Lusam: The Dragon Mage Wars Book Four

by Dean Cadman

  Magical ability within the general population of Afaraon had all but been wiped out over the previous two centuries. The Thule Empire’s long running campaign of killing any newborn magi it could find, had been extremely effective, and had almost eradicated the use of magic throughout the entire land. But the potential new discovery of an untouched and magically talented group of individuals, had given many in the High Temple great hope that the use of magic may yet still prevail within Afaraon. Although they were expected—for the most part—to be untrained in the use of magic, judging by the natural abilities which Kayden and Rebekah had already shown, it seemed reasonable to hold onto those high hopes.

  Later that same night, despite his intense efforts at remaining awake, Lusam had momentarily drifted off into the warm embrace of sleep. His intention had been to only rest his tired eyes for a moment, but it was enough to see him endure another torturous night in the talons of the dragon. It seemed that he no longer had to wait until the dragon noticed him in his dream before his ordeal began. Now, the dragon was actually waiting for him to fall asleep, and ready to seize him the moment he did.

  Neala watched helplessly as he flailed around in his sleep. Beads of sweat ran freely down his forehead, and his face contorted as if he was suffering incredible pain within his nightmare. All Neala could do was watch, and be ready to escape the room at the first signs of danger.

  It was another long night—for both of them.

  Lusam was finally released by the dragon just after the first light of dawn. The look in his eyes when he finally opened them almost brought Neala to her knees. Never before had she seen such despair in a person’s face, and to see it in someone she loved so much, almost broke her. Neither of them spoke. They simply held each other tightly, while the sun slowly crested the buildings outside.

  Neala was the first one to eventually break the silence. “We have to do something about this Lusam. You can’t go on like this for much longer. Nobody—not even you can survive indefinitely without sleep,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I know,” he whispered back, nodding his head slightly, and trying to hide the tears which ran freely down his cheeks. “But I don’t know how.”

  “We’ll find a way to beat it together. We’re a team, remember?” Neala whispered.

  “Always,” he whispered back, hugging her even more tightly than before.

  A little later that morning, Neala insisted that they both go and eat some breakfast, even though neither of them felt much like eating anything at all. She knew that Lusam had to try and keep his strength up the best he could, while they both tried to figure out how to stop what was happening to him. She also recognised that even if the answer had been in front of him right now, he probably would be far too exhausted to even notice it. She needed to buy him some time. Time with a clear mind to work through the problem. And she knew exactly how to do it.

  When Neala had been part of the Hawks’ guild, members would occasionally be sent out on various missions for days on end. Particularly if it involved reporting the movements or whereabouts of certain goods that the guild wished to acquire. It wasn’t always possible to have more than one thief at a particular location, especially during times of conflict with competing guilds. When this happened, it made sleep impossible for the lone scouts. Allowing potential quarry to slip by while you slept, was punishable by death, as it was treated exactly the same as falling asleep on your watch duty.

  Fortunately, the thieves had a way to stay awake during those extended lone missions, and it involved a plant called Nodding Silk-weed. When ingested in small quantities, it acted as an incredibly powerful stimulant, keeping the user wide awake for hours. But it wasn’t used without risk or consequence. The user’s body quickly adapted to the Nodding Silk-weed, requiring more and more of the stimulant to be used over consecutive days. The problem was, at higher doses it became extremely toxic, eventually killing the user, and often without any warning. No two people’s tolerances were the same, either. Neala had heard of people dying after as little as three days’ use, while others boasted they had used it for over ten days straight. Her own use of Nodding Silk-weed had been limited to three days, and she could still remember how badly she’d felt after using it for that long. It had taken her body almost a week to recover after using the stimulant.

