by Ron Collins
“Something someone said.”
- Someone
Who Did Something
The Saga of the God-Touched Mage includes:
Glamour of the God-Touched
Trail of the Torean
Target of the Orders
Gathering of the God-Touched
Pawn of the Planewalker
Changing of the Guard
Lord of the Freeborn
Lords of Existence
Other Work by Ron Collins:
Five Magics
Picasso’s Cat and Other Stories
See the PEBA on $25 a Day
Chasing the Setting Sun
Four Days in May
Links to these and more of Ron's work
Follow Ron at
www.typosphere.com
or his twitter feed: @roncollins13
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Copyright Information
Lord of the Freeborn
Saga of the God-Touched Mage, Volume 7
© 2015 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Rachel J. Carpenter
© 2015 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
Cover Images
© Katalinks | Dreamstime.com - Dangerous Woman Witch With Fire Ball Photo
© Katalinks | Dreamstime.com - Portrait Of Young Beautiful Woman - Fairy Photo
© Algol | Dreamstime.com - Medieval Hilltop Castle Photo
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialog, and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Skyfox Publishing
http://www.skyfoxpublishing.com
For Tim, Mike, Jackie, and Ken. And of course, for Lisa.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Appendix
Acknowledgements
About Ron Collins
How You Can Help
Prologue
Darien shoved an undershirt into his travel roll. His sword lay across the foot of his bed, reflecting a silver gleam in the murky light of the day. The city mocked him, sprawling wide and free outside his window as if it were there for his taking. But he knew better.
The people of Dorfort saw his failure.
They pointed and whispered, and they laughed outright to his face. There could be nothing worse than being made a public fool, and he was now known far and wide as the man who had lost his order, and who had lost his city.
Acid burned in his stomach.
He pushed a dagger into the sheath at his belt, and drew a heavy hood over his head. Then he shouldered his pack.
The sword was last.
If he were any man at all, he would leave the blade here. It was a proud weapon, having been worn by his father, and his father’s father before that. Its blade was etched with runes describing his family. Its steel was forged in a magical fire that bore it protections. It deserved a better wielder, but his father was dead now, and Darien couldn’t bring himself to leave it. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and trudged down the silent hallway.
Somewhere, in the distant recesses of the halls, the Torean Freeborn celebrated their new Lord Superior.
The weight of the sword against his back gave further proof that he was no leader.
Proof again, that he was no man.
Chapter 1
Garrick gazed out the window of Lord Ellesadil’s briefing chamber. It was early morning in Dorfort, and frost still covered the rooftops across the whole of the city. It looked like it was going to be a cold, gray day, and there was so much he had to do.
He was here to apologize, here to begin a new relationship between the Freeborn mages and the city of Dorfort, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Darien, his friend, and the man he had thrown to the wolves the night before by taking his order out from under him.
“His” order.
That still felt strange.
Garrick had never truly led anyone before, and despite the powers he so obviously bore, he had trouble understanding how anyone would want to be led by him. Certainly Darien wouldn’t. Not anymore. Not that Garrick could blame him.
The chamber’s sense of isolation, and his memory of Darien combined to make Garrick intimately aware of the state of his life force—the magic, or curse, that Braxidane had planted within him. It was full and brimming over after his time in Existence, restless now, ready to take action. It had taken to responding in ways that were now unnerving and altogether too instinctive for his tastes. For instance, the energy inside him spread over the city on its own.
He felt fires burning on street corners below—fires in pits where people huddled to warm themselves. He sensed a horse moving over a rutted path, smelled the odor of mud and manure frosted with the morning snow underneath the cover of wood smoke. He felt the vibration of the floor beneath his feet as it shook with the fall of the smithy’s hammer in the manor yard outside.
These were sensations so small as to have been unimaginable before Braxidane’s magic, and before being steeped in the power of All Existence, but now he felt them all as if he were there.
He sighed.
The sound of boots against the wooden floor came from behind him.
Garrick turned as Ellesadil entered the chamber.
The lord wore a simple black vest over a white tunic devoid of the usual trappings of his position. His lips were a thin line under the cover of his sparse beard.
“Garrick,” Ellesadil said in simple acknowledgement as he moved to stand behind his desk.
“I apologize for my previous rashness,” Garrick replied, already concerned his voice might be too sharp. “I did not mean to accost you.”
“It’s too late for that,” Ellesadil replied, unconsciously lifting the fingertips of his left hand to his throat, that same throat that Garrick had nearly throttled the day prior.
