Warrior Mage (Book 1)

by Lindsay Buroker

  Yanko elbowed her. “Not if he’s here to seek greater education and enlightenment, as we are.”

  Lakeo snorted, but didn’t object further.

  “Wonderful. I’ll send you over.” The director removed his hand from the orb. “Akstyr, you have a couple of Nurian visitors coming. They need help with research.” He repeated the words in his own language.

  Another yeah-like grunt came back. This Akstyr did not sound enthused. He asked something in Kyattese.

  The director’s voice grew firmer when he said, “No.” He dropped the orb back in his drawer and smiled again. “He’ll be waiting for you. This pamphlet—” he opened a cardboard foldout with a detailed map on the inside, which rose from the page to hang in the air in a three-dimensional display, “—will show you the way.”

  “Thank you.” Yanko accepted it, as well as the armload of other papers and pamphlets, and led the way out.

  Lakeo followed, her own pamphlets in her arms. “This Akstyr sounds like a troublemaker.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case.” Following the map’s lead, Yanko led them down pathways and past numerous buildings of glass, bamboo, and lava stone. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be entrusted with helping students and visitors with their research.”

  They parted on the path to allow a student in shorts and sandals to stumble past, his arms so laden with books that he could barely see over the top.

  “Or maybe he got in trouble for something, and this is an extra duty he’s received as punishment. Isn’t that how you usually ended up with extra duties in the mines?”

  “That’s certainly how I ended up having to create illusions of trees for you.”

  “Except for the time when I pummeled you in the practice ring, and you had to help me because of your embarrassing defeat.”

  “You shoved your boot into my... special parts when I was looking the other way.”

  “Yes, that’s pummeling, isn’t it? If you’re dumb enough to look at a girl in the middle of a sparring match, then your special parts deserve attention from a boot.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” Had Yanko truly been thinking that he liked having her along on his quest? He bared his teeth.

  A couple of students studying under a cypress tree lifted their heads from books to watch them go by, or perhaps to watch Lakeo. Thanks to her height, her muscled arms, and the bow, she looked more like a soldier reporting to headquarters than a student. Yanko did not know if he fit in, either, with his swords belted at his waist, but he did still have that giant tome in his backpack. Maybe he could take it out and cart it around in his arms.

  They entered the large, three-story library building, the foyer cool, thanks to the black stone walls and floor. People of all ages roamed about, books open in their hands or notes clenched as they strode about with determined expressions on their faces. One aspiring telekinetics mage strolled past, his stack of books hovering over his shoulder.

  “How come you can’t do that?” Lakeo asked.

  “I can, sort of. Just not with anything important that I wouldn’t want to break.”

  “So if you were going to sweep a woman off her feet and carry her into your bedchamber—” Lakeo looked at him, made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh, then went on, “—you’d want to use your arms instead of magic, eh?”

  “It would depend on the woman.” Yanko walked to a directory by the door, which showed a map of the three sprawling floors of the library, including numerous wings and out buildings that had been added over the years. All of the rooms were labeled in Kyattese, and some of the major ones had titles in several other languages, as well.

  “As if you get so many offers.”

  Yanko resisted the urge to say, “More than you,” and concentrated on the map instead. Besides, it probably wasn’t true. Even if Lakeo wasn’t quite the classic definition of beauty, at least by Nurian standards, she had the confidence to walk up to someone and let the person know she was available. Yanko had never even managed to give Arayevo one of his love poems.

  “There it is.” He pointed to the second floor. “And there are stairs over there.”

  “I suppose it’s not your fault that Arayevo’s tastes run to older men. I bet she’s drawn to Captain Minark’s bountiful facial hair. You should be happy with a less beautiful woman, someone who doesn’t mind a bare chin.”

  Yanko walked quickly through the foyer and up the stairs, hoping faster foot speed would end this conversation more quickly. He should not have responded at all, but he couldn’t help from snapping, “She’s not drawn to his hair, or anything else. They’re just crew mates. And lots of men have bare chins. Dak has a bare chin.”

