Human Mage: Book Three of the Highmage's Plight

by D. H. Aire

  The man laughed, “My dear Melane, what pleasure could such scrawny lads provide you?”

  “Oh, not for me,” laughed the obese Madame Melane, whose face was caked in makeup that made her look a caricature of a human being. “But wouldn’t they be a great addition to the House Menu?”

  Hands tied behind his back, Ruke blanched, remembering the lad with painted lips who had brought their change of clothing. He glanced at Andre dressed in a sheer gown, he could not help but stare at her budding womanly curves. It had been such a shock seeing her stripped, then presented with the clothes she was to wear. She— Andre a girl, it was almost impossible to believe. Embarrassed, he saw Andre glance at him, dressed in his tight garish tights with straps to his otherwise bare shoulders.

  He hastily looked away from Ruke, his face hot with shame. This might well become the life in store for him. His gorge rose, nauseated at the thought.

  Andre stiffened as the Prince caressed her cheek.

  “You are such a ‘delightful’ surprise, my dear. I wonder just how many girls your Pack must hide— the potential for exploitation offers much to consider.”

  Andre rasped, “You’re pathetic.”

  Melane went scarlet as the Prince slapped Andre across the face, then put his hands around her cheeks and pulled her mouth close and kissed her. She bit him, drawing blood.

  He thrust her away. “Hmm,” the Prince murmured, touching his cut lip with a sick smile. “This one might not be so bad, Melane.”

  “Being served regularly, will likely still that one’s treacherous mouth, my Prince.”

  Andre actually licked at the blood and chuckled, “Who will be served to whom?”

  Glaring, Melane walked over to Ruke and prodded him ungently. Ruke’s eyes bulged as she caressed his thigh, then patted his buttocks. “This one will be a favorite, I think... Do you suppose we should show them the menu I offer my clients?”

  “It would certainly prove educational; some of your ‘specialties’ are most spectacular.”

  There came a knock at the door, the meticulously dressed man entered. He frowned oddly at Andre, announcing, “My lord, the urchin Gallen has arrived.”

  “Delightful,” replied the Prince. “Have him brought in immediately.”

  “He’s not alone, sir.”

  “What? How many of the little creatures did he bring with him?”

  Ruke’s gaze danced and Andre licked her lips hungrily at the Mistress of the House. The woman frowned uneasily. This was not as much fun as she had been led to believe, but perhaps matters would improve. The Prince had promised her House a few morsels as punishment for the Pack’s insolent ways.

  “Surrounding the district are twenty-six urchins, and six professionals not in your pay.

  “What!” the Prince yelled.

  “Gallen has brought with him the man, Terhun,” the dark man continued, “the gentleman I briefly questioned last night—”

  “Who claimed to have no part in whatever plot the little schemer has involved himself with.”

  The man nodded with a darting glance at Andre, noting the blood on her chin dripping slowly onto her sheer gown. Andre met his gaze unflinchingly. The man steeled himself. He was a professional. He had done all he could for her. He could do nothing now... I must not involve myself, personally.

  “Do you wish me to bring them in now, M’lord?”

  “Oh, let’s not waste further time, Gabriol. Time for explanations are at hand.”

  The man bowed, then left the room to usher in their two guests. Andre and Ruke were never so happy to see two people in their lives— even if Gallen and Terhun were marched in, hands bound behind their backs.

  “Oh, an attractive pair—” Mistress Melane cooed, “I’ll take them instead of these two puny things, My Dear Prince.”

  The coachman stared as the horses slowed, then stopped of their own accord. He quickly pulled the brake into place as the door to the coach opened and out came the three dwarves, the man and woman.

  The merchant paused to lean on his staff and call up to the driver, “Oh, do be so kind as to wait here for us. We should not be long.”

  As the troupe marched off talking softly among themselves the coachman looked down at the broken reins in his hand, then around him into the too silent district of the Seventh.

  A wall of fog lay stretched across the street behind him, while thick gray clouds obscured much of the dim sunlight. He vaguely wondered how long it would take him to reattach the reins.

  “I said you will serve as rear guard and that you shall!” Cle’or rasped.

