The Silver Portal (Weapons of Power Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

  “I’ll give him a chance,” Zubrios said.

  “Allow the child to go to Blackstone unprotected?” Ull Rohaim asked.

  “The children you are chasing have proved more resourceful than you expected. Perhaps Werac can succeed where you failed,” Zubrios said. “Gromley can go with him.”

  Babysitting Werac was a step down for the chief of Zubrios’s security. Werac wondered if that was a punishment for letting Werac interrupt the meeting.

  “We’ll need the tracking crystal to find the bearers in Pizarr,” Ull Rohaim said.

  “I’ll use nonmagical methods,” Werac said. What am I getting myself into?

  Ull Rohaim shrugged. “I’ll arrange a portal for you and Gromley to Blackstone.”

  Zubrios opened the exit door and gestured Ull Rohaim out. “Get things in motion for the invasion.”

  The two of them paused by the door for a hushed conversation. “Eorne Crystal” was mentioned and “Luttrell’s Tomb," but Werac couldn’t make out any more than that.

  Ull Rohaim exited, and Zubrios waited for Werac to approach. Werac walked forward with leaden feet. He glanced at his father’s face, as unreadable as ever. Everything had gone better than Werac had imagined, and still he wasn’t sure if he had done right in his father’s eyes. He realized he needn’t have worried when Zubrios spread his arms and embraced his son.

  “Make me proud,” Zubrios said when they separated.

  Werac nodded. “I will, my lord.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Wasn’t there something else you wanted to ask me? About a sigil and the color of the fittings in your room?”

  His earlier thoughts seemed unimportant since he’d been given an actual mission, but Zubrios had picked up on them. “I want my own sigil and a say in redecorating my room.”

  “I’ll make some arrangements.”

  “Thank you.” Werac exited the war room and headed back up the stairs toward his room. He knew feeling upset about his father reading his thoughts was stupid, but he couldn’t help it. His victory shone a little less brightly. At a young age, he’d learned to shield his thoughts from Zubrios but had stopped when he figured out his father disliked him doing that. He had since figured out how to compartmentalize his thoughts, ensuring those he wanted to remain secret did so. But wanting a sigil and new curtains didn’t need to be secret. He didn’t have any reason to be upset about Zubrios reading that from his thoughts. He would have preferred to have more privacy, though.

  Having the most powerful mage in Mageles as a father wasn’t always a good thing.

  Chapter 28

  After only a few days inside Pizarr, Lukin was already sick of the place. After what had happened in the first tavern, Mortlebee refused to let them visit a second one. Given what the Pizarrian tavern had been like, Lukin let himself be persuaded to give them a wide berth. Taverns in the rest of Mageles were places for song and laughter and pretty serving wenches. In Pizarr, if the nameless tavern they’d visited was anything to go by, they were places for hard drinking and even harder men.

  As Lukin understood things, adventurers wilted and died unless they were watered with heavy doses of women and drink. Taking part in actual adventures was encouraged too, though that was optional. Lukin badly needed to return to civilization.

  Pizarr was a place of deep forests, little villages, and one-woman farms. As far as he could tell, the women did all the heavy lifting. They blacksmithed and roofed and farmed instead of working at being both bosomy and willowy while carrying five mugs of ale through a crowd five deep while slapping away roving hands. With the women doing all the work, the men were free to concentrate on growing wild beards and scowling at foreigners. Lukin hadn’t seen a single man who wasn’t bristling with weapons and anxious to use them. If Pizarr was a suitable place for adventurers, it was a totally different type than Lukin was.

  The problem was that the clerics still had that tracking crystal, and Pizarr was the only place in Mageles forbidden to redbirds. That had gotten Lukin thinking. When he’d learned that the Lord Protector and his clerics were chasing him, he’d naturally fled. Perhaps he should have... not exactly allowed them to capture him... but tried to reach an accommodation with them. Although the clerics weren’t exactly loved, they kept peace in the streets of Soirbuz. The Lord Protector had transformed Soirbuz from a little village to a bustling capital full of great taverns—so he couldn’t be all bad.

