Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3)

by Chris Hollaway

  “It’s broken, anyhow. Let’s just get out of here.” Carlo led the way out of the cave, bouncing as he walked to entertain the cubs curled under each arm.

  “We’d suspected this to be a breeding pit,” Ashera nodded at Carlo as he emerged from the tunnel and surrounding mound of stones. “It’s a rarity to have the forces to spare on offense.”

  “The nest has been destroyed,” Carlo assured her. “We found something else, something we’ve seen before, a cause for great concern.”

  “Grave enough that all your leaders should know,” Kevon added, shushing the squirming cub in his arms. “Oh. Um. What would you like us to do with these?”

  Chapter 37

  “Get up.”

  Carlo’s muffled order floated into Kevon’s awareness, and he willed himself awake. He nibbled at Alanna’s ear for a moment before untangling himself from her and the blankets. Stretching muscles aching and weary from battle and travel, he stumbled to the hide-flap door of the small wood and stone structure, and accepted the two mugs of warm tea that Carlo offered.

  “The leaders of the other tribes are beginning to arrive,” Carlo announced. “The High Council will convene after the midday meal.”

  “We’ll take another shift at the wall between breakfast and midday,” Kevon shrugged. “It’ll be mostly talk after that, I assume.”

  “Might be,” Carlo grunted. “Decisions here are much like those on the Southern Frontier, I’d imagine. Bad ones cost lives, and quickly. They’ve lived like this a long time. They should know what to do.”

  “They snatched up the chimaera cubs quickly enough, flying one to each camp,” Kevon observed. “Relaniel said they were going to raise the males to use as mounts for some of the Striders, and the female will lay eggs for extra food at the camp in the North, where they have trouble growing crops.”

  “They waste nothing here,” Carlo nodded. “There’s little to have, much less squander.”

  “We’ll eat, and hurry to the wall,” Kevon lowered the leather curtain. “See you at midday.

  * * *

  “Don’t know that I could ever really get used to this,” Kevon rubbed at the sore spot on his ribs where a chimaera had caught him with a hind hoof. Alanna dabbed at the gash on his left forearm with a damp cloth.

  “Fortunate there was not venom from this tail strike,” she consoled the bleeding Warsmith.

  “No, there was,” Kevon corrected her, blinking widened eyes and steadying himself against the lowered rope ladder that led back up to their watch-post. “If there is another attack before midday, I may have to just work the ladders.” He fumbled at the swaying rungs with fingers that were starting to numb.

  “Let’s get you up to safety while you can still climb,” Alanna suggested, pulling at the bottom rung to steady the ladder.

  “Go,” Kevon told the fretting Meek that had pulled him up the last few steps to the small semi-enclosed platform atop the walls. “Send back a Strider to replace you.”

  The white-robed man nodded, taking a yellow flag from its holder, and waving it so that his counterparts in the neighboring posts could see it. He scanned the landscape outside for a few seconds, and repeated the motions with a light blue colored flag. “You know the colors?”

  “Brown, chimaera attack,” Kevon answered, pointing at the first flag in the sequence. He moved down the order. “Red, serious injury. Yellow, Striders returned safely. Light blue, no visible threats. Dark blue, activity out beyond the perimeter. White, Riders inbound.” He paused. “I haven’t seen black used.”

  “No one has died since you arrived,” the man smiled. “Pray we will not have to use it.”

  Kevon slumped onto the low bench near the doorway as the Meek exited to find a replacement. “I should have had him bring back some tea.”

  “You’re not a Strider,” Alanna chastised. “The tea helps you get used to the venom. It’s not a good idea to add more when you’ve just been injured.”

  “I forgot…” Kevon yawned. “You’re good with poisons, right?”

  “Better than I’d like to remember.” Her icy glare was wasted on Kevon’s heavy-lidded, vacant gaze. “Are you sure you’re all right to finish the shift? It’s only another hour, I’m sure one of the Meek would come watch for you. Elster would come back, certainly.”

  “S’only an hour,” Kevon agreed, thick-feeling lips slurring his response. “M’okay to watch.”

