Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3)

by Chris Hollaway

  They had gone through the house and packed away everything that was small enough to take, and useful or valuable enough to barter away later, when the boy returned with his father.

  “What’s all this nonsense?” the man demanded, jumping down from his horse to glare at Martin and Bertus.

  “The offer is good, but I don’t see what we asked for,” Bertus snapped.

  “The boy was…”

  “Telling the truth? Yes.”

  “I’ll have to…”

  “This delay was not part of the bargain,” Bertus scratched his arm, drawing the man’s attention to his sword-brand. “I have the authority to seize anything I may require, in the name of Prince Alacrit. I had hoped to avoid doing that.”

  The boy, who had already dismounted and was helping Alma finish packing, turned his head to conceal a smile.

  “I’m sorry, many pardons,” the man stammered. “I accept, I’ll prepare…”

  Bertus’s icy gaze followed the man as he fumbled with the reins and climbed unsteadily back into the saddle. “Hurry,” the Seeker hissed.

  Hours later, Bertus directed Martin and Alma off the track near the beginning of the high mountain pass that led out of the North Valley. “That’s far enough for today,” he announced. “It’s best to start out easy, get used to the road.”

  “We’d not make the top of the pass before nightfall, at any rate,” Alma agreed. “Besides, the ‘Dancing Sheep’ is less than a day’s ride from here.”

  “Kevon made it sound like no one…”

  “Things have changed since Kevon was here last,” Martin said, swinging down from his horse and stepping over to help Alma dismount. “I went halfway to Eastport already this year to get a new ram for our flock.”

  Alma cupped Martin’s face in her hands. “We made it through last winter. We’ll make it through this.” She laughed. “Whatever this is.”

  Suddenly self-conscious, Bertus led the horses a short distance away and began caring for them as the others lit a campfire and started preparing supper.

  * * *

  “You never really mentioned what this is all about,” Martin commented, brushing stray breadcrumbs from his tunic as he finished his meal. “We’ve taken this all on faith. I think it’s time we knew what was happening.”

  “Normally, I would wait for Kevon to tell you himself,” Bertus began. “I can’t keep this from you that long, though. Kevon is no longer in Kærtis, or even on Purlon.”

  “Where?” Alma squeezed Martin’s hand tighter, and leaned in closer to the fire, squinting across the flames to Bertus.

  “Across the sea, fleeing from Holten Magus and the authorities in Eastport.” After waiting for the initial shock to fade from his companions’ faces, he continued. “Kevon has defied the Warrior’s Guild, and has no doubt angered whatever Councils the Magi have to maintain order among their ranks. In addi-”

  “Wait.” Martin interrupted. “How can Kevon even be accused of defying the Warrior’s Guild?”

  “He currently holds the rank of Adept, and is skilled enough to advance to Blademaster, if they would only let him attempt it.” Bertus chuckled. “He helped train me, even after he revealed himself as a Mage.”

  “Is that why Holten Magus was pursuing Kevon? Why neither of them have returned?” Martin stood and began pacing about.

  “With any luck, Holten Magus perished in the realm of flames he fled to when he could not defeat us.”

  Martin’s hand moved to the knife at his belt. “How dare you speak of…”

  “You did not know of his plans, just as Kevon did not, at first,” the Seeker explained, motioning for Martin to calm himself. “Here, you likely heard nothing of the orcs and demons that we faced over the last two years, or the true monsters behind them. Your Holten Magus was foremost among them.”

  “I heard rumors about creatures that attacked under cover of darkness, but saw and heard nothing on my journey,” Martin admitted. “I assumed they were just children’s stories.”

  “It was no story that bit my friend in half. The nightmares we hid from at night were as real as the two of you. It still unnerves me to greet the dark without torches or castle walls.”

  “I’m sorry I doubted,” Martin crouched by the fire again beside Alma. “But none of this explains how Kevon has gotten so far in the Warrior’s Guild without being able to use a sword.”

