The Silver Portal (Weapons of Power Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

  Mortlebee scowled at Lukin, who raised his arms defensively. “Easy mistake to make.”

  “Yeah, not like the spring flooding happens every spring or anything,” the axeman said.

  “Those boots and cloaks look Pizarrian,” the swordsman said. “You steal them?”

  “We bought them,” Mortlebee said.

  The barkeep nodded. “Sounds like we have a bet. You lose, and we get all the money plus boots and cloaks. You win, and the drinks are on the house.”

  “No way, that’s not enough,” Lukin said.

  Just wanting to get out, Mortlebee grabbed Lukin’s arm. The mood had become friendlier, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t turn ugly just as quickly.

  However, Lukin shrugged him off. “Each of you has to put in five shards on your side. It’s not much of a bet if no one has anything to lose.”

  “I put in the drinks. That’s enough on my side.” The barkeep glanced across at the others.

  The swordsman’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve never drunk ale before?”

  “Never smelled it until today,” Mortlebee assured him.

  The axeman reached into his pocket, pulled out some shards, and slapped them on the table. “I put my faith in Antler’s Ale.”

  The swordsman nodded. “Go ahead then, I’m in too.”

  “Topaz on the table,” Lukin insisted.

  “The boots and cloaks aren’t on the table,” the swordsman said.

  “Go on.” The barkeep gave him a nudge.

  He reluctantly added his shards to the axeman’s.

  Lukin turned Mortlebee around to face him. “Confident?”

  Mortlebee shook his head.

  “We can’t travel through Pizarr barefoot and shardless. You have got to win this.” Lukin gave Mortlebee a shake. “Get confident. I know you can do it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  When Mortlebee had come up with the idea, he’d thought that losing would likely be the best option. It would put the Pizarrians in a happy mood, and he and Lukin could leave, having lost a bit of topaz. But since they’d been forced to put so much on it, he needed to win. Lukin had spat out his first sip and grimaced his way through the rest of the glass, and he was used to drinking. How am I supposed to manage?

  “Get on with it,” the barkeep said.

  Mortlebee picked up the glass, cold against his fingers. The initial foam had sunk into the dark amber liquid, and only a skim of white bubbles remained on the surface. As Mortlebee lifted the glass toward his mouth, the pungent smell grabbed at his nostrils, and he wanted to gag before he’d even tasted a drop.

  Over the top of the glass, he saw the three Pizarrians watching him avidly. Lukin looked nervous—so much for his proclaimed confidence.

  Mortlebee touched the glass to his lips, and the liquid poured in. It burned his mouth, and his throat jerked with a gag reflex. Don’t taste, don’t taste, just swallow, he told himself and gulped rapidly. The burning sensation was even stronger in his throat, and his stomach spasmed. His body shuddered, and his hand shook, but he kept raising the bottom of the glass and swallowing as rapidly as he knew how.

  Lukin cheered, and Mortlebee realized he had done it. In disbelief, he put the empty glass on the table. His stomach spasmed hard, and Mortlebee bent over, acid racing up his throat.

  “If it comes back up, we win,” one of the Pizarrians said.

  It was coming back up. Mortlebee could taste it in the back of his throat. Bad as it had tasted going down, the vile liquid tasted worse coming back up. Mortlebee grabbed at his stomach and swallowed hard. Whatever had come up returned back down, and Mortlebee straightened, though his knees were still weak.

  Lukin cheered again and raised one of Mortlebee’s arms over his head. “Who would have thought the Tockian had that him in?”

  All three Pizarrians looked as though they were trying to figure out exactly what had happened. Before they had a chance to react further, Lukin swept all the topaz off the table then led Mortlebee to the door and out.

  “That went well. Two free drinks and more shards than we entered with.”

  Mortlebee groaned, half from the way his stomach was still roiling in protest and half because he realized Lukin had learned nothing from once more hurling the two of them into the maw of danger. Why couldn’t I have become bonded to something safer—a man-eating giant wolf, perhaps?

