Star Mage (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 3)

by R. K. Thorne

  What she saw was carnage. The field before her, usually green and pleasantly pastoral, was now a sea of swinging swords and axes, grunts and groans, broken up by shields gleaming red with blood. Hoarse screams and savage battle cries rang out, horses stamped and reared, and the smell, gods, the smell. Blood and worse. She coughed, trying to block it out. Men and women lay crawling, flailing, dying… dead.

  She tried to reel her senses back, but their outcry of pain caught her like a wave, minds clinging to what life energy they could, groping for it in the air with all the desperation of death. One light winked out, suddenly falling still. Then another, drained nearly dry before they gave up from the pain and agony of it all.

  This was just what Sefim had warned her of. Creature mages killing the injured to heal the living.

  How could they do it—how could they—

  Her eyes flicked to the far line, to the Tall Master, some instinct telling her something was wrong. His arm pointed in her direction as he shouted orders. She looked to the cluster of healers, several of whom were breaking off and transforming.

  She’d stopped too long. They were coming for her.

  She turned and raced Trenor back behind the Akarian cavalry, but deep down she knew that as the only mage on the entire Akarian side, their magic would always help them find her. Always.

  Hiding was buying her nothing.

  At the end of the cavalry line, she turned Trenor toward the battle, and together they surged forward. Skirmishes filled the field, and Trenor leapt over one fallen man only to dodge right as another two swordsmen staggered in their direction.

  If she could make it to the Tall Master before the creature mages made it to her—

  Wind blew furiously, swirling above her, the sky crackling with energy, and she cursed. Spotting the air mage, she seized him again and twisted him anew. A flea this time. Let them find that in the chaos.

  Her victory was short-lived. The largest eagle she’d ever seen dove from the sky above, its scream piercing her ears in pain. She ducked close to Trenor, but the transformed mage didn’t falter, scratching at her back, trying to claw her off.

  It relented, gaining air again, but then she felt something leap and collide with her side, knocking her from the horse—and the sword from her hand.

  The heavy, furry thing came down on top of her. She writhed, determined to get away, but a large paw came down on her neck, claws just barely drawn enough for her to feel them.

  She froze, the message clear. She could heal a lot of things, but not a neck wound. She blinked up at a large orange and white cat, its head easily the size of a shield.

  Miara, it’s me. Don’t react.

  Her eyes widened. The voice was Sefim’s.

  He’s ordered us to bring you back. So he can take you back to the Dark Master. A trophy, I think.

  No chance she was letting that happen.

  What are we going to do? he whispered to her.

  I don’t know. Get me closer, and I’ll try something.

  He didn’t acknowledge her, but he got up, transforming back into himself. The eagle landed beside them and twisted back into a human woman, except that she kept her talons. Grasping the back of Miara’s neck with them none too gently, the mage grabbed Miara’s arm and pulled her forward. Sefim grabbed the other and followed along, stoic as always.

  Miara had made it well beyond the main line of fighting, although not to the Kavanarian reserves just yet, so they had a fairly uninterrupted march. That is, except for the dozen other creature mages that had been after her circling around her and closing in. Just when she’d gotten used to having guards to protect her, now she had ones who wanted to skin her alive.

  They marched her straight up to the Tall Master. Miara noted with a slight bit of satisfaction that the air mage had not returned to his mount. Hopefully he was still a tiny jumping creature somewhere on that horse’s hide.

  “Well, well,” said the Tall Master, smiling darkly. “Thought you could get away, did you?”

  She spat at his feet. The former eagle mage tightened the talons behind her neck ever so slightly.

  Miara’s mind raced. She was free. Sefim was free. Surrounded by enemy creature mages. What spell could she work that there weren’t ten more here to undo? Even with Sefim’s help, they were outnumbered.

  “Where is the brand?” he demanded.