  Neala tried to explain her plan to Lusam over breakfast, but she wasn’t sure just how much of it he had actually absorbed. She decided to wait until after she had acquired the Nodding Silk-weed to explain any further, as she felt sure she would have to repeat herself later anyway. She doubted that any local apothecary would carry the stimulant, as much weaker and safer alternatives were readily available—none of which she felt would be of sufficient strength for Lusam’s needs now. She needed to find herself a Hedgewitch, but had no idea if one even resided within the capital city. Lamuria was large city, and she had no idea where to even start looking.

  Although being a Hedgewitch was not a crime in itself, speaking and dealing with one was often frowned upon, especially within larger towns and cities. Neala had once known a Hedgewitch named Orla back in Stelgad, and had dealt with her many times in the past. She lived on the outskirts of Stelgad, and was rarely ever seen entering the main city. Neala would often be tasked with acquiring various healing salves or sleeping powders from her, by various members of her old guild. Over the years of getting to know her, Neala came to greatly respect both her, and her vast knowledge of herbs and plants.

  Before meeting and getting to know Orla, Neala had always believed many of the old tales associated with Hedgewitches. Tales such as them cursing entire families, or causing a farmer’s crops to fail, or his animals to die, or even their milk to run dry. And all of this was supposedly often brought about by a jealous neighbour, or an aggrieved acquaintance paying a small sum of coin to the Hedgewitch for her services.

  Although Neala had no doubt that many of the imagined crimes were well within the capabilities of a Hedgewitch, she also knew they would never do such things. A Hedgewitch valued nature and life above all else, so killing crops or animals to gain a little coin would simply never happen. After a few months of getting to know Orla better, Neala had asked her how she felt about the wild accusatory tales associated with Hedgewitches like herself.

  She simply smiled at Neala and replied, ’We let them believe what they will, child. It means we are left in peace to do our real work.’

  Being a thief, Neala understood better than most the benefits of privacy. But she could never understand why Orla was so friendly and accommodating to those same people who later sought out her services, simply because the regular healers and apothecary had failed to cure their ills. It seemed to Neala that Hedgewitches were feared and revered in equal measure. No one wished to openly associate themselves with one, just in case they were accused of seeking their help to cause harm to a family member, friend, or even a neighbour’s livestock. But it also seemed clear, that those same people would happily visit a Hedgewitch for help if their own, or a family member’s health relied upon it.

  Neala knew she couldn’t ask a stranger on the street if there was a Hedgewitch resident in Lamuria. She couldn’t even leave the army barracks without being recognised and stared at since The Battle of Lamuria. If she did ask someone on the street where to find a Hedgewitch, she felt sure that everyone in Lamuria would know about it by sundown. Then every death or minor ailment would be blamed on her or Lusam for weeks to come. They simply didn’t need any more problems right now, they had more than enough to deal with already.

  The only person that Neala could think of who might know the whereabouts of a local Hedgewitch—and keep the enquiry a secret—was Darcie, Hershel’s sister. Everyone else she knew in Lamuria was either currently out of the city, or new here themselves. She knew the High Priest of course, but she also knew his beliefs were directly opposed to that of a Hedgewitch. And as such, even if she thought that she could stand the extensive sermon that would surely come f
rom him on the subject, she doubted he would give her the information anyway. So after collecting a few of their remaining coins from the barracks, she set off across the city towards Darcie’s house.

  The journey was uneventful, if a little uncomfortable with all the attention she seemed to gain everywhere she went lately. Neala found herself falling back into her old habits of seeking out quiet backstreets, and shaded areas in which to travel and avoid being seen as much as possible. She made a mental note to buy a new outfit, one that would help disguise who she really was. Then she remembered—she was no longer a thief. Now she was supposed to be a hero of Lamuria, and a respectable member of society.

  The truth was, she much preferred being a thief.

  Darcie was genuinely happy to see Neala at her door. Although they had spoken several times since they first met, it had always been in the company of others. They soon found themselves openly chatting about many things. Most of which were nothing to do with the reasons for Neala’s visit, but it made her feel relaxed, and more importantly, it gave her a brief respite from her own worries and her grave concerns about Lusam.