  Alanna shook her head and moved to the outer railing of the watch-post. After several minutes of catching no variation in the wind-blown grasses around the crop plots and the surrounding cleared area, she returned to sit by Kevon.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “Mmmblmm…” he mumbled, pinching his tongue.

  Alanna snapped her fingers in front of Kevon’s face rapidly, and he wobbled in his seat. “Yeah. That’s helpful.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Rowyn asked, walking up the stairs into the watch-post.

  “Stubborn,” Alanna sighed. “Will you be all right here for a few minutes until I get him some help?”

  Rowyn surveyed the landscape for a few seconds, scanned the other posts for waving flags. “Of course,” he smiled. “Send Elster and Semal.”

  “Thanks,” Alanna said, helping Kevon to his feet. “See you at the Council gathering.”

  “S’yoo!” Kevon waved at the Strider with his right hand, using the arm Alanna did not have draped over her shoulders to support him.

  “Chimaeraddled,” the Meek in the medical tent remarked as soon as he saw Alanna dragging Kevon through the door-flap. “Water,” she directed her young assistant. “Lots of it.”

  “Chimaer…”

  “Chimaeraddled,” the Meek repeated. “Far too much venom. He’s used to it enough that it doesn’t paralyze him completely, but it’s still a problem. Water will push it out of him. Let’s see to that arm, though.”

  The wound was slicked with salve, covered with leaves, and wrapped and tied with cloth by the time the young helper returned with a pitcher of water. The Meek helped Alanna steer Kevon to another bench to one side of the tent, and handed her a carved wooden cup.

  “Get as much of this down him as you can,” she advised, taking the pitcher from her assistant and setting it on the bench beside Kevon. “He’ll be fine in an hour or so.”

  * * *

  “We discovered something while destroying the chimaera nest to the east,” Carlo addressed the gathered heads of the four tribes. “Something disturbing. Something only some of us have seen before, and only once. The remains of a portal, a broken gateway that leads to and from a realm of darkness.”

  The Elders conferred amongst themselves, and Ashera spoke.

  “What harm can these gateways visit upon us?”

  “In previous cases, permanent gates have let orcs, imps, and other demons into our Realm,” Carlo answered. “Temporary ones have done much worse.”

  “We have seen no such evidence of these threats on the Highplain,” the Claw of one of the other tribes rebutted.

  “Have you not?” Relaniel stood. “Chimaera are twisted enough to be creations of L’mort. They do not cling to the darkness as many of his others, but could be born there. Are the numbers that have risen against your people in recent years natural?”

  “The tide that rose against us two generations ago…” the Claw answered, “Was anything but natural. Many lives were lost, and it took the cooperation of all five tribes to construct the garrison walls that protect the lower lands from the dangers we face daily.”

  “Evil Magi,” Kevon began, taking measured breaths between sentences. “Magi that we knew were on Purlon, to the west. We suspect they were near Alcron, far to the north. Now we know they were here.”

  “What are we to do with this knowledge?” Ashera asked.

  “The portal arch we discovered had been destroyed, on accident, or on purpose, years ago.” Kevon stood straighter, shaking off the last of the venom-haze. “We sealed that nest, it wil
l not be a safe haven for chimaera any longer. But there may be others.”

  “Nesting sites seem a likely place for there to be portals,” Carlo continued. “The objective our group seeks lies near the western edge of your territory. When ready, we will march toward it, emptying nests, searching for portals as we go. Any support you can lend is appreciated. The fewer chimaera there are to hinder us at our goal, the better.”

  The Elders whispered furiously for minutes.

  “Enough.” Ashera growled. “I’ll just ask them.”

  “Ask us what?” Yusa wondered aloud, as Reko paced at the edge of the firelight.

  “Two of the nests on your path are very near the remains of Seacliff Camp. If there is any chance of retaking it…”

  “We’ll need your help, but we will make the attempt.” Anneliese stopped Carlo’s response before it left his mouth, a sharp glare silencing the Blademaster. “Saving the Realm is no use if we allow parts of it to be destroyed while we pass by.”