  She stared him down, saying nothing. She could lunge for him and try to take him down with her. She couldn’t expect to live with so many adversaries, but if one less Master was in the world, perhaps it would be worth her death. But it would have been such a short taste of freedom for one life…

  If Aven were here, he’d use the star map. She pursed her lips. Of course, that didn’t help her. She wasn’t an air mage, and it was day, not night. But he’d had a point, she could see it now. At that moment, she’d have tried anything to stop the Tall Master—even slavery.

  “Search her,” he ordered. She had no idea what he thought they were looking for, but Sefim obliged, looking excessively thoroughly over her cloak. “And bring me a stone. Tell me where the brand is, and I’ll consider protecting you from the Dark Master.”

  She only narrowed her eyes further.

  He stepped closer, looming over her and casting her form in shadow. “You wish to kill me,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. This is why your kind must be enslaved. Corruption? Deviance? It’s all priestly poppycock. It’s because you’re dangerous. You can’t handle freedom.”

  “Seems to me you can’t handle mastery,” she whispered.

  “Ah, finally she speaks. I thought you might have lost your tongue. Now tell me—the brand.” He reached out and seized her neck with one hand, fingers slowly tightening.

  Lost your tongue. She caught her breath. That was it. If he couldn’t give orders, the mages wouldn’t be bound to help him. If she could silence him or kill him quickly enough…

  She closed her eyes, feigning pain but truly to concentrate. Reaching down into the earth, she summoned a single vine, coiling it and building up its strength even as his fingers slowly tightened against her skin.

  Sucking in a breath, she struck, launching the vine from the ground as fast as she could manage. It caught the Tall Master at the throat, wrapping around insidiously and pulling tight.

  She opened her eyes. The vine yanked him down to the ground savagely as his hands left Miara and clawed at his neck. She tore power from Sefim to strengthen the vine as it clenched tighter against the earth. Luckily, the talons at her neck were frozen still, the eagle mage staring in wonder.

  But, no—she could feel the Tall Master fading, but it wasn’t enough. He might pass out from lack of air, but how long would that take? How much strength from her would it require? No, it was time to end this.

  Ripping another vine from the ground, she gripped his head from another angle and twisted. She winced at the sickening crack as his neck broke.

  The eagle mage’s grip loosened on her arm. Sefim stared down darkly at the still body. For a long moment, none of them moved, and it seemed the whole world had gone still.

  OF ALL THE places Daes had traveled, Akaria hadn’t often been his destination. Although he’d ridden through Akaria to reach Takar a few times, he’d gone by ship much more often. None of his trips had taken him through the White City.

  Now, though, the road finally opened up from the forest, and he could see the city in the distance, a long and mostly flat plain full of grain fields between him and his prey. The towers rose up boldly before him, spires of white defiant against the sea and dusky horizon beyond. A worthy adversary, for once. But one he would still crush under his heel. The cold, bitter wind whipped around him, as if excited on his behalf, encouraging him. The sun was setting on the Akarian kingdom, and in its place, Daes would build something new. Something great.

  Yes. This was his time now.

  The Akarian capital’s walls were maybe four men high, just as his reports had showed, and the three gates
were all where he’d expected them. Good. No failures there. Not yet at least.

  “Vusamon!” he called out. The general rode up to his side. “Are you ready for a battle, my old friend?” Daes took a deep breath, almost tasting the anticipation in the air.

  “As ever, Lord Consort.”

  “Please. No formalities on the field. I’ll be dead before you can tell me what I need to know.”

  Vusamon snorted, smiling a little. “I am ready. The men are ready. But night will fall within the hour. Shall we camp and wait for the morning? Let them stew in their fear?”

  Daes frowned, shifting uneasily. Night was when the stars were out. When the star magic would be at its greatest. When he suspected they’d use it to free more mages. Could they free his whole force in the night, stealing away his advantage and leaving him to pummel the city with only swords, sticks, and rocks? They hadn’t even brought artillery, as it would have slowed them down. They shouldn’t need it. Assuming the slaves remained slaves.

