Kevon fed more power into the spell. He projected his illusory self upward, lifted by the false winds, while concealing his true self where he stood. When his false self was no more than a few feet off the ground, Kevon shifted part of his focus to the next phase of the performance. He mimicked the rumbling and shuddering of the ground as the Illusion of the stone shaft that Mirsa had raised yesterday erupted from the ground to cover Kevon from view and ‘support’ his false image,
Kevon marshaled his magical reserves carefully as he continued the Illusion. He formed the images of half-a-dozen geysers spaced evenly a few paces away from him, weaving illusory water jets in a spiral above him to collect in a growing globe suspended meters above even his false self.
Feeling his reserves nearing their end, Kevon slowly knelt to the ground, but caused the image above him to raise its arms triumphantly. Phantom flames burst from his double’s hands to spray through the globe of water. As he shifted focus to the cloud of steam he was now projecting, complete with loud hissing, Kevon dropped the geyser Illusions and flashed the trailing tendrils of water to steam.
Kevon caused the false image to take an elaborate bow before shrouding the figure in steam, and dropping the steam cloud down to cover what remained of the rest of the Illusion. He maintained it for a few seconds more, pouring all he had into the spell. The Illusion rune went dull in his mind, and the glamour surrounding him abruptly vanished, silenced.
Kevon forced himself to breathe deeply, clutched at his chest for an instant, and reached into his robe pocket through the slit to finger the hilt of his knife.
The only reaction was applause and cheers from behind him. Kevon turned his head to see Pholos and the brothers standing in the entrance to the dining hall.
Kevon slowly took his feet, wobbling slightly to maintain the appearance that the spell had drained him physically. He walked unsteadily toward Gurlin and the door to the central tower.
Gurlin turned to walk to the tower entrance himself.
Kevon stepped in behind Gurlin, the knife already pulled through the slit, waiting in hand in the deep robe pocket.
“That was very impressive…” Gurlin began, slowing his pace just a bit as he began speaking. “To fool a Mage with such things, you will need to master Concealment and…
The slight slowing was all Kevon needed. He closed half a step to his effective range. With a swift motion, he drew the knife from his pocket, whirled it into a better grip, and plunged it into the Wizard’s back.
Even shielded by his grasp on the knife, Kevon staggered at the mental whump as Gurlin’s magic was instantly nullified. Kevon wrenched the knife deeper, hoping that Gurlin had died the instant the blade pierced his skin, but wanting to be sure.
Gurlin let out a soft gasp and fell bonelessly forward. Kevon clutched at the knife-hilt and barely managed to free it before the dead Mage’s momentum tore it from his grasp.
Kevon turned to face the dining hall.
Pholos and the two brothers stood, seemingly frozen with shock and fear.
Behind him, Kevon felt and heard the foundations of the tower begin to rumble.
Neither Rettun nor Pætub took any great action, but both seemed to tense in concentration simultaneously.
Kevon advanced toward the three Magi, blood-slicked knife held in front of him, concentrating on the danger he knew.
“Master!” Pholos’s bloodcurdling scream from two paces behind the brothers appeared to break their concentration; they both turned to look at the younger Mage.
Pholos stood defiantly, aiming one of his filched rods at Kevon.
No… Above me… Kevon thought after a moment of panic.
The rumbling and cracking sounds coming from the tower intensified, and Kevon ventured a look back over his shoulder.
A large slab of mortared stone loosened by the buckling and swaying of the tower slid free from the second-story wall. Defying gravity, it tumbled forward, spinning as it arced back up and toward Kevon. As the chunk of stone spun, books flew out at crazy angles, hurled from the bookcase that was still affixed to the section of wall.
Kevon threw himself to the ground and the stone slab whirled madly past him. The bookshelf tore from its mounts with a terrible shriek, and the thick oak shelf spun away from the stone, each hurtling slightly to either side of Pholos.
The brothers did not stand a chance. The whirling section of wall clapped the younger brother against the outer wall of the dining hall before crashing through and breaking into several pieces. The splintered oak shelves hit the older brother in the knees, chest, and head in rapid succession. The Mage convulsed once and lay still.