  “That’s the thing everyone is so upset about,” Bertus laughed. “He has been using swords. And magic. Not at the same time, really. It’s complicated. And there’s this,” he flashed the ring on his right hand before waving it off. “It’s a long story, and we’ll have time to talk about it more on the way back to Navlia.”

  Chapter 4

  Flakes of ash drifted down onto Kevon’s shoulders, and he brushed at them, managing only to streak his tunic with more of the greasy grey soot. He reined his horse in, and turned back to wait for the others.

  By the time Alanna pulled alongside him on her mare, he was nearly through rinsing out the cloth he’d been using to cover his mouth and nose. The covering was snugly back in place when Mirsa and the dwarves rolled up in the wagon.

  “We can’t continue in this,” Kevon cautioned. “We need to find shelter, and hope for the wind to shift again in our favor.”

  For the first time since the plume began nearly three days ago, the falling ash now completely obscured the erupting peak to the east.

  “It should discourage unwanted followers, at least,” Alanna remarked, brushing soot from her mouth covering.

  “The folk of Malcaea are not likely to be deterred by this,” Mirsa countered. “Our horses are barely slowed by the ash, as we sit and suffer.”

  Kylgren-Wode snuffled through his thick mustache. “Reminds me of the smithing district in the Hold.”

  “We’ll push ahead,” Kevon decided. “Stay close to the wagon.”

  Alanna rode to the other side of the wagon, and Kevon began his spell.

  A dome of Air and Movement coalesced over the group, moving along with them, stopping the falling ash, but obscuring their view.

  “Gah!” Kevon exclaimed, shifting his concentration to churn the settling ash away from the front of the dome. After a minute of adjustments, the dome was shortened and flattened, dropping down to just above his eye level, allowing the ash to swirl from the edges of the barrier down to the ground, but sparing the horses and his companions from breathing it in.

  “Better,” he decided. “Let’s move while this holds, and hope we find something else before much longer.”

  * * *

  The abandoned forge was not sealed completely against the falling ash, but did not require the constant attention of the Magi to maintain, as the spell had. Kevon sat near the open end of the structure until well after dark, rising occasionally to patrol around the building. Only when the falling ash slowed and the crescent moon poked through the clouds did he wake Kylgren-Wode to take over the watch.

  The Warsmith settled into the corner between where Alanna had spread her bedroll, and where Rhysabeth-Dane sprawled across Mirsa’s sleeping form, snoring faintly. He gazed out at the countryside, blanketed in dull gray ash, lit by the slowly brightening moon. The still night air hung hot and dry against his skin, and Kevon smeared streaks of ash across his forehead wiping at the thin film of perspiration. He drained the last few tepid mouthfuls from one of his water skins, and drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  The ground beneath Kevon’s bedding shifted as he slumbered, loosely packed earth near his shoulder dipping while the compact earth under his head remained firmly in place. He awoke with a sore neck from the unusual sleeping position, his shoulder and arm dug down below him, his neck resting flat on the bedroll on the lip of the depression.

  “What in the world…” Kevon threw back the blanket and rubbed at his neck. “Stupid…”

  His punch at the dirt in the bottom of the dip resounded with hollowed tones. “Eh?”

  Disappointme
nt turned to curiosity, and he pushed dirt to the edges of the hole, uncovering a wooden surface.

  “What’s that?” Mirsa asked, stirring from her blankets.

  “I’m looking…” Kevon peeled his bedroll from its place, and began scooping handfuls of dirt from the depression, and piling them in the empty corner. “A box?” He reached the edges, and scraped enough from below the top that he could grasp the short sides with his fingertips and wriggle it a bit. “I’ve almost… There!”

  The box slid free, the considerable weight inside it shifting with a dull clunk. Kevon strained, sliding his fingers from the sides of the box to the bottom, finding a better grip. He hefted the container up to the side of the hole he’d dug, and pushed it away from the edge.

  “Someone’s coming back fer this,” Kylgren-Wode said, peeking over Kevon’s shoulder as he opened the box, revealing hammers, tongs, half a dozen iron bars, and various iron and steel scraps.