  However, Lukin knew Mortlebee had a strong dislike for Zubrios’s clerics—one of them was to blame for his exile, and the Tockian had yet to realize that as a good thing. Lukin was planning to wait until they met the third bearer before broaching the possibility that they’d be better off joining forces with Zubrios than remaining in opposition to him.

  Anticipation was rising within Lukin with every step. They were very close to another weapon. An itch that he couldn’t reach was finally going to be scratched. Lukin sighed at the thought. Of course, the other three mental itches had to remain unscratched for the time being. One thing at a time.

  Trails of smoke curled into the air just above the treetops, and Lukin caught a whiff of distant wood smoke. Lukin glanced at Mortlebee, walking alongside him. “Bet you ten shards there’s a camp just over that rise and that we’ll find a weapon of power there.”

  “I’m not supposed to bet.”

  “You aren’t supposed to drink either. Didn’t stop you in that tavern.”

  “That was just to save our renka asses.”

  The young Tockian was cursing more each day. Lukin considered that his doing and a job well done. He shuddered at the thought of being reared in the mountains by those religious nutjobs—worse even than having Flechir as a guardian. A chill passed through Lukin at the thought of Flechir, and he was happy to be distracted by Mortlebee jerking sideways.

  “What’s going on?” Lukin asked.

  “Sorry,” Mortlebee said. “Didn’t see that guy there, and he gave me a shock.”

  “Who?”

  Mortlebee moved to the side, allowing Lukin to see an old beggar sheltering under the branches of a bush on the side of the trail.

  “Help an old man,” the beggar croaked.

  “What do you need?” Mortlebee asked.

  “Food would be good if you have some to spare,” the old man said.

  “We don’t have much,” Lukin said.

  “Not having much is not the same as not having any.” The old beggar’s teeth were surprisingly white when he smiled.

  “We found some apples a while back,” Mortlebee pulled his backpack off and fumbled inside it. “Would you like one?”

  “Two would be better,” the beggar said cheekily.

  “We can tell him where to find the apple trees,” Lukin told Mortlebee, anxious to get to the camp ahead. “Then he can fill his stomach.” He addressed the beggar. “It’s not more than half a day back that way.”

  “Half a day,” the beggar exclaimed. “I could starve to death by then.”

  “Surely it’s worth the risk, with certain food at the end of the journey,” Lukin said. “You could sit here for half a day with no guarantee that a kind-hearted fool like my friend will pass by.

  “Lukin, we can spare a pair of apples.” Mortlebee handed over two.

  One disappeared into the beggar’s clothes, and he bit into the other. Juice ran down his face, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand then nodded to Mortlebee. “Thank you kindly, sir. Don’t mind your friend. I’m used to his kind.”

  Lukin had had quite enough of the beggar’s guff. “Mortlebee, come away. You aren’t used to beggars, but there are enough of these parasites in Soirbuz to pave the pavements. You aren’t helping those who refuse to help themselves.”

  “Pave the pavements with the parasites.” The beggar took another big bite out of his apple. “What a colorful turn of phrase you have! Where are you two headed?”

  “We are following this trail,” Lukin said.

  “There’s a camp in Wel
lan’s Hollow, just beyond those trees.” The beggar nodded up the trail. “Perhaps I can travel with you to the camp.”

  “Of course. Do you need a hand?” Mortlebee asked.

  “I can manage.” The beggar took a final bite of the apple and threw away the core. He then stood. His first few steps were stiff, but after that, he looked positively spry.

  He now looks completely different, came the thought from Mortlebee as he followed the old man up the trail.

  That was true. He’d seemed half dead when they first saw him. After standing up, he didn’t even look that old.

  “You’re not a beggar,” Lukin accused him.

  “Sure I am.” The man retrieved the second apple from his coat and bit into it. “Though I am eating the evidence.”

  “What’s your name?” Lukin hadn’t detected any of his thoughts. Surely, they should have revealed his deception to Lukin.

  “You can call me Delaron. May I offer you a piece of advice?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Don’t judge a person until you’ve walked in their shoes.”

  Lukin glanced down at Delaron’s bare feet. “What if they aren’t wearing any?”

  “Even more so.” Delaron finished eating the second apple and threw away its core.