  Chapter 27

  All his life, Werac had been nothing but a disappointment. Every time the clerics came with their crystals and their tests, they left disappointed. Every time Zubrios looked at him—hell, every time anyone in the whole castle looked at him—Werac could sense disappointment.

  “The son.” That’s how everyone thought of him. “Bring the son his food,” the servants would be ordered. “Stand guard by the son’s door,” the redbirds were told.

  I have a name, Werac wanted to shout, I’m not just an attachment.

  However, shouting wouldn’t accomplish anything. People would look at him with pity, and they would whisper to each other, “The latest tests still show that the son has no magical ability. How disappointing.”

  Werac strode to the window and looked down to the courtyard. As he’d suspected from the activity earlier, Ull Rohaim had returned. He would be taken to Zubrios’s war room for a discussion then back to the portal chamber and out into the world, where things were happening. Werac, however, would stay in his room where nothing was happening and would continue being a disappointment.

  Werac strode away from the window and back to his desk and sat down. On the pad was the drawing of a stylized representation of a sun. He’d gone through various versions before coming up with one he liked. It was a sigil for himself. They called him the son, and he would be the sun. He smiled at that, not caring if anyone else understood.

  But what need did disappointments who stayed in their room have for sigils?

  Werac glanced around. His room was expansive, with wooden floors and ornate dressers and a bookshelf overflowing with books. Werac had nothing to complain about in terms of luxury, but the coloring hurt his eyes. Crimson curtains flanked the windows, and maroon drapes hung from the four-poster bed. He was just an attachment, after all, so of course his room would be decked in Zubrios’s favorite red.

  Werac returned to the window and looked out again. Ull Rohaim was no longer in sight. It was time—Werac knew he would have to take his future into his own hands if he was ever going to be more than a disappointment. He charged to his door, flung it open, and headed for Zubrios’s war room, practically running. He wanted to get there before his courage gave out.

  Two redbirds flanked the entrance to the war room.

  Werac skidded to a stop in front of them. “I demand entry.”

  “Oh, you demand, do you?” one asked. “That puts me in a quandary. Let me see. I’ll just have to refuse your demands.”

  Werac looked for the first time at the guards. The one who had spoken was Gromley, the hawk-crest in charge of Zubrios’s security. Gromley had long, white, bushy sideburns and a chin like the square end of an anvil. He was one of the few people who treated Werac like a person rather than an attachment.

  “Sorry, Gromley, didn’t notice you there,” Werac said. “Can you let me in?”

  Gromley shook his head. “I can’t. I’d even refuse Princess Mari today.”

  Werac’s cheeks reddened. “Princess Mari and Her Seven Demands” was a children’s story in which Princess Mari didn’t come off well.

  “I need to see my father.” If Werac backed down, he’d never get the courage again.

  “He’s in a meeting with Ull Rohaim right now,” Gromley said. “I’ll send someone to get you when he is free.”

  “I need to meet both of them now. Please. It’s important.”

  Gromley grunted then turned to the sparrow-crest beside him. “Under no circumstances let Werac in until I return.”

  The redbird came to attention in acknowledgment of the order. Gromley sucked in a breath,
pushed open the door behind him, and entered.

  By doing that, was Gromley sticking his own neck out? Perhaps calling it important had been an exaggeration. It was important to Werac but not in the grand scheme of things. Werac shouldn’t have come. A soothing crimson was clearly the best color for bedroom curtains. And Werac’s sun sketch needed more work even if sigils weren’t for the likes of him.

  Gromley returned and held the door open for Werac. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  So do I.

  The war room was circular and not particularly big. A round table sat in the center, with various maps hanging from the walls. There hadn’t been much in the way of wars lately, but the room got the name when the palace had been young and Zubrios was extending his influence across the continent. The Lord Protector still liked to use it for small meetings.

  Zubrios, sitting down with Ull Rohaim opposite, turned to face his son. “Gromley said you had something urgent for me.”

  The words were cold. Zubrios usually had a friendly greeting for his son, but Werac had never interrupted him in that way before. Werac swallowed. His father was not someone to get on the wrong side of.

  “I have no magical ability,” Werac said. “It’s time to accept that.”

