Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “You must go,” said Sir Jalleth.

  “Stay close to her. I would stay, but—”

  “Go, Darion. I have her. Do what you must.”

  Darion left them standing there, his old master and his lady wife, both frail and defenseless. Judging by how close the bird had gotten to Alynor before he turned human, the spell around her was fading. Sir Jalleth would not remain a man for long. Darion did not think they were in danger, though. The true danger lay where he was headed.

  Through the rubbled doorway, Darion sprinted along the gallery, looking out through its wide arched windows onto the yard below. A section of the curtain wall had been blown out across the outer ward. The prince was stalking after the king while Triolyn lay motionless atop a heap of piled stone.

  Darion flew down a narrow spiral staircase and out a side door, then darted along a section of the curtain wall and down the straight stairs to the inner ward. Kestrel and Jeebo had distracted the prince’s attention and were circling round to engage him when Darion came alongside them. “This ends now, Rylar. If you kill Olyvard King, you’ll have proven yourself no better than he is.”

  Rylar spat out a few sharp-tongued words, then began to cast.

  “I don’t think he understood you,” Kestrel said, circling to the right.

  “What should we do?” asked Jeebo, circling left toward the curtain wall where Triolyn lay.

  “You’ve got the right idea,” said Darion. “Spread out and keep him unsteady. Perhaps we’ll catch him off-guard.”

  “How will we know if he’s off-guard?”

  “You won’t.”

  Chapter 29

  Alynor was still in the old bird’s arms when she heard another loud crash from outside. “We must go and help him,” she said, half a sigh. In truth, she could hardly stand on her own. She would rather have laid down than run after Darion, yet she could think of nothing else than finding her husband and making sure he did not come to harm.

  “Darion will be fine,” said Ristocule. Or Sir Jalleth. Whoever the man holding her truly was. “Rylar Prince is younger, and even a bit faster, yes. But your husband has the advantage of experience and wisdom.”

  “Wisdom will not keep him alive against the prince’s magic. We have to do something. You taught Darion everything he knows of magic. Surely you are a match for the prince.”

  Sir Jalleth hesitated. “I have grown too old for that, my dear. Twenty years of living in the body of a bird have seen my talents go stale. Besides, were I to join battle with the prince, you would need to stand beside me, lest I turn falcon again.”

  Alynor wanted to cry. She felt so helpless knowing how outmatched Darion and the others were out there. There must be something I can do, she thought, scanning the room. It was then she noticed a shape on the floor, just beyond the edge of the flames. It was long and smooth, reflecting the firelight with a pearlescent gleam. “Help me over there,” she said, pointing.

  Sir Jalleth tried to protest, but she moved before he could stop her. He held her by the arm and walked with her until she could crouch to pick up one of the ritual scrolls, a hard bone case over furled parchment. She unrolled it and began to read the script on the page, scrawled in Geddle’s hand. “Sir Jalleth, do you know these sigils?” She handed him the scroll and waited for him to look it over.

  “I know them. I can read them. But… my voice is not what it once was.”

  “Can you cast it?”

  He hesitated. “Mayhap.”

  “You must try.”

  “I would not know where to begin, my lady. Not without panpipes.”

  “Here, let me help you. Darion has been teaching me the tones.”

  “You?” Sir Jalleth almost laughed. His expression turned stoic when he saw the way she was looking at him. “Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to—”

  “Listen, Sir Jalleth,” she interrupted. “This is the first tone.” She hummed it for him, a long and steady note. She felt silly doing it, but this was too important to be shy about.

  Sir Jalleth echoed her.

  “There you are. Need I give you the second?”

  He gave her a dry look. “That’s quite alright. Now, how would you have me cast this spell?”

  “Why, isn’t it obvious? On the prince, of course.”

  “On the—oh, why yes. I suppose that would be helpful. Only, how would I deliver the spell once I’d cast it?”

  “You could take your own spell as a falcon, couldn’t you?”

  “Well, I… I don’t rightly know, my lady. I suppose Ristocule is still me, in a sense. Perhaps the bird could take a spell I’d cast.”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  “Indeed.” Sir Jalleth cleared his throat and began to cast.

