Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1)

by Richard Innes

  The captain of the scouting party went up to one of his superiors, had a quick conversation and came back to the four prisoners. "To the tent wit' them," he ordered his men. They prodded the group with their swords, but Robart turned and kneed the soldier prodding him in the groin, dropping him to the ground.

  "Another one of you pokes me with a sword will find it buried up your arse!" he threatened. Two more took the place of the one writhing on the ground, and though they pointed swords at him, they did stay a wary distance from him.

  "Move," stated the captain. He reached over and grabbed a crossbow from one of the soldiers. "If he makes 'nother move like that, put a hole in 'im." He looked at Robart meaningfully. "Try that again."

  They were herded towards the large tent, and were forced to kneel outside. The soldiers with their belongings and the captain entered the tent after a brief discussion with the two guards posted at the entrance. As the flap was lifted a soft, warm glow came from within. Several soldiers came and went carrying messages. After a bell or so, Celia's knees were getting sore, and her lower legs numb from sitting on them, pins and needles running up and down her cramping calf muscles. She began to drift off, the events of the last several days catching up to her, the comfort of the violet magestone resting in the back of her mind. She could sense that now was not the time to act, with tens of thousands of Goralonian soldiers around her. Besides, it did not appear that they had captured Salrissa, so that was one more card in their favor. She would wait it out - for now. She closed her eyes and felt into a light sleep, still sitting up.

  Suddenly, a loud noise pulled her from her catnap. She opened her eyes to see soldiers shouting and running around, and the fog lit from above with a white flickering light.

  "That will be a signal arrow from one of the Imperial scouting parties," Valena offered quietly. "Someone from our side must have spotted the army."

  "Someone from your side maybe," Hoyle rebutted just as quietly, "I don't have a side."

  "If you don't choose a side, then you fight for nothing," came Valena's response. She was shifting uncomfortably in her seated position as well, Celia noted, no matter how calm she projected her demeanor.

  "Haven't found a side I like yet."

  At that moment, as the white light from above withered away to nothing, a tall, thin figure stepped from the tent. The figure's hawkish nose, white hair in wisps behind his head, and runes drawn in blood on his face and forehead rose gooseflesh on Celia's arms. He was still wearing the thin, metal circlet on his brow that held a glowing crimson magestone.

  A second, much larger figure stepped from the tent. Celia recognized him as the warrior that Salrissa fought in the hallway of the Goralonian Merchants' Guild what seemed like an eternity ago, but was in reality only about a fortnight. He was saying something to the warlock as he exited the tent, "- will be warned. We must move now!" He looked at Celia and the other three and scowled. She thought she saw a small start of surprise on his face when he spotted Robart, but he covered it quickly.

  "Patience Marcon, we still have time. Our agents will need to make the preparations. Please go see that the ritual is ready to proceed." The warlock gestured vaguely towards the black fire and ring of lying men that they were led past earlier. Marcon scowled again, but moved off in the direction indicated. The warlock moved up to within a few paces of them, the scouting party still surrounding them with weapons drawn.

  "We meet yet again thief. You are a tenacious one, I will give you that," the warlock whispered, the darkness giving his voice an ethereal quality. "It has led you to the end of your days, I'm afraid."

  "Oh, I suspect you will be afraid, in short order," Hoyle replied, some of the cockiness back in his voice, making it sound more like the Hoyle she had first met. The warlock looked at him with a small amount of confusion.

  "If I didn't need willing subjects for this ritual I am to perform shortly, you four would certainly be laid out by the fire," he stated after a short time contemplating Hoyle and his previous statement.

  "You will not succeed," Valena said firmly. "Evil will devour itself."

