Enflamed (Book 2)

by R. M. Prioleau

  “Master Jarial came to Easthaven—my home—and sold books in the marketplace. That was where I first met him.”

  Omari grunted. “Well, confound it all. Never thought I would ever meet another one of his students outside the Citadel like this.” He made a sour face. “I guess you cannot be all that bad.”

  “Thanks ... I think.”

  “But it sounds like he has gotten soft in his years.”

  “Hardly. He’s taught me so much about magic. I owe him my life.”

  Omari pursed his lips. “He has obviously not taught you enough.”

  “Would you dare say that if he were here?”

  Omari fell silent and looked away. “Of course not,” he grumbled.

  Kaijin’s gaze hardened. “He’s a good teacher. Unfortunately, following the events in Easthaven, we parted ways. He said he would return to the Citadel to report to the Council about the tragedy.”

  Omari glanced ahead at the rest of the group and then inched closer to Kaijin until their shoulders almost brushed. He lowered his head and murmured, “So, were you there when it happened?”

  The question made Kaijin scowl, and Omari’s closeness unnerved him. He took a small side step away. “Why do you wish to know that?”

  “Because I have heard a mix of stories and want to know the truth of the matter.”

  Kaijin hesitated. Would he really understand? He felt Miele soothe him. He looked up at her fluttering silhouette in the sky. “He was one of Master Jarial’s students, so he can’t be all that bad, right?”

  “Kaijin?” Omari intently stared at him.

  Kaijin’s head snapped back to him. “I, ah ...”

  “So you were there.” Omari’s eyes glittered with curiosity. “Tell me what really happened. And spare me no details.”

  Kaijin sighed. “It ... it began with monsters—undead—invading Easthaven. A man—a renegade former student of the Citadel, ironically—was behind it all. He was later killed, but the monsters afflicted many residents and threw the city into utter chaos.”

  Omari blinked. “The instigator was a Citadel student? Who? Who was it? Tell me.”

  Kaijin swallowed. Xavorin. The name continued to haunt him. Once a beloved friend of Jarial’s, Xavorin had turned to the darker arts of magic—to necromancy. Kaijin had heard about him a few times from Jarial. He’d only seen Xavorin a few times, and each time was more grisly than the next until Xavorin had finally become just like the rest of his undead servants.

  Kaijin took a deep breath, trying to dismiss the images from his mind. “Ah, I don’t remember.” He bit his tongue. “Anyway, does it matter who he was? He’s dead, and that’s all that matters, right?”

  Omari peered at Kaijin and grumbled, “Yes, well ... I guess you are right. All renegades must die.”

  Kaijin had a bad taste in his mouth and changed the subject. “So tell me about your homeland, Ankhram.”

  Omari’s eyebrow slowly rose. “Have you been eavesdropping on my conversations?”

  “Of course not. Uh ... Nester mentioned it earlier.” Kaijin nodded quickly. “Were your parents mages, as well?”

  Omari shook his head. “Just my father. Not long after I was born, he traveled to Ghaeldorund to do some research, but left the city only a few months later due to a ‘conflict of interest’, as he put it. Upon returning to Ankhram a year later, he revived the Harran—a mage’s circle started by my forefathers. He has remained there ever since and sent me off to the Citadel when I turned four.”

  Kaijin tilted his head. “Strange. Why didn’t your father teach you magic, instead?”

  Omari shrugged. “My father respects the Council of Nine very highly. His wish is for me to become one of them one day.”

  “Wouldn’t that prove easier if he were a member of the Council?”

  “Yes, he is good at what he does, but he is also a solitary man. And my being one of the Nine would bring a greater honor to not only him, but to the entire Batsuyou line, as our influence would then spread further.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “The Batsuyou are of Ankhram origin. We are a wealthy, highly esteemed family line of mages, seers, and enchanters.”

  “It’s amazing that you know so much about your family line.”

  Omari raised an eyebrow. “And you do not, I assume?”

  Kaijin stared at the ground. “Well, my parents did not speak much of anything. All I know is that my mother was from Ankhram.”

  “Was she, now?”

  “My parents and younger brother were the only family I knew. They died during the attacks in Easthaven.”