Pholos let out a great sob and fell forward, dropping the rod. Kevon scrambled over to make sure that he was all right.
Kevon reached Pholos as the younger Mage managed to pull himself into a sitting position.
“Are you all right?” Kevon asked.
Pholos’s blank gaze betrayed no warning before the rod he’d picked back up flashed out to club Kevon alongside the head.
Pholos was no Warrior. The force behind the blow was considerably less than Kevon would expect in a practice session with Waine. It did, however, startle him enough to let Pholos get in a quick kick to the gut, which almost knocked the wind out of a still surprised Kevon.
In desperation, Kevon slapped Pholos with the flat of his knife, a sickening smack that splattered blood from Pholos’s late Master across his cheek and jaw.
Sanity returned to Pholos’s eyes. “Shofud!” he screamed, pointing to the gaping hole in the central tower.
Kevon turned to see Shofud’s look of frustration. No doubt he was wondering what had broken his spell Controlling Pholos so easily.
Shofud unclenched his fist and gestured palm outward toward Kevon and Pholos.
Kevon flinched instantly at the heat he felt radiating upward from the ground beneath him. The grass in a large circle around the two of them was smoldering, turning brown as the heat increased. The ground Kevon was standing on buckled and started to give way, the sod layer tearing as it did. A jet of flame spewed from the tear. Kevon leapt sideways, but succeeded only in tearing another spot in the swiftly blackening grass as he landed. Kevon could hear Pholos screaming, but was too busy dodging the new geyser of flame that erupted near his feet to see what was going on.
Losing control, Kevon stumbled forward, and slammed onto the roiling surface of what had recently been solid ground. As he fell onto the increasingly hot surface, sure that he would break through and be consumed by the flames that lay only inches beneath him, Kevon stabbed his knife down through the charred turf.
He hit the ground, hard. The grass still smoked, was still hot to the touch, but the flames beneath had reverted to their natural form.
Pholos screamed again. Kevon turned to look. The younger Mage was sunk into the ground to his knees, spikes of stone and crumbling earth splaying upward and out from him, still smoking. Kevon smelled charred flesh. He turned and saw Shofud starting another spell.
Kevon yanked on the knife handle, but it would not budge. It was stuck in stone nearly to the hilt.
Pholos screamed again, but the cry seemed feral, angrier than it had moments ago.
Kevon turned in time to see the first bolt of flame shoot from the staff Pholos had pulled from inside his cloak.
Shofud hesitated and changed the hand motions he’d been using, swatting sharply to the side as the bolt neared him. The flames splashed into the shattered wall and fizzled harmlessly.
With a cry more animal than human, Pholos discharged a stream of flame from the staff that had to have been two feet in diameter.
Shofud strained against the pillar of flame, pushing to deflect it further away, barely able to keep it even an arm’s length away from him. The stream of fire snaked around him and further into the library.
Kevon wondered how long the two Mages could continue. Pholos was shaking uncontrollably, screaming rage in between ragged gasps for breath. After about t
en seconds of deflecting the flames, Shofud staggered a few steps backward.
Pholos faltered. The staff clattered to the ground, and the young Mage collapsed forward at a grotesque angle, his legs locked upright by the earth.
Shofud shouted triumphantly as the last part of the flaming column slid past him, then staggered again.
Kevon’s vision blurred, and his guts wrenched at something akin to the feeling he’d had when he’d stabbed Gurlin, but dozens of times worse.
Pholos laughed weakly as Kevon realized what was happening. Pholos had focused the flames into the armory they had plundered the day before.
The initial blast blew another chunk of library wall out to slam into the outer wall on the far side of the dining hall. Burning books and shattered shelves spewed from the first breach of the tower wall, carrying Shofud toward Kevon, depositing the lifeless Mage in a twisted heap at the edge of the blackened grass. The subsequent chain reaction worked its way upward through laboratories and libraries. Eruptions of flaming stone and other debris shot out in all directions. Kevon watched helplessly as a section of wall from an upper floor about the size of a wagon bounced twice before landing on top of where Pholos had passed out.