  "Ah, the Daughter speaks. Yes, I suppose that is true, but is a matter of perspective, isn't it?" he replied. "The Emperor invaded my country over sixty years ago, killing tens of thousands. He left a garrison of ten thousand soldiers in Karvesh, allowing the country to wither, feeding off the table scraps from his Kastrum Imperium for decades, the people poor and barely able to feed their families. Now the same Emperor, still a young man by all accounts, still sits on the throne, a throne he obtained by death and conquest. He maintains his rule by fear and intimidation, and you imply that we are evil. You see, it's all perspective."

  "That's why I haven't picked a side," Hoyle said quietly to no one in particular.

  "Indeed," replied the warlock, having obviously heard him.

  Celia heard a shout from the direction of the fire, and turned to see the burly soldier named Marcon waving the warlock over.

  "Well it appears we are ready to begin the ritual. We shall continue this conversation, your last, once I return. Captain, take them into the tent, and make sure they stay put," he ordered in his now telltale whisper. He turned and walked towards the fire, where the others were waiting.

  The captain gestured, and two men each grabbed the four of them and hustled them into the tent, where they were led to a solid pine tent pole and secured to it. Their feet were also tied together. The captain ordered four soldiers to watch them, and turned to leave the tent. "I suspect that ye will have wished to have stay'd oot of this business," he said, his accent thick in spots.

  "No worries," Hoyle replied, "the night's not over yet."

  Interludes III

  Jonn

  Jonn the Stark sat with the other three members of the scouting party around their meager cook fire. His friends had nicknamed him the Stark because of his unnaturally white hair at his early age of twenty six. That and the surprised look that they kept teasing was always on his face.

  They were sheltered in a copse of trees half way up the side of the narrow ravine about a league east from the fort walls that protected the Empire from Goralon. You still had to look way up to see Farad’avor hovering over the pass, but it was far enough away that you did not feel like it was going to fall on you he thought. Assuming you could see through the thick fog that was blanketing the pass.

  Ever since the Goralons had closed the border to trade, Captain Keyth had ordered scouting parties out to the ridges and valleys, out past the half way point between the Empire fort, unimaginatively called 'The Fort' by the soldiers, and the Goralonian palisade about two leagues away. They were to look for anything suspicious or troop movements by the Goralonians. If they spotted anything, they were to fire a flaming arrow into the sky to alert the Fort and the citadel.

  The problem with that was that today was Spring Planting's Eve, and the moon was new, and the cursed valley was full of mist. Looking around, Jonn could not see more than two paces past his companions in the firelight. The night was darker than dark, and covered in a wet blanket besides. They were all huddled as close to the fire in their wet cloaks as they could be, but the cold still seeped into their bones.

  "We're s'posed to be watching out fer stuff, is all I'm sayin'," muttered Tarence. He was the one always saying that they should be doing something, but the first to stop when no one was watching. He was visibly shivering in his cloak, rubbing his hands in front of the small fire.

  "How're we supposed to be seein' anything in this mess? I say we head back," volunteered Dern. He was the complainer of the group. Every group had one thought Jonn, at least every group he had ever been in.

  "Shut up the two of you!" hissed Karlen, the squad leader. "With the amount of noise you two make, you wouldn't be able to hear a fart out o' yer own arse!"

  Jonn stood up. "Goin' to take a piss," he volunteered as Karlen looked up at him.

  "Just don't take long. Something's going on tonight, this mist ain't natu
ral, my knee tells me so," Karlen said as he rubbed his left knee absentmindedly. He was convinced that since the injury to it several years ago it could sense magic or unnatural occurrences. The men went along with it, but no one believed it.

  Jonn nodded to him, and felt his way, more than walked, a short ways into the sparse trees. By ten paces away, he could not even see their fire. He shook his head as he unlaced his breeches and relieved himself. He could not see where he was aiming, it was so dark, but could hear it hitting the dead grasses and shrubs. He laced up and turned to return to camp, but came up short as a man was standing right behind him.

  Seeing the look in the stranger's eyes, barely noticeable in the darkness, Jonn reached for his sword. He barely felt his attacker's blade enter his chest and pierce his left lung, nor the impact as his face hit the moist ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several more shapes move past him barely visible in the mist, all clad in black, moving more silently than Jonn thought possible.