  Lakeo touched a plaque next to a door that read Thermal Science Studies and gazed longingly into the room before continuing on. “Because he shaves.”

  “I shave too.” As soon as he reached the door to the history room, Yanko hustled inside, not wanting to get into another argument about the paucity of his facial hair. He would like to prove her wrong, but he had seen himself after a few days without shaving, and the wispy mustache and patchy tufts of beard growth would not impress a woman.

  As soon as he entered the dim room, the scent of rotten eggs or sulphur or something of that nature reached his nose. A cloud of greenish smoke hung over a desk, and a faint magical taint hung about the odor.

  Yanko stopped on a rug, not certain it was safe to continue inside. A wall to the left held maps of the world and close-ups of various continents, some recently drawn and others centuries old, the continents not always in exactly the same places or in the same shape as in the later renditions. To the right, aisles of bookcases stretched away into gloom. A couple of windows let in sunlight from the far side of the room, but one would need lanterns to navigate the shelves.

  A man about Yanko’s age, maybe a year or two older, leaned out from one of the aisles of books. He had a thick tuft of bleached white hair with green and blue dyed tips, and it stuck out in all directions, reminding Yanko of a porcupine. A single dagger-shaped earring dangled from one ear, and he had a defensive—or maybe surly was the right word—hunch to his shoulders. He also had a thick goatee and mustache in a normal dark brown color. Given their recent discussion, Yanko hoped Lakeo wouldn’t comment on it. Turgonians must have an easier time growing facial hair.

  He said something Yanko couldn’t understand, grunted, and walked out with two bottles in his hands, both containing dark green liquids. He was taller than both Yanko and Lakeo, with a lean, rangy build. He waved away lingering smoke and set his ingredients down. More bottles and a small crucible sat on the desk, making it appear more like an alchemist’s lab than a librarian’s station. Whatever he was mixing looked and smelled volatile too.

  “Was that Turgonian?” Lakeo asked.

  “I think so. I should be having Dak teach it to me.” As Yanko stared at the young man, it occurred to him that a Turgonian library assistant wouldn’t work at all, even if he knew Kyattese, because neither Yanko nor Lakeo knew Kyattese. He might have to fetch Dak, after all.

  “You the Nurians?” the man asked in a rough accent, his words slow and precise. And in Nurian. Maybe there was hope for communication after all.

  “Yes, I’m Yanko, and this is Lakeo.”

  “Akstyr.” The man held out an arm. For the traditional Turgonian arm clasp? Dak had never stuck out his arm thusly, and Yanko had thought the greeting might be something done only between comrades, but he accepted the offer, regardless. Akstyr had an arrow branded into the back of his hand. That must have been painful. “For what are you looking?” He crinkled his brow. “What are you looking for?”

  Yanko nodded. “The second one is more natural. I’m sorry I don’t know any Kyattese. Or Turgonian.”

  “No? Here is how I learn.” Akstyr dipped into a desk drawer and dropped a series of thick pamphlets onto the corner.

  Yanko picked up the first one. Its title was written in three languages. “One Thousand and One Lines G
uaranteed to Make a Woman Notice You. The Nurian Edition.”

  Lakeo snorted.

  Akstyr’s shoulders lost their hunch as he wriggled his eyebrows at her, then bowed deeply. He touched his chest. “Most Honored Nurian Lady, you are much shiny and sweet, like a ripe apple.”

  Yanko scratched his head. Shiny?

  “Please,” Lakeo said, about as impressed as a child given extra chores.

  “Yes,” Akstyr said. “Those are the words for what the woman says to me in bed.”

  “We need to learn Kyattese,” Yanko told Lakeo, “if only so there’s no need for anyone to ply you with awful phrases proclaiming love.”

  “Shiny love,” Lakeo said.

  “Actually, I think it’s you who’s the shiny one.” Yanko almost pointed out that it was hard to tell for certain with Akstyr’s accent, but decided it would be uncouth to mock someone for trying to speak their language. It wasn’t as if Yanko could speak Akstyr’s or even the one used on these islands. He sighed, about to explain what they needed to research, but Lakeo spoke first.

