Thieves and Wizards (The Forlorn Dagger Book 1)

by Jaxon Reed

  He threw back spells of immobilization, hopelessness and confusion. She negated them all, sometimes with a wave of her hand, sometimes purely with her mind.

  Through it all, she kept following him.

  He seethed in anger, and stopped suddenly, dropping to the ground so he could face her. He concentrated and called forth as much energy as he could hold. He cast Wizard’s Fire, his most destructive spell.

  A streak of ragged white light shot out from his arms. It enveloped her blue Globe of Protection, cracking along the edges. The globe blinked once, twice, then winked out of existence as she dropped to the ground, too.

  He laughed victoriously as the white light danced around her body, crackling with destructive energy.

  He stopped laughing when he realized she was still standing.

  “How . . . How is that possible?”

  She began walking toward him, one black high-heeled boot after another.

  She closed to within ten paces.

  “Is that all you’ve got, wizard?”

  She whipped her arms out and shot one spell after another at him. Immobilization, stun, root, energy bolt. As soon as he negated one she shot another, mixing up the order.

  Then she cast the modified Globe of Explusion Theena had taught her, and Darkstone flew backward in the explosion.

  He landed on his rear, and he looked up in a daze as she walked toward him.

  “It’s time for you to meet the Creator, Darkstone.”

  His eyes narrowed as he prepared one final spell.

  “Not today!”

  He disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  TOMLIN FELL TO THE GROUND. The wound did not feel fatal, but he also did not feel like getting back up. The last of the Emeraldian pikemen were tramping through the trench now, and he knew they met no resistance.

  He tilted his head a bit to one side. Someone’s face neared his. He pulled back a little for a better look, then sighed when he realized it was the serving wench from the inn. He tried to remember how many men she had killed before dying herself, but everything was a blur right now. Maybe he could sort through his memories later. He suspected dreams of this battle would haunt him for the rest of his days, however many he had left.

  He heard a groan on his other side. He turned painfully to see where it came from. Someone nearby, lying on the ground with him, groaned again. He crawled over to the person and pulled them over onto their back. It was Altor.

  Altor groaned again. Tomlin looked down and saw most of the man’s guts spilling out, blood staining the orange-red of his Coral armor. He would not last long.

  “Ay, Cap’n,” the lancer said weakly, pain fringing his words. “Did we get ’em?”

  Tomlin nodded, and held back tears. It wouldn’t do for the man to see his captain crying.

  “Yeah. We got ’em, Altor. We got ’em good.”

  Altor looked at him and smiled. A trickle of blood came out of the corner of his mouth, and he closed his eyes.

  Tomlin grabbed the top of Altor’s leather breastplate, pulling his face closer.

  “Don’t you die, Altor. Don’t you die! You and Beet are the only men I’ve got left!”

  But Altor’s mouth hung open, the blood flowing freely out of it and down onto his neck.

  Tomlin laid him down, gently. He looked up and around. Few people were standing in the trench. Dead horses and human bodies were strewn about in all directions. The battle had moved on. He looked around for a weapon, and he spied a sword someone had dropped. He grabbed it, and used it to help pull himself up. He started for the edge of the trench.

  “THAT WAS THE LAST ONE, milady. Shall I give your command to retreat?”

  Bellasondra lowered her spent arbalest and watched as villager after villager wielding halberds were struck down by soldiers. She felt a moment of fear for her brother and Stin, but put it aside. Now was not the time to worry.

  As the halberds went down, more and more soldiers turned and faced the arbalest corps. Several started heading their way.

  This is it, she thought. We’ve lost.

  “What’s that sound? Do you hear it?”

  She looked down at Kirt who had cupped a hand to his ear, looking back toward the gate.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “There it is again! Do you hear it? It’s a trumpet.”

  Suddenly, she could hear it too. In the distance, someone sounded a trump.

  Toot tooot! Toot toooooot!

  They both turned toward the village as the sound grew closer.

  Suddenly Horse crashed through the gate, in full war regalia. On the cart behind him, Dudge stood on the driver’s seat holding the reins, urging Horse forward.