“I hope you will let—”
“Let’s be clear about something, Garrick. I don’t care if you are god-touched. And I don’t care if you are the high superior of the Freeborn. Neither you, nor your order, can remain in Dorfort. And, if you persist in standing in my office beyond your time, I’ll call my guards to have you forcibly turned out.”
“Don’t let one thoughtless moment on my part ruin the most important alliance on the plane.”
“One thoughtless moment?” Dorfort’s leader said. “You think you’ve made only one brash error in judgment throughout this entire play?”
Garrick winced. Ellesadil was right.
It was only a matter of time before his life force would drain far enough to be overtaken by the gnawing hunger that lived inside him. It was a dark magic, this thing within him, a dark magic that had destroyed thousands of people. His connection to Braxidane had exposed the plane to things few could imagine, and his actions had put those he loved in constant peril.
All this despite the fact that Garrick now knew that, as long as he
could find his way back to Existence, he could replenish himself. He could not, however, always guarantee he could find Existence.
Still, he wanted this to work.
“I can control it, now,” he said, fighting to keep desperation from his tone. “I’m better at it.”
“So wrapping your hands around my throat yesterday morning was something you did on purpose?”
“I’ve said I’m sorry for that.”
“And you think I should forgive it because…?”
“Because I understand now that I need to serve my purpose,” Garrick said. “You need to forgive me because I’ve finally come to lead the Freeborn as I should have earlier. And you need to forgive me because my Freeborn mages will be a force that supports your people. You need to forgive me because it’s in the best interest of your city that the whole of my order remain here.”
“Are you daft, Garrick? Seriously? Are you daft? How can you honestly think that I, being of anything resembling a sound mind, could possibly see that hosting an order of mages led by an unstable, god-touched mage would be in any way serving the best interests of my city?”
Garrick said nothing.
“Mages scare the wool from people as it is. They don’t want you here. They never have. The only reason I haven’t thrown the Freeborn out of Dorfort to date is because Darien gave his word that he would control the lot of you. But now he’s off his horse, and I see no reason to continue this relationship.” Ellesadil paused. “Besides, I’ve learned something you obviously have not.”
Garrick waited.
Ellesadil’s face split into a broad, wild-eyed smile and he ran his hand over his hair as he looked for words.
“If you think the Freeborn can be led, you are truly insane. Your Torean mages are far more interested in their own freedoms than in the greater good.” Ellesadil held up his hand to forestall Garrick’s complaint. “Or, to give them the benefit of the doubt, they merely wish themselves to be completely free to make assess of themselves however they will. We can debate for weeks and weeks as to whether that idea works or doesn’t, but the fact will always remain that the average Freeborn mage does not want to be managed.”
“That’s not true.”
The corners of Ellesadil’s lips curled upward and he gave a gentle shake of his head.
“Good luck to you, Garrick. I think this conversation is finished.”
“You have to reconsider.”
“No,” Ellesadil said, stepping around the table. “I do not need to reconsider. But if I did reconsider, I might well decide to bring charges against you. I thought about doing this already, but prosecuting you would just serve only to create a new martyr, and I don’t want to be the cause of whatever would come of that.”
Garrick nodded. He had lost.
“How much time do we have?”
Ellesadil’s gaze was steady.
“It’s going to be a long winter. I want to see plans for the order’s departure before the month is over. I expect you to march within a week of first thaw.”
“It’s fair,” Garrick finally said.
“I’m glad you see it my way.”
Garrick turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Good bye, Garrick.”
Garrick knew he should be upset. Ellesadil had spurned his order, and denigrated his mages. He should be bitter.
But this life force that boiled inside him would not allow anger to pollute his mood—perhaps he should be angry that he couldn’t get mad. But instead of biting, or punching, or otherwise stewing, Garrick merely walked through the government center’s hallway, down the spiral stairs that swept into the grand entryway, and out of the doors that led him into the city’s streets.
This was his new life. Leading the Freeborn. There was so much to do, so many decisions to think about.
He needed to speak with Reynard, of course. The thin mage was prickly sometimes, but he was second in command and he had been with the Freeborn since the moment Sunathri had birthed it. Perhaps the Toreans could go to Whitestone, or maybe somewhere more isolated—Red Marsh to the east, or south where he had grown up amid the sugar cane, maybe even the underground ruins of Arderveer.
That is, if he could live in a place that gave him daily reminders of his first battleground. He didn’t know if he could that, but all ideas had to be up for consideration at this point.
He stopped on the street, inhaled cold air, and watched as Dorfort came fully awake. It was a good city. It could have been a good place to grow into if he had realized it earlier. No one had ever accused him of having much in the way foresight before now, though. Until now, a place had never seemed to be more than a moment in time.