  Fri’il, not one to be deterred, heard a footstep behind them. She whipped her short sword about and found herself facing a quick to duck young boy, dressed in what appeared to be some of her apprentice garb.

  “Cle’or, what are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Clawd, busy day, I take it.”

  Fri’il looked from the lad to her mentor, then noticed the blade roughly concealed inside his sleeve. It was of Cathartan manufacture. “I hope you haven’t adopted him,” Fri’il muttered.

  “Worse,” Cle’or replied, “I seem to have adopted around fifty of them...”

  Colvin saw the signal being passed. Ebb’s squad moved forward across rooftops, taking up positions closer to the building Gallen and Terhun had been taken to.

  Clawd approached circuitously with Cle’or and someone dressed in black livery, armed with a short sword. “Colvin, recite positions noted,” requested his teacher, Cle’or.

  He smiled at their game, began the recitation, then that of the number they faced. Cle’or nodded satisfied that the lad had things well in hand, then casually ruffled Colvin’s hair, which he wore thicker than the Rule generally allowed.

  “I’ll open the way,” stated Cle’or, “all of you—” with a particular glaring emphasis on Fri’il, “stay here.”

  Taking a route that we keep her under cover, Cle’or paused to glance up at the pale falc circling above them.

  ‘I watch Fri’il.’ Raven’s mental whisper both assured and surprised Cle’or, who had not before been so addressed.

  “Watching may not be enough,” Cle’or muttered to herself, certain that all those times Je’orj had been talking to himself must have been contagious.

  Stievan had stopped Je’orj from marching blithely ahead into the seemingly empty streets. “This way will be safer, ManMage.”

  The Summoning was there, just in the back of his mind, urging him onward.

  “ManMage, Stievan?” George distantly heard himself ask.

  “You are the Man Mage, are you not?’ Stievan asked nervously, uncertain of himself as his dwarven companions stared, apparently holding their breath.

  Se’and recognized that unease. “Man Mage is as good enough a title. His true name is Je’orj Brad’ilee, Lord Sire by Bond to Great Catha itself— and Human Mage.”

  Dwarven Tett gasped, “Then he is the one foretold then, in truth!”

  “What?” George muttered even as his rapport deepened.

  Spiro glanced anxiously at Stievan then recited in an achingly beautiful sing-song voice, “‘A Man he shall be. The Man Mage shall come upon you in the Darkest Time. He shall be Dwarf-Friend, and a Lord of Legends. When Cathartans come again, naming Lord he who wields not Elvin Magery, but that which has been forever lost. Know then he the ‘Redeemer of Tane’ and all our Peoples. Beware the paradoxes he occupies— for contradictions hold the strongest power! Thus will the ManMage come to the Rue of every bane to Man’s kindred.’”

  Se’and gaped at the shy Spiro, who ended his recital red faced and flushed, “Ah, I trained as a Bard Priest once.”

  Stievan grinned at Spiro, while the others said, “Well done.”

  George had heard the prophecy once and instantly replayed it, Staff faintly glowing, as he drew on his rapport with his computer. A moment later, he concentrated on more mundane matters. He deepened his connection. The staff flared. Enrapport, he used the staff in primar
ily mode as his archeological training afforded him. His mind followed the scan fields, tracing indications of tunnels running beneath the streets. A rough map extended in his mind, showing what seemed to be a makeshift network that joined many of the buildings in the district. The tunnels did not seem to be uniform is shape or size, they turned away from sewer lines which parallel the streets above. That network must have taken years of secret excavation. The magical wardings were there before his inner sight, both shoring up the tunnels and as a magical defense.

  Stievan led them to a recessed doorway of a stout three story structure. He knocked softly and waited. “Who’s there?” asked a deep voice from within.

  “Geofrei, it’s your cousin Stievan and your new master, who would very much like to make your acquaintance, at this moment.”

  The door eased open and a dwarf armed with an axe faced them, then gaped and hurried to let them in. “Stievan, are you crazy! The Prince is playing some dark game and here you bring the last person I would ever want to see my family so!”