  His breathing ragged, he tried crawling back in the direction of their fire. The pain was immense, crippling even. His breathing was becoming harder as his left lung filled with blood. He was coughing it up now it an effort to clear his lung. Handspan by handspan, Jonn slowly crawled and pulled himself the ten paces toward the fire. He was determined to get to the bow and signal arrow that were there.

  Rocks scraped his arms, his fingernails ripped from his fingers as he clawed his way closer, ever closer, to his duty. His friends may give him a good ribbing about his white hair and shocked expression, but they would never question his loyalty to duty. Time slowed to a crawl, his only thought was that signal arrow.

  Finally he bumped into something in the dark. It was the armored body of one of his friends. He couldn't tell who, as the fire had died down in the time it had taken him to crawl his way back. He felt all around the fire, still able to feel some of the heat from the embers in the small pit they had dug. It seemed like it had had dirt kicked over it. He couldn't find the arrow or the bow. He could feel the blood filling his belly now, as well as his other lung, the coughing now just moving it between lungs. He knew his time was short.

  His hand found a long thin stick, but it was just the branch they had been using to stir the fire. His mind was growing thick, his vision narrowing to a point of light, even in the darkness. He prayed to Voral, the Father, to give him one last dram of strength as his fingers finally found the bow. It was already strung in case of emergency, string waxed against the wetness. His other hand found the arrow and fumbled for the fuse. He rolled over once and felt the heat of the embers on his shoulder just below the dirt. He jammed his now numb hands into the dirt and grabbed a handful of buried coals.

  His mind registered the smell of cooking meat, but he managed to grab one coal and hold it against the fuse. Suddenly, the fuse lit up, sparkling in the dark. Jonn strung the arrow and managed to lift the bow above him, arrow nocked. His last thought that sent giggles through his mind, and caused him a series of coughs as he pulled back the string, not even registering the fuse burning against his face - what if the arrow comes straight back down?

  The arrow flew, not very high, but as it left the bow, the fuse hit the arrow's payload, a small canister of unknown composition that lit up the night as it exploded.

  Koltan

  Koltan stared at the magemirror in shock. His master had just ordered him to do the thing that he had dreamed of doing ever since arriving at Mahad'avor. He felt as if it was Winter's Heart and he had just been given a priceless gift. Of course, this was a two edged sword. Kartem wanted him to prove himself with this task. If he succeeded, then they would both be rewarded. If he failed - but he was not going to fail, so why bother thinking down that path.

  He gathered his things, laying them out on the floor around the bound body of Griffan. He was semi-conscious, Koltan having bashed him on the head while he was leaving. He had tied him quickly, gagging him so he could not invoke his magic. He had known that something was to happen this night, the night of the new moon, and though it was not yet dark here at Mahad'avor, other events were unfolding far to the east. That's why he had subdued Griffan when he had arrived for his shift, because he was going to need blood to complete his task tonight, and he preferred it not to be his own.

  The circle was just right, aligned with points of the compass, the dark candles he now lit with the torch from the walls. He would need a little of his own blood to begin the ritual, but his prisoner's would be used to complete it.

  His preparations done, he stepped into the circle and kicked Griffan again in the side of the head to keep him addled, and began his chanting. His undulating voice rose and fell in pitch and tone as his master had taught him those years ago, coming to a crescendo. As the voice reverberated around the chamber, Koltan took his small dagger and struck it across the palm of his hand drawing blood. He dripped the blood onto Griffan's chest, as he yelled that last syllables to the blood ritual, then drove the dagger down into the prone man's chest to the hilt.

  The candles flared, and then went out as if by a strong breeze. The torch guttered angrily on the floor outside the circle but kept burning. As the echoes of the incantation died down, he worried that he might have done it wrong. However, a blackness began to seep up out of the stones, wriggling toward the blood that was now pooling around the body. Koltan involuntarily flinched as it crawled up and over the body, pulling the blood to the surface all over the skin until the body was a wet, red mass of flesh. The blackness grew as it fed on the offering until it was a swirling cloud larger than Koltan.