  Inevitably, the conversation eventually reverted back to the real reasons for the visit, and Neala was relieved to discover that Darcie did indeed know the location of a local Hedgewitch. Apparently, she resided within a secluded cave somewhere in the north western part of the valley outside Lamuria. Darcie told her that it was fairly easy to recognise, as there was a large tree growing out of the cliff face almost directly above her cave. Unfortunately, Darcie had no idea if the Hedgewitch had survived the Empire’s invasion, or even if she had fled the area entirely. She also warned Neala that the Hedgewitch wasn’t known locally for her hospitality, and avoided all but essential contact with people. Neala took the warning rather light-heartedly, as she had heard exactly the same things said about Orla back in Stelgad. She asked if Darcie would keep her enquiry about the Hedgewitch private, and she assured Neala that she would. Bidding her farewell, Neala left Darcie’s house and headed directly for the northern city gate.

  It was eerily quiet outside the northern gate of Lamuria. The vast open space of the valley floor stretched out before her into the distance. The last time she had been out there, the valley floor had been swarming with tens of thousands of undead, all intent on killing her and anyone else they could reach. Now it seemed lifeless. Like a barren desert devoid of all life. It also looked much larger than it had the last time she had been there.

  She suddenly shuddered, remembering the carnage which had unfolded there. The countless bodies of the undead which Renn, Morgan and herself had piled up high, to create a barrier against the undead-minions trying to reach the city gates. She found herself staring at the spot where she’d almost lost her own life. The spot where she had finally discovered her true faith in Aysha. And the spot where she vowed never to lose her faith again. She looked up and smiled, knowing without doubt that Aysha was watching over both her and Lusam. She offered a small prayer of thanks to Aysha, then set out across the valley floor to find the Hedgewitch.

  Chapter Three

  Samara was dragged from her cell by two Darkseed Elite guards, just like she had been countless times since magically sensing her son. She no longer even struggled against their iron grip. She knew her torture would commence soon enough, without adding even more pain on the way there.

  She had lost count of the many long years she had been held prisoner within Azmarin, and upon seeing the image of her son, she had been shocked to see that he was now full-grown. She didn’t know his name, or his true age—but somehow, she knew beyond doubt that he was her son.

  Samara had been captured by Empire agents shortly after the birth of her son. Although her Hermingild, Asima, had arrived late to help her prepare for the birth, she had still fully intended to carry out her duty as Hermingild. She was to sacrifice herself at the point of the child’s birth, and thereby cover up the magical-pulse created by the newborn mage, with the much larger death-pulse of her own. It was considered a great honour to be granted the services of a Hermingild, and Samara had been grateful beyond words that Asima had chosen to serve as Hermingild for her and her unborn child.

  Shortly after Asima had arrived, she discovered that Samara was in fact carrying twins. Unfortunately, it turned out that one of the infants could not survive long after its birth, and so a new plan had been quickly conceived. One which involved using the unfortunate, but inevitable infant’s death, to mask the healthy baby’s birth, and therefore enabling Asima to become Hermingild for another mother and baby in the future.

  As the Empire agents undoubtedly closed in on the birth-pulse of the firstborn child, complications arose around the birth of the second child. They both knew that if the second child was not born before it died naturally in the womb, all would be lost, as its death-pulse would not be felt by the Empire agents. With a heavy heart, and knowing she would never see her newborn child grow up, she asked Asima to do what must be done. Apart from life, the only gift she could offer her newborn child, was her most prized possession: her amulet.

  Samara briefly held her newborn son in her arms, hoping she could take the image of his face with her into the afterlife. Then she nodded to Asima, indicating that she was ready.

  That was the last time she ever saw her child, and the last thing she remembered before waking up in her cell in Azmarin.