  “Perhaps,” Zubrios said. “That doesn’t sound urgent.”

  “Despite what clerics such as Ull Rohaim here might believe, being without magic does not make one worthless.”

  “I wouldn’t say worthless,” Ull Rohaim said. “Those without magic are fine for some things. None of my servants have magic, yet they are perfectly useful for carrying, cleaning, all sorts of things.”

  “Magical or not, I am still the Lord Protector’s son. And I can sense that forces are moving throughout Mageles. And I want to be a part of that.”

  “You can sense all that from your bedroom,” Ull Rohaim said. “Impressive.”

  Werac ignored him and addressed his father. “I want to help you rule.”

  Zubrios considered then nodded. “Very well.” He stood and dragged his chair against the wall. Although he had the white hair and wrinkled skin of an old man, Zubrios moved with the virility of a much younger man. He sat, crossed his legs, and gestured at the table. “Sit, Werac. Ull Rohaim will give his report to you as if he was me.”

  Werac hesitated, unsure if Zubrios was serious.

  “My lord, the boy—” Ull Rohaim began.

  “Did I ask your opinion?” Zubrios asked.

  Ull Rohaim bowed his head. “No, my lord. Apologies, my lord.”

  Werac walked slowly over to the table and took a seat. It appeared his father was serious, though perhaps he just meant to embarrass his son.

  “As I was telling you, one of the bearers is in a ship heading south from Xercia, so we can’t reach here,” Ull Rohaim said.

  Werac had no idea what he was talking about. “Bearers? Start at the beginning.”

  Ull Rohaim glanced at Zubrios. “I was told to give the report as if to Lord Zubrios. In which case, I wouldn’t start with facts which Lord Zubrios already knew.”

  “You would if Lord Zubrios told you to.” If I want to know how to rule, I’ll have to learn how to bring sycophants such as Ull Rohaim to heel.

  Ull Rohaim gave an exaggerated sigh. “The Soylant Wizards, with the help of the Armentell Order, have created five weapons of power. They chose five people to receive these weapons, but being the Soylant Wizards that we know and love, they made a renka of it. The weapons ended up all over Mageles. They seem to now be in the hands of various youths.”

  “Did we help to ensure the weapons went to the wrong people?” Werac asked.

  Ull Rohaim glanced at Zubrios again. “Not that I’m aware. But you’d know better yourself, Lord Zubrios, since you managed to get control of the magic tracking crystal.”

  “A crystal that allows you to find the weapons? With that in your possession, you surely have captured all the weapons and bearers by now.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Ull Rohaim sounded defensive.

  Werac guessed that Zubrios wasn’t happy with Ull Rohaim’s progress. That would be one of the reasons that Zubrios asked Werac to step into his place—the Lord Protector wanted to humiliate his chief cleric for his incompetence. Werac could play along with that. “You have a crystal that shows the location of these weapons. You have the resources of the clerics throughout Mageles. And all you bring is excuses?”

  “We found one weapon in the Tockian Mountains but have left it in place. It’s a bow. We have it under surveillance, hoping the bearer will return.”

  “After all this time, you have only one weapon and no bearers recovered.” Werac added all the disdain he could muster into his voice, enjoying watching Ull Rohaim squirm.

  “As I mentioned earlier, another weapon is heading south from Xercia. We heard that a noble girl, a daughter of the Duke of Delmoria, wielded an axe that gave her strength, and she has now disappeared. We don’t know which ship she’s on, so we’ll have to wait until she returns to land. We’ve spent several days in Blackstone, but the bearer doesn’t stay in one place for long. There’s a person called the cloaked phantom killing criminals, possibly related. The bearer who was in Soirbuz—”

  “One of the bearers was inside this very city, and you allowed him to escape?” Werac was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “His companion slew four clerics when they escaped the city,” Ull Rohaim said. “Ull Axilium had him in his hands by the Hatori river, but a companion rescued him again. The boy fell into the river but survived.”

  “A sorry tale of incompetence,” Werac said. “And you said that the Soylant Wizards made a renka of it. You couldn’t even catch a few youths. Have they even had to use the magic of their weapons yet?”