  Outside, Alynor could hear the clash and clamor of battle. She could see bright flashes through the night, feel the tingle of mage-song moving and breaking. It disturbed her not to know what was happening, and she began to grow more anxious by the second.

  As Sir Jalleth intoned the ritual, Alynor found she recognized the tune, like an old song she hadn’t heard in years. It was not the same part Geddle had cast, but one of its counterparts; a harmony to the melody of the spell she was under now. When the old knight was done—a process which had taken entirely too long for her liking—the mage-song appeared at the edge of her ward, a distance now only a few feet away.

  “Now, let me move away,” she said. “You must become Ristocule and try to take it.”

  Sir Jalleth took a step forward. “And if I can?”

  “Then you must fly. Fly with all haste to Rylar Prince and touch him with it. It’s the only way to make him vulnerable enough for Darion and the others to defeat.” If any of them are still standing, she thought, but did not say.

  “As you say, my lady.” Sir Jalleth walked until his skin burst with feathers and his size diminished to a fraction. When he fluttered up to take the swirling mass of mage-song, it swelled over his talons and moved in his grasp.

  “It worked,” Alynor exclaimed.

  Ristocule took off through the gallery doorway.

  Alynor lifted her skirts and followed as fast as she could. She stopped in her tracks when she reached the gallery window and saw what awaited her below. Dathiri soldiers lay across the inner ward, battered and broken. Triolyn lazed on a pile of rubble near the curtain wall. Jeebo was lying face down in the grass while Kestrel stood a distance off, ragged and burned, both short blades in his hands. It seemed he’d managed to hold his own for a time, but now he was only a spectator in the fight between Darion and the prince.

  Ristocule perched on the windowsill, taking in the scene. Instead of flying out the window, he took off down the gallery hallway and disappeared down the tower staircase. Alynor was about to call after him, until she remembered Rylar Prince was more than capable of hearing her up here.

  Movement caught her eye across the ward, and she noticed a dark shape tiptoeing along the inner parapet. Moonlight bathed the figure in a silver sheen, and she saw it was the hooded druid Darion had called Partridge. He was sneaking up behind Rylar Prince as Darion had instructed, his miniature crossbow poised at the ready.

  The druid crouched and took aim. His crossbow twanged. Alynor saw the starry glint of the quarrel’s steel tip as it flashed toward the prince. She lost sight of it in the darkness, but when she looked down, Rylar was fighting on. The bolt was lodged in the ground, inches from his foot. A miss!

  Rylar had heard the twang of the crossbow, though. He flung a hand toward the inner parapet. The stone beneath the druid’s feet melted to putty. Partridge tried to grab hold of a crenel, but it was no use. He slid off the wall and tumbled through open air, landing on the outer platform with a crack that made Alynor wince. She held the scroll tight, looking for any sign of Ristocule.

  The bird did not come.

  With his other enemies slain or disabled, Rylar Prince was free to focus the whole of his energies on Darion once more. He began to drive the o
lder man back, step by step, spell by spell. The night flashed with the fires and pulses and bolts of their magic. Soldiers who came within sight simply stood and watched at a distance, either too afraid to engage or too confused as to whose side they ought to be on.

  Alynor felt Geddle’s spell wear off. She could not explain how she knew it was gone. It was as if she’d jumped into a deep river and felt the mage-song rush in around her like water. Since Ristocule still hadn’t come, Alynor decided she would have to deliver Geddle’s ritual herself.

  She unrolled the parchment and studied the sigils to be sure she could pronounce the names before she began. Geddle had done his work here; everything was annotated in great detail. Alynor wondered why, if spells were so intricate and difficult to memorize, mages didn’t simply carry around a pack full of scrolls like this one. She supposed some did; then again, those mages probably had a hard time casting spells in the midst of battle.

  Alynor began to speak the sigils.

