The Silver Portal (Weapons of Power Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

“They couldn’t have. Not so fast.” Pizarrians took pride in the fact that Pizarr was the one place the Lord Protector didn’t dare attack.

  “I’m sorry, Simeon,” Sierre said. “Pizarr is being overrun, and the clerics are taking the villages one by one, already setting up temples. I don’t think that troop out there is even aware they have stumbled across the weaponbearers. They have just come to take the village.”

  Simeon’s stomach plunged. Tarla... my remaining tribemates. “I have to...” He realized he’d left Pizarrian concerns behind, and he couldn’t return.

  Delaron gripped Simeon’s shoulder firmly. “I’m sure Pizarr expected an invasion and had a plan for it. If I’m not mistaken, most of the Pizarrian men have regrouped somewhere else. Pizarr has its battle, and you have yours.”

  Simeon nodded. That would explain why none of the men of Crilly were defending their homes.

  Green light flared as Sierre shot a fireball between two houses, hitting the trees just above a troop of marching redbirds. The soldiers scrambled back into the trees.

  “You still have magic left?” Simeon asked. He knew she couldn’t summon enough energy for a fireball without using the magic in her crystals, and they were depleted after Wellan’s Hollow.

  “I managed to refill one crystal with a small amount of magic,” she said. “It won’t last long.”

  “It might be enough to scare them,” Delaron said. “No sign of any magic users or high-crests among them. Simeon, go to the oak tree and keep an eye on Bylanter. The rest of us will delay the redbirds here and join you when the portal is open.”

  Simeon took the reins of his horse, climbed on, and heeled it into a gallop. As he crossed the green, galloping hooves kicked up large clods of dirt. In another life, he would’ve been punished for ruining the common area.

  At the top of the rise, Bylanter stared at the distant horizon with one hand on the oak tree, his strangely shaped blue hat somehow not looking ridiculous. Simeon dismounted and cautiously approached, not wanting to disturb the wizard.

  Bylanter half turned his head and caught sight of Simeon. “You’re Pizarrian, right?”

  “I am.” Is that even true anymore? As I prepare to desert my country while they are being overrun, can I still justly claim the nationality?

  “Don’t know how you people live here. Not a single inn in the village. I had to stay in a room with screaming kids all around.”

  “Not many foreigners in Pizarr,” Simeon said. “And most Pizarrians would have friends or tribemates to stay with in neighboring villages.” He wasn’t sure if he should be distracting the wizard, but although talking to Simeon, Bylanter was paying him only half his attention.

  “Can you explain how you create the portal?” Simeon asked.

  “That’s right,” Bylanter said. “You are the staffbearer yet can’t create portals. I knew those idiots at the Invisible Towers wouldn’t succeed.”

  “Aren’t you one of those idiots?”

  “Mezziall, no. Living permanently at the Towers. Me? Can you imagine? It would be worse than living here. I owe some favors.”

  “What’s wrong with the Invisible Towers?” Simeon asked.

  “Just about everything. Wait. There it is.” He leaned forward.

  “There what is?”

  “The location in Blackstone I am searching for,” Bylanter said. “When creating a portal, you must first get a firm grasp of the location you are in, fully understand its energies and its place in the world. Then your let you spirit soar high above Mageles. You see everything at once, and at the same time you see nothing because you are too distant. You imagine your spirit getting closer to the ground, so you can see less of the land but more clearly. In the shadowy landscape through which you soar, places that are well known to you are beacons. Once you locate a beacon, you draw from your magic to join the energies of that location to the energies of the one where you are standing.” Bylanter opened his left hand to reveal a blue crystal. He then reached out in front of him with his right, palm facing away from him. Gray light swirled around his right palm, solidifying into a circle. He stepped back and inclined his head in a bow. “And there you have it.”

  Simeon walked around it. Both faces appeared the same, and from the side, the edges were impossibly thin. It was a strange experience, having seen nothing behind the portal yet peering into it and seeing no end, an infinite sky of roiling gray storm clouds.

