Kylgren-Wode clambered down and dusted himself off before taking up his axe and following Bertus to the clearing where the Warrior was beginning his sword practice. “I don’t see it,” he harrumphed, standing opposite from Bertus and beginning the abrupt, violent motions of ritualistic axe combat.
Bertus stopped after a few minutes, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. He crouched and continued to watch Kylgren-Wode. Every motion was a deadly close-quarters attack, with an added component. Some movements were advances, others sidesteps. There were kicks and stomps, but the axe was always flashing in a smooth, tight crescent, never at more than arm’s length, never overextending its wielder.
“Would you be willing to teach me some of that?” he asked when the Dwarf stopped for the evening and returned the axe to his belt loop.
“Yer looking te the wrong Dwarf,” Kylgren protested. “I’m no soldier. The Stoneguards would have a good laugh if they saw ye asking me fer lessons.”
“My commander would say that we all have things to teach, and to learn. I’m sure Kevon would agree.” The Seeker slid his sword back into its scabbard and turned toward camp.
“I’ll show ye what little I know,” Kylgren-Wode assented. “And yer friend, too when we find him.”
Nodding back over his shoulder, Bertus stalked back into camp.
Chapter 41
The frantic milling of the crowd near the scene of the explosions eased Kevon’s mind, the distractions of the surrounding mob allowing him to throw simple Illusions while keeping an eye on the few enemy Magi that he could spot on rooftops and balconies. Ducking into a doorway out of the press of bodies, in view of only one of the invading Magi, Kevon dropped his veil and nodded to the robed figure on the balcony across the street.
Feeling Fire magic build, and sure of his opponent’s intent, he released the pent-up energy he’d set aside for the Movement rune glimmering in his mind. A flowerpot behind the distracted Mage struck with shattering force, toppling his foe over the railing and into the crowd below. Kevon threw up another concealing Illusion, and moved back into the crowd.
Joining in a bucket line from a nearby canal, Kevon kept watch on the other wary Magi still patrolling. When a trio of hooded figures passed by, he watched until the red robed Magi were not looking toward their black robed superior before unleashing an invisible stream of force focused through the Movement rod strapped to his forearm. The Master Mage cried out as he sailed over the wooden railing into the canal. Tapping into the energy of the water in the buckets between himself and the canal, just a dozen yards away, then connecting to the canal water itself and the sea beyond, Kevon kept the currents pulling the Mage down. Severing the surprised Mage’s attempts to use the power that surrounded him, he forced water into the floundering man’s lungs, spinning the canal water into a miniature vortex to keep him disoriented.
“Mind your bucket!” the man next to Kevon shouted as their containers collided and spilled on the street.
Kevon retrieved his bucket and made sure that his arm brushed against the hilt of the painted sword at his side, in case the Magi were looking at him. He passed the empty vessel behind him to the return line and resumed the monotonous rhythm of the brigade. His diminished concentration proved to be more than enough to finish off the weakened Mage, before his companions could gather enough power to attempt a rescue.
With their superior defeated, the acolytes turned and fled toward the center of town, in the direction of the building the Magi had been using as a command center.
Past the burning warehouse, Kevon thought, a smile creeping onto his face. Into the sights of assassins with steel-tipped crossbow bolts…
The Journeyman Magi did not even make it halfway to the bucket line that they needed to cross before the sprint through the crowd to their destination. The hellish flaring of the ruined building dimmed, and a jet of flame washed from the outstretched hand of a bent, brown cloaked figure that steadied himself with a gnarled stick in his other hand.
The fleeing Magi were dead before they hit the ground. The fiery bloom that engulfed them was undetectable by magical means, but was spectacular enough to scatter the line of volunteers more than fifty yards away, and throw the rest of the containment effort into disarray.
Townsfolk near the attacking Mage panicked and ran, while Kevon could feel enormous amounts of magic being gathered by others approaching from all directions. The hooded figure threw his arms open wide, facing the still raging fire engulfing the warehouse and two other buildings. The flames died down to almost nothing, and a jagged red scar split the world between the Mage and the fire. Three hobbling steps, and he was gone, the tear vanishing as he did.