  “No,” he said quickly. “That’s what they’re expecting. They’ll use it to heat oil, load artillery. To prepare. Let us begin.”

  “But my lord, the men need rest. Marching all day, and four days straight—”

  “They got to rest at every lovely break in the road my mages had to fix. But let them rest here on the road. We’ll send the mages first and pummel them at night. Hold our soldiers in reserve. Maybe they’ll even think we’re camping—until they’re dead.”

  Vusamon grinned. “As you wish, Lord Consort.”

  “I told you, don’t call me that in battle.”

  “We’re not in battle yet, Lord Consort.” And then with a broad grin, he angled his horse toward the mage leaders and lieutenants. “But soon.”

  “YOU KILLED HIM,” whispered one of the mages.

  The stillness of the area around Miara hung in sharp contrast to the clashes and screams of the battlefield behind them. Every mage stood stone still, the wind blowing the stench of the battlefield past them. Their cloaks flapped against their legs. Thunder broke over their heads from the storm the air mage had stirred—or was still stirring.

  “She killed him,” another whispered. “What does that mean?”

  The question pushed her into action. She ripped her eyes away from the Tall Master and glanced around. “It means you’re free. Or you will be. Now heal the Akarians,” she ordered. Sefim met her eyes, his expression a mix of darkness, sympathy, and hope. The other mages glanced around nervously at each other.

  “Now!” she snapped. “We’re putting an end to this madness, now.”

  One turned immediately, then another followed. A third caught her eye.

  “Can we bring back Rikor?”

  She frowned, not understanding.

  The mage pointed at the horse. “Our air mage.”

  “If he’s not going to cause trouble.”

  “He won’t.” The mage inched closer to the horse, looking around for her friend. A few moments later, the rescued air mage twisted into a human form once again. He eyed Miara warily, shrinking against the horse.

  Are we going to have a problem? she asked silently.

  Are you going to kill me? he replied.

  No. As long as your mission to kill me has ended.

  Indeed, it has.

  Clear up the sky then.

  Yes, my lady.

  Interesting. A Kavanarian wouldn’t know the meaning of the emerald. But she was handing out orders like she owned the place.

  Which, now that she thought about it, she did.

  “Are you all right?” Sefim asked.

  “Yes,” she said briskly. “But we have to end this battle.” She spotted the mage-knots on the Tall Master’s belt. Bending down, she took the knots and his belt too and wrapped it around her waist. Strictly speaking, she didn’t need the knots, because she hoped not to command these mages ever to do anything other than stop fighting. But she certainly couldn’t have it falling into anyone else’s hands. She tied the leather knot and strode to the air mage’s horse, mounting as he backed out of the way. The soldiers still fought, but now some on both sides were healing.

  A battle that could go on forever, people only dying when someone got lucky. Was that more horrible or less?

  She charged forward through the line, taking no time to introduce herself to her poor mount while men and women were dying. “Stop!” she shouted. “It’s over! Stop!”

  A few paused, but most opponents took that as an opening, and it left her words having little impact.

  “Stop,” she barked, shouting now with both mind and voice at once. “I command you to stop!” She stretched out her mind over the battlefield, steeling herself against the pain and horror and suffering emanating up from the ground.

  I command you. Stop at once.

  She had rarely talked to two minds at once. Screaming out her words to all of them was far from easy, or pleasant, and the staggering drain of energy hit her almost immediately, but she reached for the mages to replenish her. They’d stolen most of that energy anyway.

  This war is unjust. Akaria has done nothing. Your leader is dead. Kavanar is defeated. These slaves will be freed. You, soldiers, lay down your arms and surrender.

  Around her, slowly, some of them began to comply. Across the field, a flash of blond caught her attention. Warden Asten caught Miara’s eye, and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Asten nodded, her face grave but proud. Miara turned her eyes back to the field of fighters.