  “Hah! Hyah! Hah!”

  Beside him on the seat, another dwarf stood blowing a trumpet. It sounded louder than ever now that they were through the gate.

  The back of the cart held twenty angry dwarves, all dressed in armor and hoisting swords, axes, maces, and hammers. They screamed and yelled, urging Horse to carry them faster.

  Horse did his best and galloped straight toward the battle.

  Behind them something else crashed through the gate. Bellasondra heard it before she saw it.

  Grunt! Grunt! Grunt! Grunt!

  When Horse turned the cart suddenly, she got a clearer view. A battlepig ran full speed toward the soldiers, carrying three dwarves on its back.

  Another one crashed through the gate. Then another one. And another. Soon battlepigs were streaming out of the gate, all following Dudge and Horse and the cart. They ran straight toward the battle, the dwarves on their backs screaming and the pigs grunting as they ran.

  Horse ran into the thick of the battle and slid to a stop. Dudge and the other dwarves jumped from the cart onto soldiers all around them, stabbing and slicing and hacking. Even the trumpeter dropped his horn, took out a short sword and started killing Emeraldian soldiers right and left.

  When the first battlepig passed Bellasondra she realized it was huge, at least twelve paces long and four high. It was covered in metal armor around its body and neck, even its head. A long spike poked up from the armor on the front of its head.

  Two of the dwarves jumped off and immediately began slaying enemy soldiers. One dwarf stayed on the battlepig’s back, and together he and the pig began running down the surviving Emeraldian horses. All over the battlefield, pigs charged and stabbed the horses with their spikes. The horses screamed, the pigs squealed, and the ground turned crimson with the blood of man and beast.

  As the minutes passed and hundreds of pigs and dwarves committed to the battle, there were soon no more horses alive on the field except Horse. The pigs turned to killing men instead, their tusks and spikes ripping open flesh as they helped dwarves decimate the human army. They ran down survivors trying to escape, pouncing on their backs and goring them to death.

  Soon, there was nobody left to kill.

  MITA RACED BACK to the battlefield as fast as she could fly, her fists stretched out in front to break the wind whipping past her hair.

  She saw the black cloud hanging over the field in the distance, and her heart sank. Instinctively, she knew what that meant for the villagers’ armor.

  When she finally got there and flew over the field, the battle was over. She looked down and saw hundreds of armored pigs, and hundreds more dwarves walking victoriously among thousands of corpses and broken metal men.

  She turned and looked for the command platform, and was surprised to see it enveloped by a multi-colored globe. She flew over to investigate.

  Mita felt a mental tug and looked down. Deedles stood on the ground looking up at her and the globe, bobbing her head as she tried to get a fix on things with blind eyes.

  Mita descended and scooped the cat up in her arms. She floated gently back up to the globe surrounding the wizards.

  “What do you think it is, Deedles?”

  She felt several strong emotions emanating from the cat, and one word filled her mind: “Trap.”


  Deedles looked at it from her new position in the air and bobbed her head up and down, then right and left. She nudged Mita mentally again, asking to be brought closer. Mita floated up to the edge and carefully held Deedles out to it. The cat placed a paw on the globe. It zapped with energy and Deedles pulled back quickly. Mita and the cat floated back to the ground.

  STIN FELT the numbing effects of shock. He stared dumbly at the dwarves who had quickly cut up all the green-clad soldiers around them. Vaguely, he could remember the last moments of battle. Dudge appeared out of nowhere. He had seen him fighting with Bartimo and calling several other dwarves over to assist. Together they slaughtered two dozen soldiers. Now all the Emeraldians lay dead or dying.

  Stin looked over at Bartimo standing near him, and dully thought the young merchant must look as bad as he felt. Blood flowed freely from one of Bartimo’s arms, and he had half a dozen sword knicks across his chest, stomach, and legs.