Taking advantage of the disruption, Kevon feigned panic and abandoned his place in line. He cowered behind a boarded-up merchant’s cart, with a full view of the returning inferno and the approaching Magi. Three bursts of abandoned power to the west told him that the steel-tipped bolts of the crew of assassins had done their work. No magic flared in response, and he scored it as a victory in his mind. He estimated that between the explosion, the scene before him, and the assassins, half of the Magi in the city had been defeated.
I don’t know who that Mage was, he thought, moving into a knot of townsfolk scrambling toward one of the meeting points Alanna had set for regrouping during the conflict. I don’t suppose he’ll have enough strength to reappear after what he’s just done, at any rate.
“Seven in the warehouse, four at the pier”, Alanna whispered as she slipped her arm into the crook of his. “Four of them black-robes.”
“Three outside the warehouse, three more to the west,” he mumbled, provoking a squeeze and a wink from the Mistress of Assassins. “Only one was mine,” he responded, scowling.
A flash of light and a scream from a nearby rooftop preceded a flaming, falling underling of Alanna’s, arms churning as though he might swim to the balcony ledge across the street.
Alanna squealed, hurrying around the smoldering corpse like a properly frightened citizen.
Calculating the odds with one less bow, the Warsmith assumed, fighting the urge to pick up the weapon as he stepped over the fallen assassin. His longer strides caught him up to his companion as she turned toward a narrow alley. She appeared to trip, and Kevon felt a magical whump as she stumbled into the passageway.
“Five black-robes,” she smirked, twirling another throwing dagger once before concealing it in her tunic sleeve. In the relative concealment of the alley, Alanna sped along at a pace Kevon was hard-pressed to match. They burst out into an empty side street, and sprinted to another alley, racing halfway down it before lurching into an opened threshold, slamming the door closed behind them.
Three familiar figures rose from their hiding places, two lowering loaded crossbows while the third sheathed a pair of throwing knives.
“Counts!” Alanna hissed.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Four.”
“Mmmm,” the Guildmistress purred, nodding to the knife-wielding assassin. “Five.” She looked at Kevon, who stared back for a second.
“Oh. One.” Kevon thought about the other Mage that had escaped into the fiery rift. “And, two?”
“If the others have done nearly as well as we have, there may only be a dozen of them left.” Alanna stood straight and fierce. “They cannot remain here without reinforcements in so low of numbers. One way or another, this is over.”
Chapter 42
“Something’s wrong,” Bertus said, looking to the south, and the dark ribbon of smoke that curled its way up onto the moonlit night. He wolfed down the last few bites of fish, wincing from the heat, and snatched up his swordbelt.
“Stay here with the Dwarves,” he called across the camp to Mirsa as he dug his saddle out from the piled gear in the wagon. “I’ll return, or send someone back with an extra horse when I know it’s safe.”
“That smoke is coming from Eastport?” the Master Mage asked, approaching Bertus as he
began tightening the saddle straps down on the increasingly agitated mare. “Do you think Kevon has anything to do with it?”
“Not if he has a bit of sense,” Bertus grumbled. “Still, I’d rather see what is going on before dragging you three into the unknown.” He gave the mare a final pat of reassurance before climbing into the saddle and sidestepping her up to the roadway. “Keep them safe,” he commanded, pointing to Kylgren-Wode with a stern glance.
The Dwarf patted his axe with a smile and a nod as Bertus urged his mount toward the snaking darkness to the south.
Within minutes, the Seeker was out of sight behind the intervening terrain. The remaining travelers settled back around the campfire, sidelong glances at the ominous column of smoke punctuating the lack of conversation.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Mirsa asked. “He had the last watch this morning, and was getting ready to sleep before he saw the smoke.”