  “I see,” Omari said flatly.

  “I feel so alone, you know? Like an outcast—like I’ve nothing else left.” He stopped himself, realizing whom he was talking to and immediately anticipated insults.

  Omari opened his mouth, then closed it, to Kaijin’s surprise and relief. Omari exhaled through his nose. “There is nothing wrong with you, Kaijin. There is just something wrong with the world.”

  Kaijin considered Omari’s words.

  “Oy! I think I found somethin’, I did!” Nester called. The brownie stood atop a boulder and looked down into a valley that lay a lengthy distance away from the crags. Wisps of smoke rose from a large camp.

  “Do you think that might be them?” Zarya asked.

  Aidan sniffed the air and then let out a low growl. “Gaston ...”

  “We need a plan of action before we attack,” Sigmund said.

  Omari huffed. “And what do you propose we do, Sigmund?” he asked coldly. “Simply walk up to them and ask them nicely for the egg?”

  Nester smirked. “Say, that’s not a bad idea, mate!”

  Omari rolled his eyes. “I was being facetious, you fool.”

  “But think about it!” Nester gestured. “They won’t expect us! They’ll all be caught off guard and—”

  “—They will either kill us, destroy the egg, or both.” Omari finished with a scowl.

  “No,” Sigmund interjected. “We need to be careful. We don’t know what we’re going up against.” He looked at Nester. “How skilled are you at reconnaissance?”

  “Me? I’m as subtle as a fly on th’ wall. Are you askin’ me to scout th’ place out?”

  Sigmund nodded. “We will be close by while you do that.”

  “Perhaps Kaijin and I can assist, as well,” Omari said. He lightly elbowed Kaijin, and smirked.

  Kaijin blinked and looked to Omari, bewildered. “Uh ... s–sure.”

  Zarya’s brow furrowed. “What are you two going to do?”

  “We will assist in Nester’s reconnaissance. Do not ask how. We have our ways, do we not, Kaijin?”

  Kaijin looked between Omari and Zarya and then nodded slowly. Oh, I think I know where he’s going with this.

  Sighing, Zarya regarded Kaijin, Nester, and Omari. “All right, be careful, you three.” She approached each of them, laying her hands over them and speaking a brief prayer. “By Celestra’s grace, may you all be protected from the enemy.” Her hands emitted a white glow.

  The three of them bowed their heads, accepting the priestess’s blessings. She stepped back.

  “C’mon,” Nester beckoned toward the camp. “Let’s get closer.” He led the way down to the valley, with Kaijin and Omari following.

  The fiery voice returned as Kaijin walked, and its tone was savage. “Show no mercy.”

  XIX

  Locating the egg within the camp wasn’t too difficult for Omari, thanks to Percival’s keen nose. The weasel searched each of the eleven tents, slinking stealthily amongst the packhorses and men of the Legion. Omari monitored his familiar closely, entering the weasel’s mind while he searched.

  Omari spied two men leaving a small tarpaulin tent. “Try that one over there.”

  Percival scampered over and poked his head under the entrance flap. All Omari saw were two bedrolls, a lantern, and some worn clothing thrown into one corner. A canteen perched on one bedroll, while
a sheathed longsword lay on the other. The egg’s scent was not as strong in there, so Percival backed out of the tent and went to another.

  “Confound it!” Omari sighed, frustrated. “Keep searching. Alert me as soon as you find something. Be careful.” He severed the link and allowed Percival to explore on his own.

  Returning to his own senses, Omari nodded toward Zarya, Aidan, and Sigmund, who all stood watch nearby, then looked at Kaijin beside him. The younger mage’s eyes were distant with concentration.

  Omari peeked around the large boulder between them and the camp a short distance away. He saw faint, child-sized footsteps appear in the rocky dirt as Nester stealthily approached them. Omari narrowed his eyes and held his breath as he waited for Nester to reach them.

  Nearby shadows coalesced around Nester as he slipped behind the rock and became visible. He acknowledged Omari and Kaijin with a wide grin.

  “What did you find?” Omari asked.