  George and Se’and had to duck their heads to enter the dwarf home, but found the room’s inner height to be quite comfortable.

  A younger dwarf aimed a crossbow at them cautiously, “Pop, are they really safe?”

  The Summoning flared, George’s legs buckled as Se’and rushed to support him. “Damn you, Alrex!” he cried.

  “Enough of your tricks!”

  The dwarven lad tensed to pull the trigger even as there came another knock at the door.

  “Probe,” George muttered to himself, then said, “it’s all right. But don’t ask me who he is.”

  Stievan hesitantly opened the door to face a grinning Priest. “Anyone here in need of spiritual guidance?”

  Behind him an urchin peered. “Uh, you may not believe this, but there was this naked little girl. She came up to us outside and told my young friend here that we should knock on this very door.”

  Se’and’s eyes widened. She looked at Juels, “You’re a friend of Raven’s?”

  The urchin nodded, eyes wide, “And, uh, of the Lady Cle’or, Milady.”

  Nodding, George sighed, “Yep, they’re with us all right.”

  Priest, dwarves, man, woman, and waif went down into the building’s cellar, pushed aside a handful of mortar-less stones in the wall. “Geofrei, close this up behind us,” Stievan warned.

  The dwarven family hurried to obey as the party entered the underground warren lit by the light George’s staff afforded. Geofrei was considering passing on the offered employment, if as stable a dwarf as Stievan could be drawn into such business as this.

  “Well, perhaps, dear Melane, you will forgive me, but I think another particular friend might enjoy feasting upon these wretches more,” mused the Prince, drawing a peculiar charm from his pocket. He showed the dark jewel, bound in silver and painted with enameled blackish red runes.

  Mistress Melane’s face flushed with a desire stronger than anything she had every otherwise known. “Do you know what this is?” sardonically smiled the Prince. “Behold my own personal magery— oh, it has its limits. I must go to seer or mage to scry, but in all other matters it is able to discern truth and other things, which suits me well.”

  “So, Gallen, tell me, has your Pack acquired a Patron? This man, perhaps? Oh, I’m aware he’s an Imperial Agent, but then again, there do seem to be quite a few wandering around out there these days... Tell me, Gallen. Or face my packaged devil.”

  “I have always kept my agreement with you,” Gallen replied, trying to concentrate. But it was so tiring, draining. “Our agreement states the Pack must Pay the Price each month without fail.”

  “That we have done. The Price is due you next week, and paid it shall be.”

  “You recognize the importance of paying the price, but what of all your other responsibilities to me?”

  Terhun grinned, “You’re making a mistake, Alfuster Clume.”

  Chagrinned, the Prince cried, “Where did you learn that name?!”

  “My, my, Alfuster, your name is well known in Imperial circles. After all, you reign over so beauteous a kingdom here.”

  Pale and worried about the Prince’s temper, Mistress Melane shouted, “Make him kneel and show his respect!”

  The Prince smiled and gestured to his men behind the pair. Terhun found himself thrown painfully to his knees. “Alfuster, I am ashamed,” Terhun laughed. “Ashamed to say that I must witness your ignorance and arrogance all in the same day!”

  “Oh, truly,” replied the Prince, maniacally. He held the charm higher, “Melane, my sweet, you should enjoy this.” Then he bespoke the elvish word that could not quite be understood by anyone else in the room.

  Fire flared in the center of the jewel’s ebony depths. Darkness rose from out of the charm, spewing forth seemingly from the Prince’s open palm.

  WHAT DESIRES MY MASTER? It declaimed as the enchanted darkness formed into the seeming of a giant.

  “Tell me if this man is, indeed, a member of the Imperial Service?” he asked, his eyes glowing redly at Terhun, while all those around him began to sweat profusely. The temperature in the room was rising rapidly, while the shape’s darkness glistened as if it were the shadow cast by a true fire.

  A MEMBER OF THE IMPERIAL SERVICE HE IS, MASTER.

  The Prince frowned, “Which service?”

  LYAI— IS HIS MASTER.

  “Oh,” chuckled the Prince, “not of member of the Aqwinian Branch, at all. How sad, then should he disappear there will be no one to remark upon it for some long months, I should think.”