  “At least he’s got a nice thick beard.” She smiled devilishly at Yanko.

  He groaned. He should have segued to the research topic more quickly.

  “Beard?” Akstyr stroked his jaw. “Yes, it is nice, yes? You could have one also, for less than the cost of a meal in town.”

  “Er.” Yanko suspected he was losing Akstyr’s intent in the translation.

  “Which one of us is he talking to?” Lakeo asked, eyeing the concoctions sitting on the desk. Smoke continued to waft from the crucible, even though it did not have an obvious heat source.

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t recommend a beard for you. A mustache, perhaps.”

  Lakeo gave him a hard look. Good. She deserved to be teased back.

  Akstyr opened his vest, revealing a number of vials tucked into a pocket. He took out one filled with a sludgy, green-brown concoction and held it out to Yanko. “My face was having like yours. No hair. Bad beard. But my potions fix your problem. Rub here.” He pantomimed pouring out some of the dubious goop and rubbing it on his jaw. “One month to big hair.”

  “Which color would it be?” Lakeo pointed at Akstyr’s beard and then at his blue-and-green tipped white hair.

  “Natural. Then you make color for the ladies.”

  If that green attracted the Kyattese women, Yanko would eat his mother’s robe. “You’re... an alchemist?”

  Akstyr shrugged. “Do much. Last semester, potions class.”

  “Ah.” A hair-growth potion for a first-year student. That sounded promising. “For now, we’re just interested in researching Kyattese history. The founding of the nation, in particular. Both foundings.” Yanko meant to imply that he wanted to hear about the original continent the Kyattese had come from, but Akstyr only stared blankly at him. “The Kyattese have only inhabited these islands for seven hundred years, right? I’m interested in learning about where they came from.”

  “I’m not,” Lakeo said. “I’m going to peek in that thermal sciences room. Maybe they have some books written in a good language.”

  Yanko wouldn’t have minded a research companion, but he didn’t object to her leaving. She did not know exactly what he sought, and he did not feel comfortable sharing all of the details with her. Besides, he had an... Akstyr.

  “Farewell, Honored Nurian Lady,” Akstyr called after her. “Your backside is more voracious than the front.”

  Lakeo squinted back at him, then slammed the door on her way out.

  “That word right?” Akstyr asked.

  “Maybe voluptuous?” Not that Yanko would use that to describe Lakeo, either. “Now, the history books, please?”

  “Yes. Ancient history. This way.”

  Akstyr waved his hand, conjuring a light globe, and sent it ahead of them to push back the shadows. They padded through the long aisles, the books tidily arranged and dust-free. Yanko suspected that if he knew the language, he could easily find what he sought in the library. Akstyr pulled a few tomes off a shelf and set them on the floor, then promised he would be back after he checked on his potions—the smell wafted all the way to the back of the room. Yanko confirmed that all of the books were written in Kyattese and held nothing that he could translate. He peeked out a window, wondering if he should try to recruit Dak to help, after all. If he was in sight, standing watch on that hill, Yanko might call to him, but a couple of students sitting on a blanket were the only ones on the grassy knoll.

  Yanko almost went to search for another student, one that might have a better grasp of Nurian, but he spotted an old atlas on the shelves and decided to start there. None of those maps on the wall had displayed a mystery continent, not even the centuries-old ones, but maybe an old book with its pages falling out would show something interesting.

  He took it to a table and leafed through the tome carefully. Unfortunately, the Kyattese date on the front did not make any more sense to him than the words inside, so he did not know if he was looking at a text from before the founding or not. Either way, he did not find any extra continents on the maps, just some poorly shaped ones by early cartographers who hadn’t had a good grasp of the scale of the world. Only Nuria, which had been inhabited by civilized people for countless millennia, was always drawn well.

  “An old continent, with tired soil,” Yanko murmured, running a hand across the land mass. Would the Kyattese with their modern farming methods have any ideas for reinvigorating it? He had ideas of his own, but they were all for small-scale applications—one might improve the soil in a garden, but across an entire continent?