  Then, as fast as Koltan could blink, the cloud of blackness enveloped him. It felt like little hooks digging into his skin. The experience was more painful than anything he had ever experienced, and he screamed until his body was out of breath. Then as the pain subsided he felt the power as the blackness shifted around him, forming muscles and sinew and skin, as it seeped into his bones, his heart, his very being.

  Stepping forward, he smashed open the door to the chamber and stepped out into the hallway. His new black form blended with the shadows as he felt the blood magic hunger for more blood. As much as he felt invincible with the power he had, he knew he had to use stealth first if he was to achieve his mission.

  After he killed Endergot, he could let the blood magic loose to feed.

  Yulah

  Yulah walked the ramparts of Farad’avor on guard duty. He really did not understand the reason for it, being about fifty spans in the air above The Fort. He looked down at the valley leading east from the pass, now covered in an eerie fog, filling it side to side. The fog came almost to the walls of The Fort below, or at least he assumed it did, as that was below his line of sight.

  Other than that excitement the other night, which rumor had it the commotion was caused by traitors to the Empire, nothing had ever happened in the five years or so he had been on guard duty on the sky citadel. In fact, it had been rather boring with nothing much to do at all, other than the constant training when not on guard duty.

  Yulah turned from looking over the battlements to continue his rounds, moving from tower to tower along the outer wall. He was happy for the movement, as it kept him warm in the cool of the evening. It was still, but clear skies allowing him to see his breath. He shook his head; Spring Planting's Eve should not be this cold, even up in the mountains he thought, as he rubbed his hands together for warmth.

  Captain Keyth had increased the watch ever since those traitors had gotten away with the sky skiff, and he nodded to the soldier patrolling in the other direction. The response was a nod back as they stopped to converse for a few moments to break the monotony of the night. They each had only another hour before they could go in and have their supper.

  "Nice night," the other, named Jorgen stated as he leaned against the battlements. They were now on the eastern wall, facing into Goralon.

  "Yep," Yulah responded. He was not one to overuse his words as he stood beside him. Leaning would just make his
hands cold, and he had just gotten them warm. Besides, he had just looked over the wall a few minutes ago. Jorgen pulled out his chew, and took some out and put it under his lip. He offered some to Yulah, who declined.

  "That stuff'll kill ya," he responded as the other man put it away, and shrugged.

  "Somethin' will, why not somethin' you enjoy?" Jorgen rebutted spitting a large gob over the wall.

  Yulah shuddered as he thought of those below that might have that land on them. "I suppose," was all he would offer the other man.

  "Well, this or in bed with a lively woman!" Jorgen let out a guffaw at his own joke and bent over as he slapped his knee.

  Suddenly something out of the corner of his eye caught Yulah's attention. It sparked in the clear air as it arced up out of the mist. A signal arrow! It reached its peak and began to drop back towards the mist before it exploded into a huge shower of sparks, followed moments later by a loud pop!

  Yulah turned to Jorgen who was standing still, staring at the dissipating sparks with his jaw hanging open. "They must be insane..."

  "Doesn't matter! Go raise the alarm!" he said as he turned the other man and pushed him so hard he just about fell. He turned and ran for the tower that he had passed only minutes ago, looking sideways over his shoulder towards the last raining sparks.

  Jorgen shouted after him, "What's the hurry? They can't get us way up here!"

  Yeah, but they can kill a lot of people down below he thought as he ignored the brute and continued to run, saving his breath. The wall was about two hundred paces between towers, and six paces wide, making it an easy, level run. That was the reason he was confused as he tumbled to the top of the stone wall, barely managing to protect his face with his hands. Pain flared in his leg, and as he looked, he saw a crossbow bolt protruding from just above his knee.