Kevon wrenched desperately on the knife handle one more time, and yanked the blade, still encased in stone, from the scorched earth. He stumbled toward the tower’s entrance, vaguely aware of the fiery wreckage falling around him.
People from the outbuildings were beginning to crowd onto the lowered drawbridge. Seeing Kevon stagger alone through the continuing destruction, some began to shout questions, or accusations, Kevon could not be sure which. Between the rumbling devastation behind him, and the deaths of friend and foes alike, Kevon did not really care either way.
Waine galloped through the knot of locals clustered on the drawbridge, knocking several down, and one of the hostlers into the moat. The Seeker’s horse reared up just after passing through the arched entrance, unwilling to go any further. Waine turned his mount to the side and cast an appraising glance at the destruction. He raised an eyebrow at Kevon, who was by now only ten feet away.
Kevon swung the stone encased knife at a nearby section of wall, and the stone cracked, letting the blade slide free. Kevon slipped it back through his pocket into its sheath, and looked Waine in the eye. “I didn’t do it,” he offered, shrugging.
Waine laughed and offered Kevon his hand, swinging the Mage up onto the back of his horse. He flicked the reins, and without further urging, the stallion barreled back across the drawbridge. One of the men on the bridge started to protest their exit, and found Waine’s foot in his chest, and himself in the moat with his neighbor.
Kevon jumped down as they reached the stables and tossed the reins of Pholos’s saddled horse to Waine.
“Where is…” Waine started.
Kevon shook his head, and then mounted his horse, almost getting tangled in his mare’s lead rope that was tethered to his saddle. “Let’s just go.”
The angry cries of the locals began drawing near, but Kevon and Waine paid them little heed as they set off down the road at a medium pace. The farmers were no threat to the two Warriors, and Kevon did not want to catch up to the group that had left earlier.
They rode easily until late afternoon, then stopped and made camp at a spot above the road where they could see for a good distance either way. It would not do if someone from the tower rode ahead and alerted Mirsa and the other Magi.
They saw no one that night.
Kevon and Waine traveled at a leisurely pace, having plenty of time to reach the Guild ahead of Carlo and Bertus. Kevon began presenting himself as a Warrior again, his robes and magical supplies bundled neatly away. They left the main road in favor of a more direct route with fewer people to bother with their training and travel. The trip back to Navlia took ten days more than they had spent on the journey to Gurlin’s tower.
When they reached the Capital, Kevon and Waine rode straight for the Warriors’ Guildhall to avoid any chance encounters with any who had been present at Mirsa’s test.
After a rowdy welcome, Kevon and Waine settled into a steady training routine, awaiting Blademaster Carlo’s arrival.
Epilogue
Bertus rode uneasily between the two soldiers. Although there had been no signs of orcs since just before he and Carlo reached Eastport, he spent most of the day watching the tree line that they kept at least a quarter-mile clear of at all times.
The scar on his right leg ached again. It would be throbbing again by nightfall, of that he was certain. At least he’d been able to keep the leg. The herb witch in Eastport had stopped the festering in the cut from the orcish blade in less than a week.
The lead soldier called a halt at a small stream, and the horses drank briefly. When his horse had had enough, Bertus reined him up onto the bank, and then leaned forward to bury his face in the horse’s mane, wrapping arms around its neck. The horse was the closest thing Bertus would have to a friend until he reached Navlia in about three more weeks.
Bertus’s hand unconsciously moved to the pouch slung around his neck, as it often did these days. He wished the letter within did not exist, for it would mean that Carlo was still with him.
The Blademaster was needed elsewhere. He’d sent Bertus and two trusted men on the long route to Navlia, around the forests that were no longer considered safe.