  I will be your queen. I will not be denied. The mages are mine now and under my protection. They will no longer heal you. Fight till you’re dead, kneel and surrender, or turn your tail and run. It does not matter to me.

  She raised her voice to a deafening roar. Drop. Your. Swords. Surrender!

  Around her, wide-eyed soldiers staggered away from their weapons, abandoning them in the morass. One mage stumbled, another slumped against a companion, as she drained energy fast and hard. A handful of soldiers turned and ran, and more than a few cavalry at the edge of the battle headed for the hills. The thuds and clangs of weapons dropping were dull, muted by the squishing mud.

  But they were the sweetest sounds she’d ever heard.

  WHAT THEL WOULD HAVE GIVEN for a creature mage right about then. His plan would be a lot easier if he could just be a small fox. A white one, preferably, to blend in with the snow. Or maybe a snow owl. Or a smaller white bird…

  As it was, he was a dark blob of brown cloak that barely blended in with the trees. Low brambles abounded in the forest, and so they stayed hunched over, even crawling, as they inched closer to the Kavanarian troops.

  They seemed to have stopped. Were they making camp? The sun was rapidly setting, so he supposed that made sense. They’d wait till morning to attack, hovering menacingly outside of Panar before striking.

  He squinted at the troops and flattened himself against the ground, and Niat followed suit beside him. Neither of them were particularly stealthy, but being “scrawny” did have some benefits on occasion.

  Time to give his ridiculous plan a shot.

  His mind slid out from him, following the dirt, tracing along root and rock and rivulet toward the camp and then down along the road. He followed until he reached the most southern troops, and then he groped upward, reaching for anything that felt made of the earth.

  A sword. He found a sword and infused it full of energy. It had to be blazing hot now, but it could also be in a scabbard. And he was going to have to heat way more than one sword before anyone would take much notice.

  It was hard, slow, painstaking work, but soon he saw Niat’s eyebrows twitch. She smiled and glanced toward him, nodding. She must have heard something he didn’t. He didn’t see anyone remotely near them, so he let his mind expand back out into the earth and kept going.

  The murmurs among the troops picked up, and soon some of them were speaking rapidly. Others were rushing back farther north into the camp.

  Buying hi
m some space. Away from Panar. Good.

  He met Niat’s eyes, giving her a significant look, and she nodded once sharply. He returned the nod and then trained his eyes back on the camp—or more specifically, the land just beyond it.

  He inhaled slowly, pulling in energy from the warmth of the earth as he went. Filling himself fuller and fuller, he reached farther down, until the warmth grew hot. Angry. Restless. He could feel its pent-up tension like it was a crick in his shoulder. Liquid pressed hard against solid rock, locked in an endless battle, no relief in sight.

  But he could offer relief, couldn’t he? Following the convoluted description from the book, he reached down gently and created an opening. Pushing the earth apart just slightly. Then a little further. Then more, each time widening the gap beneath the ground. The liquid rock flowed and surged, following his path.

  He could bring it farther. He could set it free.

  In one final, wrenching blow, he cleaved the earth, and the hot, molten rock surged up and out, filling the broad canyon he’d torn in the rock and soil. The sides of the canyon surged up, but even still, the hot, liquid rock kept coming.

  Screams from the camp told him they’d noticed—and that the bright-yellow rock was flowing over the heightened edges of the canyon.

  He wrenched it farther, for good measure. He couldn’t see it with his eyes, but if his mind’s estimate was accurate—which was a big if—the canyon full of molten earth was at least four horses wide.

  Another wave of rock surged over the sides, bigger this time. And there was no sign of it stopping… He glanced around. The encampment was transfixed by his handiwork.

  “C’mon,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Another wave of hot rock rushed up from closer to the earth’s center and poured over the canyon’s rim, Yes, that was much too close for his tastes, even at a few dozen yards away.

  She grabbed his hand, tugging his mind out of the earth and back into his body, and they ran as fast as their legs could carry them.