  Rylar was backing Darion into a corner of the castle’s outer wall between the granary and one of the defense towers. She could see the sweat gleaming on Darion’s face whenever a spell flashed nearby. Yet his voice was calm and steady, even in the midst of chaos and under threat of death. The prince may have gained the upper hand, but Alynor saw then just how powerful her husband was. It isn’t that Darion is so far outmatched, she realized. It’s that he wants to keep Rylar alive.

  Darion gave ground slowly, step after step, until his back bumped the castle wall. With nowhere else to go, he began to slide sideways. Rylar blocked his only exit with a pillar of bluefire. Darion stumbled and fell. He called out to the prince, but Alynor couldn’t hear what he said. The prince returned some curse, then reached out to take the spell he’d just finished casting.

  That was when Ristocule dove from the sky in a silvery-white blur. He plummeted with no sign of slowing, straight toward the prince like a falling stone. Rylar swung out at the last second and knocked the bird aside with no more effort than if he were tossing a rag to the floor. Ristocule hit hard and rolled, flopping to a standstill.

  Alynor dropped the scroll and ran, taking the stairs two and three at a time until she reached the bottom and emerged into the inner ward. She slowed her pace as she crossed the yard, calling out to the young Korengadi Warcaster. “Rylar, stop,” she shouted, coming out to him.

  “Alynor, get back,” Darion warned. “He’ll kill you.”

  Kestrel was shouting at her from across the yard as well. Alynor did not stop. Though her heart hammered in her chest and she knew every step might be her last, she did not stop. The prince turned toward her, wary. He took a spell and held it at the ready.

  “Please, Rylar,” she said, knowing he would understand her manner, if not her words. “Please. Don’t hurt my husband.”

  The prince backed away, checking over his shoulder that Darion was still prone. He said something to her, softly. His eyes were cold, his expression bleak. Alynor took a step toward him. He thrust his spell in her direction.

  Nothing happened.

  There was no spell.

  Rylar looked at his hand, perplexed.

  “Darion,” said Alynor. “Help me.”

  Then she did perhaps the most un-ladylike thing she had ever attempted. She rushed toward the prince, who began to back away, startled. She dove at his knees and hugged them tight, holding on even as he flailed and stumbled over.

  Then Darion was there, and so was Kestrel, pinning Rylar to the grassy ground and wrenching his arms behind his back. It was a trial to subdue the hysterical prince, but they managed. A few minutes later he lay on the wet grass, bound and restrained. Now that the fighting was done, Dathiri soldiers were gathering round to take stock of the half-ruined castle. Kestrel began directing them to help the wounded and get the place tidied up.

  “What did you do to him, my lady?” Darion asked.

  “The ritual,” Alynor said. “The spell to lift the mage-song. I cast it on myself. Then all I had to do was get close enough.”

  “You are fortunate he let you get that close.”

  “He knew me from the dungeons. I think he trusted me, a little.”

  “He would’ve killed you.”

  Alynor smiled and gave Darion a nudge. “You were worried about me.”

  He looked at her curiously. “My lady… of course I was. I have been worried for you ever since I left you here at the castle.”

  “Yes, I remember it well,” she said, not without rancor.

  “I’m sorry, Alynor. I was wrong to have gone without telling you.”

  “Yes, you were. I’m very cross with you. How would I ever get on if anything happened to you?”

  “I kept thinking the same thing. Forgive me, my love. I should never have left your side.”

  Alynor was startled. “Careful, my dearest,” she said, looking around. “There are others in our midst. You wouldn’t want to forget your courtesies, I am certain.”

  “Courtesies be damned,” Darion said. He grabbed her and pulled her close. His clothes were thick with the smells of sweat and brimstone. Yet somehow, when he lifted her chin and brought her mouth to his, she did not mind.

  Chapter 30

  Had the king been a man of lesser birth, Darion might’ve heeded his urge to rid the world of him. A king like Olyvard was a danger to himself and his subjects. Yet he was the king, and there was no provision for removing a king from power unless one had a mind to be put to death for doing so. Olyvard had no sons, so the next in the line of succession was his cousin Octaryl, a man unfit to rule a pasture, let alone a kingdom. Thus, it seemed Dathrond was stuck with this reckless fool for the nonce.