  Stin heard somebody groaning and trying to get up off the ground. He and Bartimo walked a few paces toward the noise, and found someone stuck under the bodies of two Emeraldians. Together they pulled the bodies off and helped the person up. They didn’t recognize Robrigo until he stood, shakily. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the grime and blood off his face.

  “Thank you, boys. God bless.”

  The priest tried to walk then, and almost fell. Bartimo and Stin grabbed him and held him up. They looked down and found a huge gash in the priest’s thigh. The priest looked at it, completely dumbfounded.

  “I don’t feel a thing.”

  “You’re in shock, Reverend,” Stin said. “We all are, I think. We need to get you to the healers.”

  He took one of the priest’s arms on his shoulders, and Bartimo took the other. Together they slowly made their way toward the gate.

  DUDGE AND A DOZEN other dwarves stood respectfully behind Fret, who kneeled over his father. Dudge gently laid a hand on the younger dwarf’s shoulder. Fret wiped away a tear before speaking.

  “He weren’t trained in battle. He was just a brewer. But he jumped in there in th’ thick o’ things anyways.”

  Dudge nodded.

  “Barley son of Wort was a hero, who gave his life fer th’ throne an’ th’ safety of our people, wi’ no regard fer his own. We’ll take him back t’ Norweg an’ bury him in th’ Tomb of Honor at Ore Stad. He will bow before th’ Creator’s throne an’ accord himself wi’ dignity on th’ Day o’ Judgment.”

  He made a motion with his hand, and the dwarves around him sprang into action. They brought out some thin white cloth and gently wrapped Barley’s body in it. Another dwarf brought over one of the battlepigs, and they carefully lashed the body to the pig’s back. Twelve of them formed an honor guard around the pig, and solemnly marched off the field and through the gate into Greystone Village. From there they would continue to the Coral gate, the closest to Ore Stad, on their trek to the capitol.

  A field scribe ran up to the prince, and Dudge dictated a letter. Once finished, the scribe lit a candle and heated up some wax. Dudge sealed the letter with his signet ring, and handed it to a young dwarf soldier standing at attention nearby.

  “Deliver this to his wife, and tell her on behalf o’ King Nudge an’ th’ Royal Court we thank her for th’ service Barley rendered to his country.”

  The young soldier bowed, then jogged off after the honor guard.

  TOMLIN STUMBLED THROUGH THE BATTLEFIELD, looking to kill somebody. Anybody, so long as they wore Emerald green.

  But everywhere he looked, he found nothing but green-clad corpses.

  One of the dwarves saw him, and walked over to meet him.

  “There ye go, friend. Let’s get ye t’ th’ healers. Come along, now.”

  He followed the dwarf. He couldn’t think of a reason not to. Somewhere along the way, he dropped the sword as he finally grasped the battle was truly over.

  When they got to the halberd’s line, he saw some dwarves tending to someone. He headed toward the group. His guide shrugged, and followed him for a change.

  When Tomlin got closer he saw the man lying on the ground was Beet. He shouted in surprise, and stumbled over to him. The dwarves around Beet jumped, startled. The oldest one, with gray hair and wrinkles, looked to be a healer.

  Tomlin held Beet’s head.

  One of the dwarves said, “They both be wearin’ th’ colors o’ Coral.”

  Several of them nodded in understanding and sympathy. The healer spoke up.

  “We ’ad t’ cut off ’is arm at th’ elbow. ’Twas too mangled t’ save. ’E’ll be fine, though, once ’e gets some rest an’ maybe a nip ’r two. We’ll send ’im on t’ th’ human medics soon. Ye look like ye should head tha’ way y’self.”

  The first dwarf tugged at his tunic. Reluctantly, Tomlin stood up and followed him toward the gate, leaving Beet in the dwarves’ care.

  TRANT GUIDED his horse toward the black-clad woman near the command center. He noticed she held Deedles. The two seemed to be looking into one another’s eyes.

  He pulled his horse to a stop, and holstered his lance. The tip was bloody, and some entrails were still stuck to it.

  He climbed off the horse and patted it gently on the neck. It was one of the very few horses surviving the battle, although it had suffered nicks and cuts all over.