  It was oval shaped, flattened on the top and bottom, only slightly taller than Simeon and not much wider. “The horses won’t fit,” he said.

  “I’m not the renka Lord Protector,” Bylanter said. “Do you know how much magic it took to open a portal of that size all the way to Blackstone? What do you need horses for in the city?”

  “I meant no insult,” Simeon said. “I just want to understand the process.”

  At the sound of fast-approaching horses, they both swiveled. Simeon was glad of the interruption, worried Bylanter might dismiss the portal in a fit of pique.

  Lukin, closely followed by Mortlebee, galloped toward them with his cloak streaming out behind. Lukin shouted something, but the wind whipped his words away.

  “I didn’t get that,” Simeon shouted as soon as he reined his horse to a stop.

  Lukin vaulted off his horse. “Some of the redbirds are coming up from the south.”

  Mortlebee came up behind Lukin and pointed down the slope to where a troop of redbirds had circled around the village and was marching in their direction.

  “Where are Delaron and Sierre?” Simeon asked.

  “Still down in the village. They sent us on ahead,” Lukin said.

  “Quick. Start through the portal,” Bylanter shouted.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” Mortlebee asked. He nocked an arrow to his bow and aimed it down the slope at the approaching enemy.

  “That’ll only delay us further when they arrive. Step through.”

  Mortlebee released the tension in his bowstring and stuffed his arrow back into his belt. He stepped toward the portal then paused. “In here?”

  Simeon understood Mortlebee’s hesitation. The swirling darkness wasn’t exactly inviting—making it truly a step into the unknown.

  “No, the other renka portal,” Bylanter said. “Of course, in there.”

  Mortlebee took a sharp breath, stared into the depths of the portal, then stepped inside. The surface rippled, and he disappeared.

  “Here goes nothing.” Lukin held his nose as though about to jump into a lake and hopped into the portal. With another ripple, he was gone.

  “Now you,” Bylanter told Simeon.

  “We should hold on in case Sierre or Delaron need help. Look.” Both of them dashed across the village green as redbirds swarmed around the kiddie building. Simeon glanced down at the redbirds coming from the south, trying to figure out whether Delaron and Sierre could reach the portal in time.

  “What are you going to do?” Bylanter asked. “Throw your staff at the soldiers? They can take care of themselves.”

  Simeon nodded. If he waited around, Delaron and Sierre would more likely end up helping Simeon rather than the other way round. It was an ugly truth but one he had to accept.

  Bylanter gave Simeon a shove. “Go. I’ll hold the portal open.”

  Already stumbling toward it from the wizard’s shove, Simeon stepped into the grayness in front of him. A thin bubble of freezing air moved through him.

  Chapter 37

  Something was terribly wrong. The pain that blasted through Twig’s head wasn’t pleasant, but she could deal with that. Something else was the real problem. Even though thoughts formed slowly in the fog of her mind, the deep feeling of unease pulsed strongly.

  She opened her eyes. Her bed was too soft, and the light was too bright. Everything was wrong. She turned her head to the side and saw the girl, the one whom she’d seen out the door of the cell.

  Twig remembered and sat bolt upright. “How long?” At the sudden movement, the
pain exploded. Whiteness flashed in front of her eyes.

  “How long what?” the girl asked.

  Twig massaged a bruise on her left temple until the pain eased slightly. “How long, how long, how long?”

  The girl sat on a chair, an axe leaning against it. A youth stood by the wall behind her.

  “How long since we rescued you?” the girl asked. “It happened the middle of last night. It’s now the afternoon.”

  Too much time. Twig stood. She swayed and put her hand to her head as the pain flashed white again. “Where’s my...?” She saw the sword, leaning against the foot of her bed.

  “You’re not well,” the youth said. “You can’t go anywhere yet.”

  She picked it up her sword and reached for the door handle.

  “Wait,” the girl said. “Where are you going? We have to talk. My axe and your sword, they are the same.”

  Twig opened the door and walked out. She had to get to Bareth before Rawls did. The youth ran after her and grabbed her shoulder. Twig swiveled, raising her sword, and the youth backed away, raising his arms. “We just want to talk. Summer went to incredible lengths to rescue you.”