  “Ull Lackma in Tockery is missing. We believe it might be related to the bow bearer.”

  Werac shook his head. “So what now, Ull Rohaim? How do you intend to proceed?”

  Ull Rohaim glanced once again at Zubrios before facing Werac again. He clearly hated his situation, but his master was giving him no choice. “There was already one weapon in Pizarr, and now a second has crossed. So we need permission to take a troop of redbirds into Pizarr to capture them.

  “Doesn’t that break the agreement between the Lord Protector and the Pizarrian councils?” Werac knew it did—Zubrios clerics were to stay north of the Hatori, Pizarrian warriors to stay south—but he wanted to play for time. Even if both Zubrios and Ull Rohaim saw the exchange simply as a way of putting Ull Rohaim in his place, Werac needed to take advantage of the situation by proving he could provide insight and ideas, proving he could be useful.

  “If we break the treaty, the councils will know they have brought this on themselves when they harbored those from the Order who sought to use the weapons against us,” Ull Rohaim argued.

  The bearers themselves weren’t affiliated with either the Order or the Wizards—they were just random youths—yet the clerics were already treating them as enemies. “Ull Rohaim, you are going about this search for the bearers all wrong,” Werac declared.

  Ull Rohaim scowled. “It’s not as easy as you think. The crystal indicates the distance but only a rough impression of the direction. It takes a few hours to portal to a new location, even one not too distant.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the incompetence in execution, rather the whole methodology. If these youths were not chosen by the Order, then perhaps they aren’t our enemies. But if someone is being pursued by a troop of our clerics, they’ll run.”

  “You suggest instead making friends with them?”

  Werac ignored the sarcasm. “Actually, I do. We could send one or two people to meet the bearers, talk to them. Magic doesn’t choose sides. It doesn’t matter who created the weapon. Perhaps these bearers are naturally aligned with the Lord Protector instead of the Order. And if not, well, we’ll know more about them, and we’ll still be able to chase them across the continent with a troop of clerics.”

&n
bsp; Ull Rohaim rose and stood in front of Zubrios. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “There’s sense in what he says,” Zubrios said. “If we can keep the bearers from helping the Order, that would be good. If we turn the bearers to our side, it’s so much better.”

  “When we have captured them, we can do that,” Ull Rohaim said.

  “Either way, it’s important to get to them first, before the wizards or the Order can poison their minds against me,” Zubrios said. “As it happens, I have had plans to invade Pizarr for a while, and this seems a good moment to put those into motion.”

  “Isn’t that risky?” Werac asked. “Every Pizarrian is a warrior.” Stupid, he told himself. Repeating what everyone else knows.

  “I have held off long enough,” Zubrios said.

  “Perfect,” Ull Rohaim said. “We capture the two bearers and their weapons, and we take away the last country that supports the Lord Protector’s enemies.”

  “The invasion plans were prepared long ago,” Zubrios said.

  Two weapons in Pizarr, one in the Tockian mountains, one on a ship out of Xercia. That leaves... “What about the bearer in Blackstone?” Werac wasn’t going to be banished to his room again. “If you will be concentrating on the bearers in Pizarr, perhaps I can go to Blackstone. Maybe I can make contact with that one there without scaring them.”

  “You?” Ull Rohaim masterfully put all his disdain into a single word. Werac would have considered it impressive if he wasn’t on the other end of it.

  “Yes, me. I’m the same age as these bearers. If I turn up without a troop of clerics behind me, perhaps I can convince the bearer that the Lord Protector isn’t the bad guy here.”

  “On your own? It’s too dangerous for a start,” Ull Rohaim said.

  “We’ve already established I’m worthless. What’s to lose?” Werac said.

  “Not worthless,” Ull Rohaim said. “Just not useful in a way you’d like to be.”

  One of Werac’s greatest fears was that he’d be locked in the palace for life and simply used to give the Lord Protector grandchildren. He was sure his father would never do that, but that seemed to be what Ull Rohaim was hinting at.