“Stoneguards in the Keep stay awake fer three days at a stretch at least once a season,” Kylgren offered with a shrug. “I don’t know what training yer Warriors endure, but I suspect sleep is the last thing that young fellow is thinking about.”
* * *
The mare loped along the road, seeming as excited about the increased pace as Bertus was to be back in a saddle after the long weeks of wagon benches. He could feel her trying to speed up to a gallop, but held her back again. The longer rolling gait would be easier on both of them before the night was over.
The chill of the evening seared his cheeks and clawed at his ears. It knifed up his tunic sleeves and down the nape of his neck in a rhythm that followed the motion of the mare. Frost glistened in patches alongside the rutted track, sometimes spreading onto the road itself, but never more than a hand’s-breadth. Bertus focused and measured his breathing, leaned into the wind, and left the road to his eager companion.
More than an hour later, He drank from a stream that crossed the roadway. He chewed a strip of smoked venison while the mare drank the small amount of water he would allow. She nuzzled at the handful of oats that he pulled from the saddlebags as he chewed the last of his own snack. Aside from the occasional deep breath, and the thin sheen of sweat on her flanks, the horse showed no signs of undue fatigue.
“About halfway there,” he told her, regarding the angle of the smoke plume beyond the intervening hills while scratching her muzzle. “Are you ready to go again?”
Minutes later, against his better judgment, Bertus allowed the mare to speed up to a gallop. The moon rose higher in the sky, better lighting the road ahead, and outlining the danger that loomed before them.
The mare slowed to a lope as they crested a hill and Eastport came into view. The smoke rose from the south section of town, muted flashes of yellowish-red making it clear that the fires were still burning. The road ahead wound around to the western gate, still a few miles distant. Bertus flicked the reins and urged the mare back to a gallop.
* * *
“No one in or out tonight!” the guardsman called down from the tower that loomed beside the massive gate to the city.
“By order of Prince Alacrit himself,” Bertus shouted back, brandishing the scroll the monarch had given him like a weapon.
“Alacrit can go hang himself, sending those Magi here!” the response hurtled from the lofty guard shack. “I’ve half a mind to put a bolt through your… Bertus?”
“They must be desperate for guardsmen!” the Seeker shouted back. “If you shoot a bow like you threw rocks, do your worst, Alec!” Bertus dismounted and led the mare to the gate. Moments later, the doors creaked open enough for a single guardsman to slip through.
“What do you think you’re doing, flapping your jaw about Alacrit at these gates in the middle of the night, especially tonight?” Alec hissed, glancing back through the gates as if he thought someone might be listening.
“Do Magi who burn down the city seem like the sort Alacrit would retain in his service?” Bertus spat to the side. “Honestly, Alec.”
“It seemed strange to most of us from the beginning,” the guard agreed. “But our superiors went along with it. There wasn’t any questioning. They almost seemed scared.”
The Novice could help himself no longer. He clasped his friend’s arm in greeting. “How is the Maiden these days?”
“It’s the best inn Eastport has to offer, now that Liah’s back.”
Bertus recoiled at the news. She’d been doing so well for herself, and Kevon sent her back here…
“She’s running the place now, hadn’t you heard?” Alec chided. “Oh right, you’ve been dining with Prince Alacrit in the palace, eh?”
“Once or twice.” The Warrior squeezed Alec’s arm before releasing it. “These Magi were not sent by Alacrit. They were sent here to find my friends and I, because we killed their pet Orclord.”
The guardsman’s smile dissolved under the unflinching glare of his friend. “Get in here, let’s sit down and talk about this.”
Minutes later, his mare stabled by the guard barracks, Bertus looked out over the port city from the top of the gate tower. The fires appeared to be under control now, smoke no longer roiled upward from the south, but seemed to spread and blanket nearly half of Eastport in a ghostly haze.
“So, you really have other friends?” Alec jibed. “What’s that like for you?”
“It was three of us at the start,” the Warrior began, smiling at his friend’s good natured ribbing. “They attacked the Palace because we were there, because we had meddled in their plans.” He snorted. “As if raising an orc big enough to threaten Eastport was sane enough to be a real plan.”