  “’Bout a ’alf-dozen lingerin’ around.” Nester rubbed his nose. “I’m sure more’ll be wakin’ up from their tents pretty soon. No sign of th’ egg, though.”

  “Yes, Percival is still searching.” Omari nudged Kaijin to gently break him from his trance. “Come, Kaijin. Let Miele alone. We should inform the others of our findings.”

  Kaijin’s gaze snapped into focus. Startled, he shook his head and acknowledged Omari and Nester.

  Nester pushed himself off the rock and ran off toward the others. With a small tilt of his head, Omari beckoned Kaijin to follow.

  * * *

  Gaston slammed his fist on the table in the middle of his tent, knocking over pawns and markers and sloshing ale from a tankard onto the tactical map. He glared scornfully at the two lackeys standing before him—Thokas and Searil—who kept their heads bowed. Beside Gaston, Raban took a quick step backward.

  Gaston tensed his neck. “I’ve thought things over since last night, and I’ve come to a conclusion. Your stories do not make much bloody sense! You can steal from a Dragon, but you cannot even fend off a small group of ruffians?”

  Thokas and Searil remained silent.

  Raban sidled around the table until he had his back against the tarpaulin wall and continued observing in silence.

  Gaston reached across the table, grabbed Thokas by the collar and tugged him closer so that they met eye to eye. “Just as easily as I’ve obtained you, Raban can discard you.” He sneered at the orc, and then glared at Searil. “If either of you have brought dishonor to the Legion, then it is my duty and my right to rectify the problem.”

  Thokas grunted and looked away from Gaston. “We speak the truth, my liege.”

  Gaston scowled and released the orc with a firm shove. “How many times are we going to go over this, Thokas? It is unacceptable. We are breaking camp soon, and I’ll leave your corpses behind to rot if you do not give me a valid reason to spare you.”

  Searil protested, “We were outnumbered, at first. Reinforcements came as planned, sir, but they were killed too quickly. A large half-Dragon tore through our group like ragdolls. His friends finished off the rest.”

  From the corner of his eye, Gaston spied Raban smirk and cross his arms. Gaston’s scowl deepened—the druid returned to his stone-faced expression—and his attention darted back to Searil. “You did not tell me this last night, Searil. Go on.”

  Searil shifted uncomfortably and brushed an unseen speck of dirt from his red robes. “He was a man with a body like armor. I saw him pick up two warriors at once and fling them as though they were straw men. The scouts shot arrows at him, but they hardly pierced his skin. He ...”

  Gaston quirked his eyebrow at Raban, then looked toward the rear corner of the tent, where a large sack lay. “So, my opponent has returned for a rematch,” he murmured. He turned back to Thokas and Searil. “Leave.”

  Thokas grabbed his startled companion and quickly left the tent.

  Raban looked coolly at Gaston. “I will dispose of them for you, sir.”

  Gaston ignored his comment. “The hard part of our job is complete, Raban. We will soon see a profit once we reach Ergoth. Our brethren there will be pleased.”

  “You are certain the egg will survive the five-day trek through the Ankhram desert?”

  Gaston glanced back at the sack. “You would be amazed at the resilience of a Dragon’s egg. The shell alone is almost as hard as adamantine. Whilst in my care, it will remain safe.”

  Raban sniffed and turned away from him, the hem of his black robes sweeping across the ground. “And what of our young recruit? I do not think he is ready to embark on such a journey.”

  Gaston brushed past the druid, toward the exit. “He is eager, and he has seen more in these few days than most recruits live to see in their lifetime. But I do like Carver. He is looking for guidance—to be molded into a warrior.” He glanced over his shoulder and smirked. “Stop worrying about the boy. Why don’t you go deal with those two imbeciles, instead?”

  Raban made a face, bowed, and swept out of the tent.

  Moments later, Gaston followed him. As he passed through the tent flap, a crow swooped down from atop the exterior roof of the tent, cawing mockingly at him as it flapped toward the center of camp. Gaston could hear the bitter reluctance in the bird’s squawks. You will never achieve my success, Raban. That is why I lead. He watched the bird’s silhouette disappear in the camp.