  “I can’t walk in someone else’s feet.”

  Delaron looked Lukin up and down. “Likely, you personally can’t. But you should try all the same. You’d be surprised what you learn.”

  “Why were you pretending to be a beggar?” Mortlebee asked.

  “I wasn’t pretending... though I’m not always a beggar, either. Wearing the same coat all one’s life is much too boring.”

  “If you have many coats to choose from, why go with the tattered one?” Mortlebee asked.

  “For one, it provides a better view of the world. Wear a kingly cloak, and you’ll only see a person’s best face. Wear a tattered cloak, and you’ll see their true face.”

  “That’s just dumb,” Lukin said.

  Delaron bowed his head in Lukin’s direction. “If you say so. You seem to be a man of the world. I’m sure you know best.”

  Lukin ground his teeth, wishing Delaron had stayed a beggar.

  They crested a rise. Wellan’s Hollow was a clearing circled by earthen mounds overrun with grass and scrub. It had clearly been an ancient settlement at one point, though Lukin could see why it had been abandoned. Surrounded by forested higher ground, it would be a nightmare to defend. Inside the mounds was a more modern settlement consisting of three large tents and a dozen smaller ones. Lukin’s mouth watered as he smelled roasting meat, and his gaze was drawn to a large campfire, where a pig was being roasted. A few dozen men were scattered around the camp, most of whom seemed to be soldiers. Some of them were clean shaven, so they couldn’t all be Pizarrian. On the other hand, Lukin found it hard to imagine why the Pizarrians would allow foreign troops into their territory.

  “What is this place?” he asked Delaron.

  “Huell comes to greet us,” Delaron said.

  “Huell the Giant?” Lukin asked, seeing a large man standing atop the earthen mound, watching them descend.

  Delaron nodded. “That’s one of his names. I prefer Huell the Smell, and I recommend not sharing a tent with him.”

  “It couldn’t be.” Lukin knew Huell the Giant was a figure of legend.

  The man did look massive, though, and something large was strapped to his back. Could it be the giant’s famous battle axe?

  “Believe me,” Delaron said. “He has to be smelled to be believed.”

  He wasn’t the biggest man Lukin had ever seen, but he was the broadest, with wide shoulders and thick arms. And as they approached, the large double-bladed axe on his back became clearer.

  “Where did you disappear to?” Huell’s scowl was aimed at Delaron.

  “Why, I’ve just gone and found one of the bearers. What have you accomplished these last few days?”

  “You’re kidding me.” Huell shook his head. More bloody kids ending up with the weapons of power. “Which one is the bearer?”

  “We both are,” Lukin said. “And he didn’t bring us. We came ourselves.”

  “I’ll get the wizard and the staffbearer. And Fellanni if she’s around. We can meet in Krillo’s tent.” Huell turned and strode across the camp.

  Does he mean a real wizard? Mortlebee thought.

  “This way.” Delaron took a few steps forward then turned back because Lukin and Mortlebee hadn’t moved. “Coming?”

  What in renka-Mezziall is going on? Mortlebee thought.

  “Who are you? What is this place?” Lukin had expected to find the bearer. He hadn’t expected to find him protected by a troop of soldiers and by a living legend and by whatever Delaron was.

  “I’m Delaron, and this is Wellan’s Hollow. Didn’t we cover this? Are you a bit slow, kid? No shame in it if you are.”

  “You know what I meant.” Heat rose in Lukin’s face. “How did you know we were bearers?”

  “One of the weapons of power is a ring. And you keep fidgeting with that gold band around your finger.”

  “I don’t...” Lukin glanced down, where the fingers of his left hand were unconsciously twirling his ring. He snatched his hands apart, realizing he’d have to break that habit.

  Delaron addressed Mortlebee. “Where are you hiding your weapon of power?”

  “I don’t have it any more.”

  “Lost?”

  “I threw it away.”

  Delaron burst out laughing. “You know what? That’s probably the smartest thing you could have done.”

  Mortlebee flushed. “Then why are you laughing?”