  “Who asked you to?” Twig gripped the sword more tightly and used the speed to separate herself from them, dashing along the corridor and downstairs. She slowed to normal speed to navigate a large, spacious room with tables.

  At the exit, her knees buckled at a new explosion of pain in her head, and she leaned against the side of the door to stop herself falling. Once the spike of pain reduced to a tolerable level again, she used the sword to dash down the street.

  Every few corners, she would pause to let the pain in her head ease again. People were staring openly. Before, she had only used the power of her sword in darkness, but she didn’t care about the attention. The chance Rawls hadn’t gotten to Bareth yet was all that mattered. She sped up again.

  Twig slowed as she reached the market street with the spice shop on it. The crowds were too thick to use the power of the sword effectively. The closer she got, the more her feet dragged. She feared what she would find.

  The door resisted her initial push. She increased the pressure, and the door slid open. The smell of spices rushed over her, though that time, the smell was different—unpleasant and cloying. Dark blood flowed around her bare feet. She shuddered and moved farther into the room. The awful sensation of blood sliding against her bare feet slithered through her with each step. She didn’t allow her eyes to focus on the shape hanging from the center of the room, trying to delay the absolute certainty of what had happened.

  A chill, beginning at the emptiness in her core, spread outward, colder by far than the worst winter rain. She had allowed herself to grow soft, not with comfy beds and dry rooms but soft with hope and warm feelings. Bareth had been her lifeline, her only friend. And now...

  She allowed her eyes to focus. He hung upside down, blood dripping from his hair. His tongue drooped from his mouth, his eyes staring lifelessly at the horror before him, the horror that was Twig. The sword fell from her lifeless fingers. She fell against him, wrapped her arms around his chest, then slid to her knees.

  His body was cold to the touch, but it was nothing compared to the chill within Twig. Bareth had only wanted to help others.

  He had made a mistake in choosing to help Twig and had died for it.

  I should have stayed a mouse.

  Chapter 38

  “Open your eyes, idiot,” Lukin said.

  “Good tip.” For a brief instant, Simeon had been wondering why everything was so dark on the other side of the portal. He opened his eyes and looked around. Giant shadowy men surrounded him. He raised his staff and whirled around. Where did Bylanter take us?

  “Don’t freak out. They’re only statues,” Lukin said.

  So they were. The walls held no windows—small skylights high in the roof provided the only light. They were inside a giant barnlike structure containing nothing except statues.

  “What is this place?” Simeon asked.

  “A place to store old statues of Mezziall, I presume,” Lukin said. “Zubrios sometimes takes over old churches and turns them into temples. Perhaps he intends to reshape the faces on these statues and put them back into use at a later time.”

  Bylanter stepped through the portal, and it disappeared behind him.

  “Where are Delaron and Sierre?” Simeon asked. “You said you’d wait.”

  Bylanter shrugged. “I say a lot of things.”

  “Open a portal back again right now,” Simeon said. “We aren’t leaving them behind.”

  “No magic left,” Bylanter said. “Plus, it’s too dangerous to go back. Sierre never mentioned an invading army when she got me to agree to help. I got the bearers here, at least. If Sierre isn’t happy, she can have her topaz back. Oh, that’s right, she didn’t even pay me.”

  “We can’t just leave them in Pizarr,” Mortlebee said.

  Bylanter stepped between two statues and pushed open a small door. “By all means, go back. Pizarr is a few hundred leagues east of here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the stench of the countryside off me. After that, I’ve places to meet, things to be, people to do.” The door swung closed behind him.

  Simeon frowned. Bylanter had just left Sierre and Delaron for Zubrios’s soldiers then deserted the weaponbearers. The wizards had created the weapons in the first place. Simeon couldn’t fathom Bylanter caring so little.

  “Something’s happening,” Lukin said. “Two weapons are in Blackstone, as we suspected. But one is moving fast. Really fast. He must be in trouble.”