  A couple of hours later, Dak walked in while Yanko was sitting on the floor, his back to the shelves, listlessly flipping through the pages and feeling defeated. Akstyr had come back a couple of times and translated passages from books, but he had inevitably found reasons to return to his own side project. He hadn’t seemed to grasp what Yanko sought, so his help was dubious as best.

  “Your research time may be limited,” Dak announced.

  He had changed clothes, out of the dockworker’s sturdy attire he had been wearing and into factory-made brown trousers, a dark green shirt, and heavy, black boots. He had switched weapons, as well, and a cutlass, utility knife, and pistol now hung on his belt. The clothing would not help him fit in with the Kyattese and their cheerful and bright garb. No, he looked more Turgonian than ever, and seeing him thus made Yanko nervous. Was Dak even now planning to make an excuse to return to the work he deemed more important? Maybe he had already been to the Turgonian embassy and reported in.

  That notion made Yanko even more nervous. He tried to keep the alarm off his face and simply asked, “Our friends have docked?”

  “They haven’t docked, but they’re floating just outside the harbor, near the cliffs.”

  “I don’t suppose one of your ironclads would like to fire a few cannonballs at them? Since they’re pesky Nurians.”

  Not that Dak would have the power to give that order even if he wanted to. But maybe if he visited his embassy and mentioned the dangerous Nurians lurking out there...

  “I’m sure they’d like that very much,” Dak said dryly, “but after the last war, the Kyattese insisted both sides sign a non-aggression treaty before allowing either of us back into their waters.”

  “Yes, I suppose I knew that.” Yanko stared down at the map, torn between asking for help and worrying that Dak would report back what he learned about the lodestone. Unless Yanko could somehow get his assistance without explaining exactly what he sought. Except that he always had the feeling Dak was more intelligent than his thuggish exterior suggested. Who did volume equations in their head? Yanko could manage it for a rectangle maybe, but not for a cylinder or whatever Dak had been using to gauge that hole.

  “You need help?” Dak asked. “You should finish soon, find some place to stay that’s not in town or at least that isn’t easy to find, then leave for the next stage of your mission. I assume Kyatt isn’t you
r final destination?”

  “No, it’s not.” Too bad Yanko didn’t know what his final destination was. Maybe he should confide everything in Dak and then just ensure Dak didn’t wander off to talk to his people before Yanko had the lodestone in his hands. But how would he keep Dak from slipping away?

  You’re a mage, aren’t you? Studying to be a warrior mage? He’s a mundane.

  A strong, fast mundane who’s older and wiser than I am.

  You can handle him as long as you’re outside of weapons range.

  Yanko sighed. Talking to himself wouldn’t solve the problem. He did not like the idea of using force on Dak, anyway, and he hoped it never became necessary. Given what had happened at the mine, with Dak leading the escaped prisoners away while Yanko never loosed a crossbow bolt, he didn’t even know if he could use force. No, if he was sure he was in the right or that he was protecting his people, he could. Probably.

  “Yes, I need help,” Yanko found himself saying before he had finished debating the situation to his satisfaction.

  “What are you looking for?” Dak walked to the windows, his fingers tapping the hilt of his sword as he gazed down at the walkway leading to the library. Twilight was darkening the horizon. Whether it was his intention or not, Dak was definitely giving Yanko the impression that he didn’t have any time to waste.

  “A long forgotten continent.”

  Dak turned toward him, his face giving away little. He did not appear surprised.

  “The one the Kyattese supposedly came from,” Yanko went on. “This is someone else’s research, and I don’t know how accurate it is, but I was told they didn’t originate on these islands. There was some great magical war hundreds of years ago where they destroyed their own continent and many of their own people and caused or were victims of some horrible plague. They hid their continent with magic so people wouldn’t accidentally discover it, catch the plague, and share it with the rest of the world.”

  “I’ve heard that story,” Dak said.

  His words startled Yanko. Was this more widely known than he had thought? Maybe it was in the Turgonian history books. But story, Dak had said, as if to imply it might be fictitious. Perhaps some legend of a lost continent was widely known, but nobody believed it. Except Zirabo?