  He approached the woman, still staring into the eyes of the blind cat. She looked up when he came closer.

  “The wizards are trapped. We’ve never seen anything like this.”

  He wondered, briefly, who she meant by “we.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. Deedles has an idea.”

  He furrowed his brows. The cat had an idea? She ignored the look on his face.

  “Deedles says it’s a tri-part spell. Darkstone cast three globes ensnaring their location. The first spell immobilized them, but it was much stronger than a standard Spell of Immobilization. I don’t fully understand it, but Deedles calls it a Spell of Suspended Animation.

  “The second spell moved them into another dimension, but still within our universe.”

  He frowned then, in genuine confusion. She nodded in agreement with his confusion, not fully understanding everything herself.

  “The third spell is a time trap. Within the outer globe, time has stopped altogether. I’ve never seen anything like it and I doubt anyone else has, either. So they are in suspended animation, in another dimension as well as a time sink. But like I said, Deedles has an idea.”

  Trant scratched his head and decided to venture a question.

  “That’s, uh, Margwen’s cat, right?”

  Mita nodded, absently.

  “She wants me to conjure a simulacrum.”

  Trant raised an eyebrow.

  “You know, I was raised by a wizard. I never did catch a whole lot of his magic, though. What’s a simulacrum?”

  “Well, you’re familiar with facsimiles of people, right?”

  He nodded. Trant was well used to the manor’s servants and dealing with facsimiles of rulers and members of the nobility Greystone thought he might need to know.

  “A simulacrum is a copy of an object instead of a person. In my case, since I’ve never done it before, I’m afraid it’s going to be a very crude copy. But, Deedles thinks that’s all we’ll need.”

  Trant nodded again. It was all above him, but he didn’t care so long as she could save Greystone and the others.

  “So, what are you going to make a crude copy of?”

  “The Forlorn Dagger.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Margwen followed the nannies out the gate carrying clean rags for them. There were simply too many who could not make it to the church, and the nannies decided to do what they could out on the battlefield now that the fighting was over.

  Margwen felt utterly useless in the makeshift hospital. She had no medical training, and had never seen much blood before. She decided to do what little she could by assisting the
nannies.

  But when she walked out the magic gate, the sights and smells of the battlefield nearly overwhelmed her. Dead and dying men everywhere. Dwarves slowly sifting their way through corpses, ever alert to kill someone else if they looked the least bit threatening. Dead horses. Broken metal men. Scraps of armor and discarded weapons scattered about.

  She gasped when she saw Trant. She handed the rags off to someone else, and hurried over to where he stood near his horse. He spoke with a woman wearing black leather armor that covered her head to toe. And she had Deedles in her arms.

  “Trant! Thank the Creator you’re alright!”

  He looked battered, but his horse looked worse. Then she turned and looked at the young woman holding her cat. She gasped again when she recognized her.

  “Princess Mita? You are Mita! I met you before, when we visited the Crystal court. I’m Margwen of Coral.”

  Mita nodded at her, just as a couple dwarves carried a wounded man up to them on a stretcher.

  “Are ye medical? This one’s about t’ bleed out.”

  Margwen covered her mouth with both her hands. The dung shoveler from the stables had a large gash down his shoulder and across his chest. His entire front was covered in blood.

  Mita bent over him and waved her hand across the gash, conjuring heat and cauterizing the wound. The boy screamed in pain and passed out, but the bleeding stopped.

  “He’ll live. Take him to the triage station over there.”

  Mita pointed the way. The dwarves nodded. One of them tipped an imaginary hat to her. They picked the stretcher up and took the stable boy away.

  Margwen looked at Mita with a mixture of awe and the beginnings of something that possibly felt like jealousy. She looked up at Trant, but he was watching Mita, patiently waiting for something. Even Deedles seemed focused on Mita.

  Mita looked up at Trant, coming to a decision.

  “I’m going to try it.”

  Margwen felt genuinely mystified now. She bit her tongue, though, since she had obviously come in late to the conversation. She decided to just watch and listen.