  “Hmm, now for this one,” the Prince remarked about Gallen. “Has this lad betrayed me? Has he taken service outside our Contract?”

  The Creation of Darkness swelled, focusing its attention upon Gallen, whose head began to pound as the thing reached for his thoughts. Concentrate, concentrate. Maintain! “Answer me!”

  The darkness welled, hesitated, then stated, THERE BE NO LAD.

  The Prince pointed fiercely at Gallen. “He’s standing right there! Answer as you are bid!”

  The Darkness wavered, then moved forward of its own volition and without pause moved to the place that Gallen stood staring at it wide-eyed.

  “NO!” Ruke and Andre shouted as one.

  The darkness swallowed the image, brushing Terhun explosively aside with a groan of agony.

  Tunnels crisscrossed. George’s staff filled the space with a clear all encompassing reddish light. Stievan gestured, “That way should lead us there.”

  The Priest sniffed the air, then glanced down at Juels beside him. “Something truly foul is gracing the ether.”

  The waif swallowed, “The Prince is said to have a, uh, pet, Lord Priest.”

  “Oh, that Gallen knew about?”

  “It was mentioned in the Stories, Gallen would certainly know the tale.”

  George gazed back at the elderly man. The priest endeavored to smile at him reassuringly, while the dwarves nodded. “Pocket devil it is,” muttered the stoutest.

  “Is it not said, Spiro, that the ManMage will free us of all our Man’s banes?” said Stievan.

  The bard trained Spiro nodded, swallowing anxiously as he gripped his silvered sword more firmly, “It does not say anything about what might be sacrificed in the process.”

  Se’and frowned as she peered forward into the forward darkness. Stievan grimly gestured, “This way. It should not be much farther now.”

  The Summoning gently beckoned George and the staff he bore directly ahead.

  Cle’or cast. The hiltless throwing dagger took the first man in the throat. She cast a second time. A man at lookout from a high window slumped slightly forward, as far as those elsewhere might think, he might be still on guard.

  She moved forward.

  Fri’il not one to be left behind, moved ever so quietly back from Colvin, the urchin leftenant. Faintly smiling, Fri’il chose her own point of entry. Rearguard was she, well, she certainly intended to be. Movement
behind them caught her eye as she considered her destination. She turned, meeting the canny “Dagger’s” sudden charge at the exposed backs of the urchins.

  She blocked and parried his long knife, similar in many ways to her own short sword. The sound of clashing steel, parry and thrust, made Colvin hurriedly turn and cry out for aid. From above, another “dagger” dropped down upon them.

  Fri’il drew her dagger one handed and cast it, then two hands upon her sword once more smoothly parried her opponent’s hurried thrust.

  The man stared at the blood dripping from his sleeve as the other “dagger” fell, dead to the ground. Colvin lowered his unnecessarily raised blade and stared at Fri’il.

  The “dagger” thought to use his greater strength against her as he began to fall back to a hacking attack, which she instantly countered, using his leverage against him. Tripping, the man stared at his severed fingers even as Fri’il thrust past his dropped guard.

  “That, uh, was quite good,” Colvin muttered.

  Above them, Raven licked her furred paws clean. So messy, she thought to herself, oh, well, Fri’il need never know about these other two sprawled across the rooftop.

  Man Mage

  6

  Terhun’s men were seen as the greater threat. Some much more the Prince’s error, he thought. The men kept low and simply waited out crossbow bolts and sundry darts. It was not long before the rain of drugged needled steel stopped and an urchin, actually assigned to them, signed the all clear. It was with no small amount of chagrin that the men saw the squad of urchins pour themselves through the open windows of the House of Aqwinian Delights.

  “Shoulda been us,” muttered one.

  An older one slapped his shoulder, “You daft, man?”

  Cle’or pried past the lock, which was slowly opened from the inside. She readied her dagger. “If you stab me, Sister, father will never forgive you.”

  Hastily, Cle’or lowered the point, “Se’and, what took you so long?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t say,” she mumbled, stepping over an inconvenient body. “Do watch your step.”