  She knew that Asima neither possessed the skill, nor the time to heal the damage she must do to her in order to deliver her unborn child, and therefore, she had fully expected to die there. That was—unfortunately, she had thought many times since—not the eventual outcome. Instead, she had been healed by one of the Empire agents, then kept drugged until they had returned with her to the Thule Empire, and delivered into the hands of Lord Zelroth.

  She had found out later—through the taunting of Lord Zelroth—that her mind had already been partially read when the Empire agents had first found her. She had been slipping in and out of consciousness, and that had allowed them to read her mind while her mental defences were down. They had gained limited knowledge of what had occurred that day, but Lord Zelroth wanted more. And so, the torture sessions had begun in earnest.

  The information his Darkseed Elite and Inquisitors sought, she simply did not know. Samara had no idea where Asima had planned to take her son, or what she would even call him. But she didn’t endure the endless torture to hide any secrets about her son. She endured it to keep the secrets of the Hermingild safe—and she had succeeded.

  For weeks she was tortured beyond comprehension. Her body broken, then healed again by one of the Darkseed Elite, only to be broken again by another. The single image in her mind which kept her from breaking, was that of her newborn son. She had no idea if he still lived, but she knew that if she divulged the secrets of the Hermingild, many more just like him would die through her weakness.

  Eventually, Lord Zelroth tired of her. She didn’t know if he had discovered the whereabouts of her son by some other means, or another poor soul had simply taken her place in the torture chamber for his sick entertainment.

  For the first few days after, the same Darkseed Elite would enter the main room where her cell was, as if he was about to take her once more to the torture chamber. She tried desperately not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, but that amount of self-control was now beyond her. Instead, in the following days she began practising the deep meditation technique that had once been shown to her by her child’s father. She had never been able to fully master it when he had first shown her, but over the coming months and years, she mastered it completely.

  The only constants in her life from then on, were the old man named Cedrik in the end cell, and the infrequent visits of the Inquisitors to try and read her mind again—none of them ever succeeded.

  Once, Cedrik had casually pointed out to her that Lord Zelroth must no longer believe she held any important information, or he would have simply killed her, then reanimated her for
the information. Chilling as the thought was, she had to agree with his logic, even though she never said so. She suspected that she had become a challenge to Lord Zelroth. A curiosity. One which he used to test the skills of his Inquisitors against, and on occasion, even himself in the early days.

  Over the years there had been many prisoners who had suddenly appeared, then just as quickly disappeared again without a trace, but she spoke with none of them. She never even spoke with the old man. Something she later regretted a little, when he finally died in his cell, all alone, and without a friend in the world.

  At first, she had believed Cedrik to be a spy of Lord Zelroth’s, and refused to speak with him. However, he had often spoken enough for the both of them, offering up colourful stories of his life before being captured and imprisoned within Azmarin. Truth be known, she had actually enjoyed listening to some of them in the early days. But as the months and years went by, she learned to hide deeper and deeper within her own mind.

  Time had no meaning there, and she felt no pain.

  Samara knew that her food and water was constantly being laced by magic dampening drugs. She didn’t know exactly which drugs were being used, but she had felt their effects from the very first day in Azmarin. When she had first arrived and regained consciousness, the Empire agents had already used their silence spell on her, preventing her from performing any kind of magic. She had been incredibly thirsty, and only too happy to take the water she was offered. And from that moment on, she had been under the influence of the magic dampening drugs.

  She had—like many others she suspected—tried to starve herself of food and water, hoping to flush the drugs from her body. The drugs however, once ingested, took far longer to leave a person’s body than was possible to survive without food or water. Over the years, Samara began to notice her body start to build up a slight resistance to the drugs. Not enough to allow her to perform any magic directly, but enough to leave her magic tantalisingly close to being reached. A few more months, and she felt sure she would be able to summon enough magic to cleanse her body entirely of the drugs. The problem was, it looked like she had finally run out of time, as she was thrust through the doorway of the now too familiar torture chamber.