  “I was going to say…” Carlo stared at the Huntmistress, “That a recovered Seacliff Camp would be a better base of operations than this, once we near the Seat.”

  Murmurs of agreement ran through the gathered elders, spilling into the others assembled around the meeting-place.

  “You will have the help you need,” Ashera announced as the Council settled into silence. “Every spare Rider, and the fastest of the Striders will gather here within five days.”

  Chapter 38

  “Hold on tighter!” Carlo suggested.

  “Grip with your legs!” Ashera shouted, “Relax your arms some. Don’t suffocate him!”

  “I’ve got it! I…” The child’s triumphant cry stopped short as his grey-feathered mount banked near the top of the enclosure, kicked at the nearest crosspiece, and launched itself back toward the straw-littered ground.

  “Not a…”

  Folding one wing back, sweeping the other in a powerful downbeat that rolled it completely over, the akembi freed itself from its unwelcome passenger. Snapping the folded wing back to full extension, it skimmed the outer edge of the cage, making two passes before landing near the heap of rider in the center of the straw-padded arena.

  “Again,” the boy finished, as his rogue steed snuffled at the bits of dried apple stuffed deep into his pockets. “No!” he admonished. “You have to let me…”

  “The training is for you, not him,” Ashera corrected. “Before the season is out, you’ll have outgrown him, and your only chance at the sky will be on a griffin.”

  “I know,” the boy grumbled, crawling to his feet and digging in his pocket for a strip of dried fruit. “Good boy…” he muttered, pressing his forehead to the downy tuft between the akembi’s wide-set eyes, scratching the winged horse’s ears as it chewed the leathery treat. “Are you ready to go back to the barn?”

  The akembi stopped chewing, and threw its head, rocking the boy back on his heels. It trotted around in tight circles, folded wings twitching in anticipation as the boy neared the chute-gate that led back into the nearby building.

  “All right. Here you…”

  The boy was left holding the gate in a swirl of dust motes and horse-feathers.

  “You start them young,” Carlo observed, following Ashera toward the center of the camp.

  “Anyone who wants to be a Rider has to learn early,” she shrugged. “Training with akembi is the closest thing the young ones have. It toughens them up. They need to be confident in their ability before the young griffin leave their nests each year.”

  “Do you choose and capture the griffin, break them to the saddle?”

  Ashera’s choking laughter stopped Carlo in his tracks. “There are five times as many Unbound as there are Riders. Enough to scour the tribes from the Highplain.” She shook her head. “The griffin choose us.”

  “With Spring drawing to a close, we may get to witness the Choosing?” Anneliese asked, approaching from one of the walkways to the upper walls.

  “It is our hope that this expedition clears a path to the nesting grounds, at the very least. Flynn, back there, and the other Aspirants will leave for the nesting cavern ten days from now.” Ashera frowned. “The timing is almost perfect.”

  “Almost?” Carlo asked.

  “The path we clear will not take the Aspirants directly to the cavern,” Ashera explained. “It will be safer, but they will have fewer dedicated escorts from Seacliff Camp onward. They may miss the first few flights, and there are only ten nesting pairs this year.”

  “You said there were only seven potential new Riders this year,” Carlo shrugged. “You still might get them all.”

  “About one in four choose Riders,” Ashera frowned. “It is unlikely that all of our Aspirants will succeed this year.”

  “All that fuss for two new Riders?” Carlo could not mask the disbelief in his face. “How…?”

  Ashera shook her head. “The fledgling griffin do not choose. The parents do, as soon as their offspring leave the nest.”

  “Oh. That… Okay,” Carlo nodded. “Makes sense.” The Commander rubbed the stubble that was beginning to show again on his chin. “So how do we get them there sooner?”

  * * *

  “Delicious,” Kevon scraped the last of the savory naota from the stone dish with a torn bit of the soft flat bread they’d been given. “But…”

  “There is more to come,” Ashera reassured him from several feet away.

  Kevon nodded. Most of his group sat in the loose circle around the fire, their number less than a tenth of those in attendance. Heads of the three factions from the other camps and their officers sat in clusters, laughing and conversing in low tones.