Yes, there was much to do.
But, first, Garrick knew he had to see Darien.
The conversation with his friend would be uncomfortable, of course, which was probably why he had already delayed it this long. Darien understood Dorfort. He understood tactics, and would have good ideas on where the order should go next. But mostly, Garrick knew he needed to see Darien because he needed to apologize. He had stripped Darien of his order, and had done so in such a visible way that he knew Darien had to be hurting.
It had not been his intention to do that in front of the whole of the Freeborn membership.
He realized now exactly how big of a task he had, how hard it would be from this point forward. Every action he took would change the lives of those around him in ways he could not predict. This newfound weight fell upon him like an omnipresent cloud.
He sighed, pulled his cloak over his shoulders, and moved on.
Around him, it began to snow.
Chapter 2
Neuma, the young mage who now considered herself to be the high superior of the Koradictine order, gathered her spell work carefully. The magic was similar to those she had worked before, but powerful enough that failure would be painful.
Her room was lit by only a few sputtering candles. And it was small, built into the rolling hill at the foot of Mount Tara, the volcano that—if you believed the stories—was named after the only woman Commander de’Mayer had ever truly loved. Ettril Dor-Entfar, the deposed high superior, had assigned her these quarters when she was a new adept. She would move into Ettril’s palace soon enough, but for now Neuma had delicate work to accomplish, and she felt more comfortable here. She considered the room to be a part of her, like her little finger, or like her liver, like her pancreas. It was an organ deep inside that no one else could see.
There was something simple and pure about the room that made it feel right to cast this spell here. Its earthen brickwork was mossy and thick with the smell of island. Its roofing, thatched with saw-toothed fronds that raked the wind, raised whispers in the evenings that helped carry her mind away as she slept. A pot boiled in the fireplace, steeping sage and wild onion. Open braziers lay at each corner of the room, simmering with other spices from across the plane.
She sat on a thick mat of woven rawhide, a flat pan made of clay before her, her palms open and upturned on her knees.
Ettril Dor-Entfar’s notes had been detailed, and very explicit.
She remembered them precisely.
Neuma set gates, reached for her link to the plane of magic, and trickled magestuff into the braziers. Heat rose with the aromas of cinnamon and saffron. There was darkness hidden between those spices, though, the edge of danger and fear that Ettril’s notes warned would be overwhelming if she allowed them to bleed too far into this world.
She dribbled water into the pan.
The liquid beaded and ran like minnows in a pond until a slick surface filled the bottom of the basin.
Images swirled in the water. They were shadowy, irrepressible hints of a woman with hair that floated as if she were under water.
“Hezarin,” she whispered.
The planewalker came forward like an apparition—faint, and with a touch that was ghost cold.
“I wo
ndered when you would call,” she said.
“I waited until I was prepared to serve you,” Neuma replied, so pleased to know her call was expected.
“And you feel prepared, now?”
“Yes, Lordess, Highest of Superiors. I am ready to take my place at your side.”
“And why should I select you?”
“I am of ranking power.”
“Power can be developed.”
“I am a good thinker, too, strong enough and wise enough to call you here rather than chose a different course.”
“Yes,” Hezarin said. “That much you have proven.”
Neuma smiled, pouring more energy into the spell. She matched her breathing to the phrasing she had heard in Hezarin’s inquiries. With each response the planewalker had drawn closer, with each question she had become more substantial. That closeness told Neuma her expectation was right, it told her that Hezarin needed her. If she played this well, the Koradictine order would be hers.
If Hezarin had wanted only to see Garrick annihilated she would simply have used Neuma as her conduit rather than take the risk of walking the plane. But this was bigger than Garrick. Her brother’s champion had defeated her mage at God’s Tower, and had now managed to destroy Ettril Dor-Entfar in Nestafar. The whole of Adruin needed to see that her powers were still strong, and the whole of Existence had to understand she would not sit by idly while Braxidane ran roughshod over her.
Hezarin would, of course, take glee in watching Garrick crumble, but as she defeated the human she would think of her brother and his dogmatically bizarre adherence to the plank of “action and consequence”—as if action was devoid of intent, and as if consequence came without guilt.
Hezarin stifled her mirth at Neuma’s call.
This neophyte actually thought she needed help to step into the plane. Her naiveté was quaint. Youth was no crime, though. Neuma had, after all, managed to be among the few left standing in the rubble of Ettril Dor-Entfar’s breakdown, and the idea that Hezarin could use Neuma’s ambition to enact her own revenge sent desire roiling through her. And, in truth, being invited did make things easier. There could be value here, Hezarin thought as she drew a protective flow of energy about herself.