  “Yes,” Kevon frowned, looking to the still, cold forge across the open room. “I don’t imagine anyone would just leave this here…” He closed the box, and stood, moving to the open end of the building.

  “We’re low on horseshoes and nails, there won’t be a better chance to resupply than now.” Kevon glared through the ash-filled sky to the East, where the outline of the volcano, and its thick plume still blocked most of the morning sun.

  “There’s coal in the bin outside,” he told Alanna. “A pair of upturned barrels out back,” he pointed to Kylgren-Wode. “Could we manage to fill them with water somehow?” he asked Mirsa.

  * * *

  “Do ye think we should let the Mage come in fer lunch?” Kylgren-Wode asked, pausing the bellows before speaking.

  “Ten spare shoes and a pouch full of nails,” Kevon fished the glowing arc from the coals and used a punch to tap out the final two nail holes on the shoe. “I’m ready for lunch.” He dipped the finished shoe in the nearby water barrel, swirled it around until it stopped sizzling, and set it and the tongs atop the anvil.

  “I’ll get them,” Alanna slipped out of the building and around the corner toward where the wagon was set up against the side wall, top and sides draped with canvas to lessen the damage from falling ash.

  Alanna, Mirsa, and Rhysabeth-Dane returned to the forge as Kylgren-Wode opened the provision sacks to dole out bread and dried fish.

  “More fresh water,” Mirsa handed Kevon one of the full water skins she carried. “I worked up a fountain out back while you were clanging around in here. We can fill up everything before we leave.”

  The ground rumbled. Kevon stepped outside and peered through the haze. “I think the ash will be worse before it gets better,” he sighed, spotting the thickening column rising from the now glowing peak to the East. “Perhaps we should make a few more improvements.”

  * * *

  “Ready?” Mirsa asked, chuckling at Kevon’s bleary-eyed gaze.

  “Mmhm…” Kevon mumbled, placing a hand on the upraised ridge of slate he’d spent the bulk of the last two mornings moving from the deposit Mirsa had detected earlier.

  “Raising the far supports,” the Master Mage advised, and Kevon could feel the magic moving through the earth, granite pillars on the other side of the forge corkscrewing upward to nearly twice the height of the building.

  Without speaking, Kevon pulled up on the slate slab, drawing it upward with his Art as he pushed his focus downward to gather more power to work the spell. He used none of his own energy for the magic, what little effort he did expend was to gather the latent forces from below. The slab groaned upward under his direction, his fingertips trailing along the upward-moving stone, retaining contact with the energy deep beneath them.

  The link shattered as the slate worked free of the dirt it had been resting in. Kevon’s focus shifted to the Movement rune he had already prepared, and he stepped aside, no longer comfortable in the stone’s path without the extra magic at his disposal. The slate remained balanced in the calm air, balanced by gravity and the slightest touch of Kevon’s magic. A puff of air tipped the slab toward the forge and waiting supports, and Kevon let it.

  Hand still on the edge of the falling stone, Kevon felt the weight shifting, and latched onto that energy. Twisting the stone’s own momentum into fuel for his spell, he focused on multiple points across the flat surface, and pushed upward, adding his own reserves to the rune, slowing the slab’s fall before it clack-clacked against the raised supports on the far side of the forge.

  The supports on the near side spiraled further from the earth to meet the face of the slab. “It should hold,” Mirsa called.

  Kevon released his spell, shaking from the intense exertion. The Movement rune dimmed in his mind, and he heard the other Mage talking.

  “I know we’ve done more complex work with stone, but the terrain here is ill-suited,” Mirsa said, laying hands on the resting slab.

  “We have no way of knowing about other Magi in the area, and I’m afraid of working any larger scale Earth magic so close to the volcano,” Kevon agreed.

  Mirsa lowered the supports so that the midpoint of the slate was barely above the corner of the existing building, then paused. “The end supports are too far apart. Can you lower those on the end, while I bring up the new ones?”