  “Thank… you…” he managed, as the empty naota dish and wicker bread basket were collected by a Meek that disappeared back into the shadows without a word. “About our departure tomorrow,”

  “No.” Rowyn’s voice cut through the music that came from all directions. He sat between Kevon and Carlo, handing each a fresh cup of fruit-laden wine. “During the Hariya, the meal and festivities are the only focus. This is our concession to the Meek.”

  “It’s so difficult to let go of…”

  “Not so much as one might think,” Rowyn corrected Kevon as he took a cup from a veiled dancer that spun through the crowd, delivering drinks from a swaying platter. The Fist’s eyes traced her path until she was out of sight.

  “I suppose…”

  “He feels he needs permission to enjoy anything more than the meal,” Anneliese laughed, reaching down to take Alanna’s hands. Her steps were a combination of stagger and sway in time with one of the threads of music that Kevon could only discern because of the lurch and tilt of her body. “Let’s make sure he enjoys this.”

  Alanna sprang up with the elf’s help, and mimicked the Huntmistress’s moves, easing into the relaxed sway a bit more with each measure of accompaniment. The pair worked their way around the fire, passing out of Kevon’s sight for longer than he liked. Howls of approval echoed from the far side of the circle, and both women reappeared wearing the colorful shawls that had replaced the drab ones worn by the Meek on any other day.

  The multicolored fringe of the garments magnified every movement in the firelight. Alanna’s gleeful undulation under the guiding hand of the Elven elder was tantalizing torture for Kevon. As she drew nearer, she locked eyes with him, her movements becoming more deliberate and direct as the music intensified. Her smile widened as she detected his paralysis, and altered the angle of her leading hip toward him with almost possessive accuracy.

  “This is…” Kevon breathed through the flush of the wine, breath catching as the various instruments gave way to the accelerating fervor of the drums.

  “It certainly is,” Carlo rumbled, lost in the dance that was meant for him.

  Five staccato drumbeats, and all of the music stopped. Alanna stumbled into Anneliese, and laughing, they helped each other the remaining few steps back to their seats.

  Service
of the next course of the meal resumed with light accompaniment, and dance by a few of the more elaborately costumed Meek. Portions of boiled, spiced tubers in small divided plates played unfamiliar tastes against each other, confusing and delighting senses at turns. These dishes were whisked away as soon as they emptied, and Kevon could see the next course being passed out across the circle.

  “What?” Kevon tilted his head back in response to the gentle tap on his forehead. His mouth snapped shut as the slice of marinated heartmelon touched his tongue. The preserving brine brought a sharp bite to the otherwise sweet fruit, shocking his palate as much as the unexpected touch of the Meek standing over him. He shuddered, and accepted the delicate pastry the next server handed him as they moved past to Alanna.

  Kevon licked his lips, contemplating the flavors that faded into memory.

  “Carefully, with this,” Rowyn cautioned, biting into his pastry with a deliberate air the Strider usually reserved for combat.

  “Hmm.” Kevon crunched into the crisp, slender treat, and bitter spices swirled about his throat and nose. He coughed, cracking much of the remaining crust in his hand. After calming himself, he took another hesitant bite.

  “Chicken and egg from Highspring, saffron from Burntrock, milled sugar from Fallenlake. Flour from our grain here at Stonespire.” Rowyn finished chewing his last bite. “This dish represents the unity of the camps, of all our tribes.”

  “And Seacliff?” Kevon asked, breathing in the aroma of the remainder of his broken pastry.

  “Salt. There are few other places to get it here. We’ve had to buy it from the lowlanders in recent seasons.”

  Kevon nodded, appreciating both the flavor and the deeper meaning of the dish.

  “But this… is a real treat,” Rowyn grinned as he accepted the skewer of roasted meat and potatoes from the serving Meek. He waited until the others had been served. “After you,” he gestured.

  “Is this…” Kevon thought back to the season he’d set out on his adventure, before he’d reached Eastport, shortly after he’d met Alanna. Marelle, he corrected himself. “Lamb?”