  * * *

  Alone in his tent, Carver secured the last loop of his studded leather cuirass and checked himself. It fit snugly, but he was still able to move with ease. I don’t look half bad in this. He grinned. It had only been a few days since he’d begun traveling with the Legion, and Carver had already felt their camaraderie; they accepted him—a complete stranger—as one of their own. I could not ask for a better family than this.

  Hearing his tent flap open, he spun around. Gaston entered, his armor glinting from the sunlight outside. “Sir Gaston!” Carver beamed. “What do you think?” He showed the man the front and back of his armor.

  Gaston observed him a moment, then smiled. “It looks good on you, boy. But with every defense, there must come a good offense. I trust your training with Kelvin has been fruitful?”

  Carver nodded. “Yes, sir. He’s a good teacher and an even greater fighter. Though not as good as you, sir.”

  Gaston bowed. “You do me honor. You’ll need to learn how to wield a true warrior’s weapons if you wish to fight alongside me.”

  A prickle of excitement ran down Carver’s arms. “Oh, I do, sir! It would be such an honor to join you on the battlefield!”

  “I like your enthusiasm, Carver. It will take you far. When we get to Ergoth in a few days, I will introduce you to one of the trainers there. I will also see that you are properly marked.”

  Carver tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brow. “‘Marked’, sir?”

  “Indeed. Every member of the Legion is marked—a constant reminder of their eternal servitude.” He turned his head slightly, revealing a symbol burned into his skin on his neck. “Once you are a Legionnaire, you are always a Legionnaire. Unless you bring dishonor on the Legion in some way—but I trust that will not be the case, now, will it?”

  Carver shook his head quickly. “Oh, no, sir! Never!”

  Gaston patted Carver’s shoulder. “Good. Now pack up. We will be setting off in a few hours.”

  After Gaston left, Carver heard raised voices outside his tent. His curiosity piqued, he quietly trailed Gaston’s footsteps, keeping out of the warrior’s sight.

  Gaston walked toward the center of camp, where a group of spectators stood in a small circle around the ashy remains of a campfire. Inside the circle was Raban, along with Thokas and Searil.

  Carver hid behind a tent and watched in silence.

  “The price of failure is death,” Raban croaked.

  Searil gasped. “What? But ... we retrieved the egg as instructed.”

  “Too many of our brethren died. You could not perform a simple tas
k without bleeding our forces with casualties. Our numbers have been reduced to fourteen because of your incompetence!” Raban glowered. “The Dragon was not even around! There is no excuse for this.”

  “Please, spare us, sir,” Thokas pled. “We did not foresee—”

  “Silence!” Raban raised his hand in front of his face and curled his fingers into a tight fist, which began to glow with an eerie green light.

  Thokas and Searil whimpered and attempted to flee, but they halted as Gaston entered the circle of spectators.

  “We will survive, with or without you two.” Gaston unsheathed a dirk from his belt, and glided to Searil in a single step, looming over him like a shadow of Death. He cast a brief glance at Raban. “Restrain them.”

  Smirking, Raban unleashed his spell. Green light surged from his hand to hit the ground around Thokas and Searil’s feet. The dirt crumbled, and several thorny green vines broke through. They wrapped around the frightened men’s ankles and held them in place.

  Thokas and Searil struggled and grunted, but their weak attempts at escaping the vines’ hold proved futile.

  “I should kill you both,” Gaston sneered, his eyes glittering. “But I think I will offer you to our Ankhram brethren, instead. I am rather fond of their methods of punishment. However, your failure dishonors the mark of the Legion. Therefore ...” He seized Searil first and tore off the right sleeve of his robe, revealing the brand on the man’s shoulder. With the tip of his dirk, Gaston carved the brand out of Searil’s skin.

  A terrifying cry echoed throughout the camp. Searil paled, clutching the wound, and looked wide-eyed at Gaston.

  Gaston tossed the severed skin to the ground and stomped it into the dirt. He nodded to Raban, and the druid waved the vines away from Searil’s ankles. Gaston shoved Searil aside and moved on to Thokas.

  The orc struggled against the vines’ firm hold, but grunted as he was still held firm and bleeding from the thorns. “P—please, sir. I beg you ...”