  “I’m just imagining the reaction of the others, the wailing and gnashing of teeth and so on. It wasn’t the axe by any chance, was it? Huell would turn a delightful shade of purple.”

  “The bow,” Mortlebee said.

  “Fellanni is almost as reluctant as me. She won’t mind. You asked me who I am.” Delaron adopted a fighting stance, one foot forward, the other back. He took several half steps forward then a few back, slashing the air with an imaginary sword. “I am the swordbearer.”

  “No you aren’t.” Lukin remembered Huell had mentioned a staffbearer and knew that only one of the remaining weapons was in the camp.

  “I’m not the bearer of the sword of power. It’s the sword of what-should-have-been that is my burden and my gift.”

  Things began to make sense. “Five warriors to receive the weapons, and they gathered in this camp. Then the wizards made a renka out of things.”

  “Good summary.” Delaron nodded. “The Order went to great lengths to select the perfect person for each weapon. Instead, we get a staffbearer who can’t access magic, a bowbearer who threw his weapon away, and a ringbearer who’s a bit slow.”

  “I’m not slow,” Lukin said.

  Delaron just grinned at him. “This way.”

  Lukin glared at his departing back. The ex-beggar had officially become the most annoying person in the world.

  “You should have given him those apples.” Mortlebee gave Lukin a smug smile then followed Delaron to the tent and ducked inside after him.

  Lukin let himself calm down, which also gave him a chance to consider the new situation. Just after considering trying to get in contact with the Lord Protector’s forces, he ended up in a camp controlled by the Order and the Soylant Wizards. Does that mean I’m stuck in the backwoods of Pizarr?

  Huell held open the flap of Krillo’s tent to allow a middle-aged, black-haired woman—the wizard, Lukin guessed—to enter, then he ducked in after. He was about to follow when he heard a shout behind him.

  “Ringbearer, over here.”

  Chapter 29

  Are they my new tribemates? Simeon wondered, sheltering in the shadow of one of the outer tents.

  Huell had told him the ringbearer and bowbearer had arrived, and instead of going to Krillo’s tent, Simeon had found a vantage point to watch the
two bearers talk with Delaron. They were both dressed in Pizarrian cloaks. One of the boys, slight and thin with brown hair, looked timid and hesitant. The other, black haired and taller, was more confident, though Delaron was clearly getting under his skin. Simeon wasn’t surprised. Delaron would annoy even the most serene person.

  Delaron and the brown-haired boy entered Krillo’s tent, followed shortly by Huell and Sierre.

  Instinctively, Simeon called out to the black-haired boy. “Ringbearer, over here.” Simeon had seen a glint of light reflecting from the black-haired boy’s hand.

  The ringbearer twisted around and, seeing Simeon, approached. “Staffbearer. I’ve come a long way to find you.” He held out his hand.

  Yes, Simeon decided, this is my new tribe. Stronger than tribe. He took the ringbearer’s hand and shook it. “Via our weapons, we are bonded to each other.”

  “Whoa,” the ringbearer said. “We’ve just met. It’s a bit early for vows. My name is Lukin. What is this ‘tribe’ business?”

  “Simeon.” He realized he’d have to get used to the ringbearer reading his thoughts. “Tribe runs together, tribe learns together, tribe fights together, tribe stays together, tribe is raised together.”

  “I thought Mortlebee was the one who grew up in a cult.” Lukin smiled. “So, should we follow the rest into Krillo’s tent?”

  Simeon shook his head. “Why? So they can decide for us what we should do? We are the bearers, not them.” After the incident with Sierre, Simeon had decided he could no longer rely on those who were supposed to be in charge. When he was in the tribe, he’d followed his instructors without question, assuming they ultimately had his best interests at heart. Xelinder’s death had shown that to be a lie. Also, Simeon no longer thought Sierre was the person who could guide him.

  A slow smile spread across Lukin’s face. “I like you.”

  Simeon smiled back. “Good. It’s not necessary for tribemates to like each other, but it makes the tribe strong. You aren’t frightened by the idea of making our own choices.” It sure frightened Simeon. If his decisions were wrong, people could get hurt or, worse, die as a result. Whenever he contemplated his future, he felt like a child stumbling in the dark.