  “Let’s go.” Simeon shoved open the door Bylanter had taken. If one tribemate was in trouble, the tribe was in trouble. Outside, a narrow alleyway joined two busy streets. The wizard was already out of sight.

  Lukin and Mortlebee spilled out behind Simeon, and Lukin immediately turned left down the alley. “This way,” he said.

  The three of them burst into a busy street. Lukin didn’t hesitate, turning right. People scattered before them.

  Even while running at close to top speed, Simeon couldn’t help looking around, trying to soak everything in. He’d never been in a big city before. He’d been sure the first street had to be the main street, from the amount of people on it, only to come to a street twice that size a short while later. Buildings towered upward on either side, giant cliffs of black rock. In contrast to the lack of color in the buildings, the people wore all kinds of colorful and strange clothes—perhaps Bylanter hadn’t been queerly dressed at all, and that was just what city folk wore.

  Lukin yelled warnings as he charged forward. Most people managed to get out of the way, and Lukin bumped around or twisted past those who weren’t quick enough. Mortlebee and Simeon followed in the channel he created. Simeon, last, received the brunt of the curses hurled after them.

  On a narrow though still busy street, Lukin slowed. Mortlebee pulled an arrow from his belt and nocked it to the string but kept it pointed at the ground. Simeon took his staff in both hands.

  People bumped against Lukin, coming the other way as they streamed past, escaping a disturbance farther up the street. Something was happening not far ahead. Simeon had no idea what to expect. Then they reached the empty part of the street and could see what caused the exodus.

  Blood flowed out of an open shop door and dripped down the steps. Four men stood outside the shop, two swordsmen on one side of the door with their swords in their hands and two men with nets on the other side.

  Lukin nodded toward the shop with blood leaking out the door, though Simeon and Mortlebee didn’t need to be told that the bearer was inside. Blood everywhere, armed men—of course that was where they had to go. Simeon was unsure how to proceed. With no idea of who the armed men were or why they were there, it was impossible to tell if they could be reasoned with.

  Before Simeon had a chance to make any decisions, Mortlebee raised his bow and fired an arrow into the back of a swordsman. The man let ou
t a roar and fell against the wall in front of him. The other three turned, startled.

  Mortlebee had taken the choice of action from their hands. Lukin drew his sword, and both he and Simeon charged the three remaining men.

  Before the men had a chance to react, the tip of Simeon’s staff struck the other swordsman in the temple, and Lukin stabbed one of the net wielders in the side. Too close for their nets to be any use, both wielders backed away, the injured one holding his side.

  One of the nets became tangled under Lukin’s feet, and he fell backward. The net was wrenched from its wielder’s hand as both continued to back away. Mortlebee, his bow held over his shoulder like a sword, charged screaming at them, and the two turned and ran.

  Lukin, on his backside, laughed. “Look at the Tockian warrior turning berserker.”

  Mortlebee ignored Lukin and headed for the door. Lukin’s laugh cut off as he realized the blood was flowing under him. He jumped to his feet and followed Mortlebee inside the shop.

  Simeon leaned down to check the fallen swordsmen. Both still breathed, though blood bubbled at the lips of the one with an arrow in his back. He wouldn’t last long. Simeon had met Mortlebee only a short time ago, yet already he had gone from someone who found violence abhorrent to someone who could shoot another in the back and not spare a second look at the body. It was sad, but Simeon found he couldn’t regret it—Mortlebee being a warrior was better for their small tribe.

  Around Simeon, a bubble of space and silence had opened up. The people who hadn’t completely fled turned to watch from a distance. Simeon followed Mortlebee and Lukin into the shop. They needed to get the bearer and get away before the authorities came or those net wielders summoned help. Blood splashed beneath his feet. He coughed, the air heavy with dust and pungent with fragrance.

  His eyes became accustomed to the darkness, though he wished they hadn’t. A naked man hung from the ceiling. Blood dripped from his open throat, dribbled down one half of his face, and spread across entire floor. The quantity of blood in the room seemed to be too much for one person.