of Korengad did not come all this way to invade Dathrond and destroy the realms. He came here to rescue his son. “Why has the king imprisoned him?”

  “You’re asking questions with dangerous answers, milady.”

  “I would have you answer them nevertheless.”

  “I’m not at leave to do that.”

  “Does the prince know why he’s here?”

  Geddle shrugged. “Don’t know. I can’t understand a word he says.”

  “How did he tell you I was coming if you cannot understand him?”

  “The language of magic is the same for us all, no matter our native tongue.”

  “You can use the language of magic to communicate?”

  “Not much point in a language that doesn’t say anything. Is there?”

  “I just—I didn’t think the sigils had any meaning, except in the casting of spells.”

  “They don’t.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All spells have meaning. All spells have intent. A fire spell intends to burn. A light spell intends to illuminate. A foretelling spell intends to foretell.”

  “You’re saying the prince predicted my imprisonment with magic?”

  “Not so much predicted as made a lucky guess.”

  “If he’s such a powerful Warcaster, why didn’t he escape a long time ago?”

  “I may not look like much, milady. But that’s why I’m here. To keep the prince in his cell. He cannot cast a single spell for as long as I maintain the ward over him. Like most spells, it runs out after a time. Thus, it requires repetition.”

  “You’ve been down here for a year, casting the same spell over and over again, just to keep the prince from escaping?”

  Geddle nodded. “Every day at dawn, I recite the incantation. He can cast all the spells he likes, but the ward keeps the mage-song out of his reach. It’s quite the arrangement we’ve worked out, eh?”

  “How did he tell you I was coming if he can’t take the mage-song?”

  “He cast a spell and let me take it for him. I’ll admit, I thought it a trick at first. But when he looked at me with those sad eyes of his, I knew he must be trying to tell me something.”