  Darion was safe enough in Maergath now. Torrel Partridge and Geddle the Wise were dead, both men slain by Rylar Prince’s hand. Darion had made sure the druid was gone for good this time; he’d seen to the man’s burial himself. He had also arranged for Rylar Prince’s containment in a tower room instead of a dungeon cell.

  Through a translator, Darion had explained to Rylar that he was to be escorted to his father at the first opportunity. Darion had seen to this without the king’s knowledge, both to quell any escape the prince might attempt and to grant Olyvard a chance to save his kingdom with an act of good faith. Darion had taken no chances, casting Geddle’s ritual over the prince to prevent his use of the mage-song.

  As for Jeebo, Triolyn, and Ristocule, all three were wounded but in recovery, Jeebo being nearer to death than Darion had believed upon first seeing him. Rylar Prince had pierced the falconer with a stingdart spell, which had eaten nearly to his heart before it gave out. Had the mage-song been a few seconds newer, it might’ve been the end of him.

  The king’s throne was melted and sagging, but Olyvard sat surrounded by his advisors as though it were as pristine as ever. Darion stood at his right hand, guarding him as he had in the weeks before he left for the ford. Olyvard’s pardon had been swift and generous, given how Darion and his companions had saved his life. Yet as long as Rylar remained here at the castle, the realms were under no less threat than before.

  “There is no army, your majesty,” the messenger was saying.

  “What do you mean there is no army?”

  “The Hand of Suffering were waylaid by a force of Ice Dwarves as they attempted to cross the Grey Teeth from Barrowdale. They routed and scattered to the winds. No one will be coming to Maergath’s defense.”

  Darion thrilled at the thought of Gruske Frosthammer and his fierce warriors laying waste to the king’s brigands, but he dare not let a smile cross his lips.

  “Those treacherous Orothi mercenaries have fought their last. I’ll summon my Pathfinders and have them hunted down for their betrayal. Every one of them.”

  “There is a lesson to be learned here, your majesty,” said one of the king’s advisors, a bald man with a bulbous nose and a thick black mustache.

  “Oh yes? And what is that?”

  “Never pay an outlaw in advance.”

/>   Olyvard stewed, but said nothing.

  “The news gets worse, my king,” said the messenger.

  “How could it get any worse?”

  “It is, in fact, much worse.”

  “Get on with it, then.”

  “The Korengadi have broken through at the ford. Commander Palavar arrived this morning with the remains of his garrison. Rudgar King and his armies are no more than a day or two behind them, they say.”

  Olyvard swore. “Why did Palavar not report to me at once?”

  “He is… cowed, your majesty. He feels he has failed you.”

  “He has. It’s exactly what I expected him to do. Only I had intended on having an army with which to defend Maergath by the time the Korengadi arrived. Is that all the bad news you have for me, or is there more still?”

  “I am afraid there is more, your majesty. The army of Ice Dwarves… they have marched across Marlana’s Clearing and are attempting to cross the Dathiri River at Forandran. If they are successful, they will be here within the week.”

  “Ice Dwarves crossing the desert? Isn’t that a droll notion,” said another of the king’s advisors, a pot-bellied man with long gray hair and a hook nose.

  “I don’t care who they are or what they are crossing,” said the king. “They are a second army fighting for Korengad. That is far from droll.”

  “A third army, if you count Rudgar King’s allies from Berliac,” said a sharp, nasal voice from among the crowd.

  “I know about them already, you insolent fool,” snapped the king. “You are my advisors. I command you to begin advising me at once.”

  “You must return Rylar Prince to his father,” someone said. “There is no other way.”

  “Let me take him,” said Darion. “You cannot keep him here forever.”

  “You shall do nothing of the sort, Sir Ulther. I’ve seen how well you ruined things last time you took matters into your own hands. No longer. You shall remain here, and I should hope you will be more inclined to heed my commands this time.”

  “I saved your life yesterday,” Darion pointed out. “I can do you no better service than that.”