Bertus glanced at the soldiers, standing together, talking in low voices so that he could not hear. Bertus did not dislike them, or even distrust them, but he did not feel as safe with them as he did with Carlo, Kevon, or even Waine. It did not help that these two men were following orders that they were not happy with, that they would rather be fighting with the rest of their respected units.
Three weeks, and he’d deliver the letter.
Three weeks, and he’d be with his friends again.
Three weeks.
Don’t miss Volume II of The Blademage Saga, Journeyman Warsmith!
Kevon yelped and jumped back, left hand balled into a fist. The hammer tumbled to the dirt floor with a dull thud. Teeth clenched, the Seeker muttered under his breath. He heard a giggle from somewhere behind him, and the other boy in front of him looked about ready to burst from not laughing.
The Apprentice Blacksmith took a deep breath. “I’m going for a little walk... Why don’t the two of you run and get yourselves a treat and nobody else hears about this?”
Grubby fingers snatched at the offered coppers, and the boys dashed out of the smithy, laughing and calling to each other. Kevon knew that before an hour passed, he would be teased about the incident, but he didn’t mind. He pinched his thumb to make sure it wasn’t broken, and walked outside.
The midday heat beating down on Kevon was a welcome break from the forge heat that had just been glaring up at him. The boys were already out of sight, on their way to the trading post in the center of the mining camp.
He faced into the slight breeze and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath that didn’t smell of burnt iron, and smiled. Moments like these, Kevon could almost be happy. He could almost forget who he really was, what he’d done, what he was running from.
Almost.
Kevon heard a noise behind him, and whirled around to see what it was. He found himself staring at a surprised Marelle. She was taller, darker, and more pleasantly proportioned that he remembered, but was exactly as he’d imagined, it being over two years since they met last. She dropped the broken halves of the horseshoe she’d been carrying, and stepped closer.
“I came to buy a horseshoe,” she began, her gaze drifting down to Kevon’s bare chest. “I may need a few other things.” She leaned in closer, and Kevon’s already pounding heart leapt as she locked her deep green eyes onto his. Marelle’s lips parted slightly, and Kevon’s eyes closed in anticipation.
A crackling of thunder shattered the moment, and the Seeker turned toward the sound, Marelle slipping from the beginnings of his embrace.
The blazing rift in the sk
y spread like wildfire, painting the blue canvas of the heavens with a deep crimson stroke. Lightning danced between the new sky and the arid land below, the rumbling of its passage rolling over in waves.
“Anton,” Marelle said, her voice cracking.
Kevon wondered absently how she knew the name he was using while staying here, his attention focused on the winged behemoth that flapped in the sky before him.
“Anton!” she said again, urgently, her voice distorting more.
He said nothing, gazing at the dragon, and the hooded figure he could barely see in the distance, standing tall in in the middle of the broken landscape.
The world shuddered as Kevon felt himself cuffed alongside the head.
“Wha-?” he mumbled, trying to re-open eyes that were unusually heavy-lidded.
“Wake up, Anton!” Nic whined plaintively, shaking Kevon. “It’s late! Master Farren is looking for you!”
Kevon sat bolt upright. Even though he’d been apprenticing under Farren Smith for over a year now, the word ‘Master” still unsettled him.
He blinked several times and the mousy little junior apprentice came into focus.
“Are you coming?” Nic squealed, eyes wide.
“Yes, calm down, Nic.” Kevon reached down to the foot of the cot and picked up his arm braces. He squeezed his hands through and slid them to rest snugly on his forearms. The smooth steel strips woven into the inner padding felt cool and comforting against his skin. Kevon slipped the iron ring off his right hand and dropped it into a pouch that lay near where he’d picked up the bracers. He picked through the pile of clothing and found a light tunic that was not too soiled, pulled it on over his head, and stepped into his boots.
“Let’s go.”
Kevon led Nic through the main part of the barracks where the miners and garrison troops bunked.
“It’s Anton and his pet rat!” someone called from the middle of the room, and chuckles roiled briefly. Kevon smiled, and Nic scowled and shook his fist in the direction the voice had come from.
Apprentice Swordceror Page 24