  “Sure,” Kevon wheezed, stumbling a few steps toward the other end of the slab before he found his footing. He reached the stone pillar at the back corner, and placed a hand on it. The connection with the power below formed, and he split his attention between maintaining the link, and monitoring the pressure and stress on the slab above. The supports on Mirsa’s end lifted, and the slate groaned. Kevon forced the twisted pillars on his end back into the ground, slowly, matching Mirsa’s speed. In the space of a few minutes, the new roof was level across the front end of the smithy. Both Magi shifted their focus to the supports at the back, Kevon lowering his, and Mirsa handling the one on her end, as well as the pillar in the middle by the other end of the building.

  “All right,” Mirsa called. “Enough!”

  Kevon stepped back, and could barely see daylight between the old roof and the new covering. “It’s good!” he called, but Mirsa was already fusing the slate and granite with short, powerful bursts of Earth magic, stabilizing the structure further.

  “Can we go back in?” Rhysabeth-Dane struggled with the horse she was holding away from the action, and coughed as she inhaled ash when she spoke.

  Chapter 5

  Sparks flew from the impact. Kevon moved the glowing steel half an inch, and struck again. Another movement across the anvil, another shower of sparks. A last tap near where the glow of the metal dimmed, and Kevon tossed the blade back into the furnace.

  “When did you learn to do this?” Kevon asked Kylgren-Wode. He turned over the guard the dwarf had crafted while he’d been resting earlier, and nodded. The twisted layers of re-forged scrap gave the piece a distinct look, and would be particularly eye-catching once the final polish was done. The way the crosspiece curved down around the front fingers and rejoined the handle at the base was strange, but functional. The three rivets that sat near the anvil looked at least as good as Kevon could have done himself.

  “Things no one else wanted te bother with used te be my specialty,” the ambassador chuckled. “I’ll have yer grip carved as soon as we find some decent wood.”

  “I’ll have to draw some metal up from the tang to match this, but I’ve always tended to be heavier there than most,” Kevon commented, poking at the glowing blade a few times with his tongs before fishing it out of the coals.

  * * *

  “When will this ash end?” Alanna grouched, peering toward where the mountain should be.

  “There has been no new eruption in two days,” Mirsa commented, moving to a safe distance from the sparks, beside the assassin. “With luck, the skies should clear by tomorrow.”

  “Not that seeing the boys all sweaty with their shirts off has been bad,” Alanna quipped, throwing Mirsa a sidelong g
lance. “I just wish they’d be a little quieter about it.”

  “Outside in the ash, or inside in the heat, stuck in the corner wrapped in a blanket to shield myself from iron bits… still in the ash.” Mirsa fixed her gaze on Alanna’s good eye. “I, for one, will not miss any of this.”

  * * *

  “Trust me,” Kylgren-Wode laughed, applying the last of the thick clay to the precariously balanced blade. “I’ve done this more than once.” The dwarf wiped a bit of clay from one of the edges of the blade, and turned it over to inspect the other side. “It’s ready. Now I’ll work the bellows…”

  “We’re hardening it, I get that,” Kevon snapped, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

  “Something about the different temperatures…” Kylgren-Wode shrugged. “The way I’ve always seen it done. If you didn’t like Dwarven craftsmanship…”

  “No, it makes sense…” Kevon placed the blade in the glowing coals, and set the tongs aside while the metal heated.

  “There?” Kylgren-Wode peered over the bellows-handle at the glowing iron.

  “Not quite…” Kevon watched as the light golden glow on the sword edges began to take on a rosier hue. “Now.” He picked the blade up with the tongs, and dipped it point-first, into the water barrel near the open end of the smithy. He swished it around until the water stopped hissing, then eased the end with the tang in slower, taking care not to agitate it as much as with the blade end.

  “What are you smiling at?” Kevon asked, shaking his head at the dwarf.

  “Just happy yer blade didn’t shatter,” he chuckled. “It’s going te be a good one.”

  “Temper with this stuff still on it?” Kevon asked, deferring to the dwarf’s judgment.

  “Te light straw,” Kylgren-Wode nodded, leaning into the bellows, pumping the handle at a smoother, measured pace.