“We left the palace after we stopped the attackers,” he continued. “I’m still wondering who is really safer with that decision.”
“You, or the prince?” Alec asked, nodding. “Neither, I’d wager.”
“We started to head this way, but Kevon sent us ahead to the North, while he stopped here by himself.”
“The streets have changed since you were here last,” Alec sighed. “They seem calmer by day, but people have been disappearing at night. Not that most have complained, thieves and crooked merchants mostly. Magi, too. Until a few weeks ago.”
“Alacrit’s Magi?”
“So they said,” the guardsman sniffed. “At first most of them ‘disappeared’ too. It wasn’t until there were dozens of them that they started searching the city. ‘Enemies of the Empire’, they claimed they were looking for.”
“And the fire?” Bertus asked, pointing toward the smoky blanket that appeared to be settling in for the night.
“A warehouse fire, from what I’ve heard. Someone said they heard thunder before it started, but there hasn’t been a cloud in the sky for days.” The guardsman snorted. “That’s what they get for playing with magic. I think a few of them died in there.”
A grin worked its way onto Bertus’s grim visage. “I’d hoped my friend hadn’t had anything to do with this, but it seems there’s a small chance of that. We’d better go find him before they do.”
Chapter 43
“They know we’re tracking them by magic,” Kevon whispered to Alanna as she peered around the corner of yet another building. “They’ve either stopped using it at all, or they’re concealing it very well.” His limited skill with the Detection rune Mirsa had shown him was proving useless. He had been able to more accurately pinpoint magic that he could already feel with it, but trying to use it to search out concealed spells had not worked at all. They had only accounted for one additional enemy casualty since they had split from the other assassins, and had not seen any of the other teams in over an hour.
“We may have missed out on all of the fun,” Alanna pouted in Kevon’s direction before transforming from lithe cutthroat to panicked townswoman to cross the street. The Adept followed, assuming an air of inept bravado before breaking step to scurry after her.
“There!” she whispered as he caught up, pointing to a closed door across another street that see
med far too wide in the deserted tension of the night.
“Is that where they are…”
“No, ours,” she whispered, gesturing to an inconspicuously placed chalk smudge on the threshold. “We need to get in there and see what the others have managed to do so far.”
They repeated their previous charade of incompetence, bumbling across the roadway and into the unlocked building. The windows were shuttered, and the faint moonlight from the mismatched joints in the wood was barely enough to make out the outlines of shapes in the room.
Kevon felt along the wall for torch sconces or lantern hooks, but the fireplace flared to light without even the barest whisper of power in his mind. The brown-robed, hooded figure from earlier in the evening stood near the hearth, leaning on a gnarled staff.
“Be at ease,” the Mage whispered, the rasping an obvious effort. “Trying… to… help…” The mysterious Magi unclenched one hand from his supporting staff long enough to gesture to the table beside him where another staff lay. “Like… in… Palace…” he wheezed. “Destroy them.”
The crippled Mage faltered, catching ahold of his staff with both hands again to steady himself before taking a deep breath. The fireplace dimmed to embers, and a flaming tear in reality appeared behind him. The heat emanating from the rift reminded Kevon of the forge, but the hunched Magi stepped backward into it, and the gash closed with a rumble.
“Friend of yours?” Alanna asked, resheathing her throwing dagger with a noticeable trembling of her usually steady hands. “From the Palace?”
“I don’t remember him from the Palace…” the Adept scratched his head. “The most we dealt with Magi there was the attack…” Images of some of the skirmishes they had only seen the aftermaths of wheeled through Kevon’s mind. Charred corpses of enemy Magi that none of the surviving Court Wizards had claimed credit for. Has this Mage been following me, helping me out? The possibility alarmed him more than it reassured. I don’t know who he is, what he wants. What if he decides I’m not worthy of his help anymore? Does he know my secret?
Journeyman Warsmith Page 25
