Journeyman Warsmith
Page 27
Whatever it is, it’s working, Kevon thought, offering up what little power he had left to his mysterious ally. He felt the runes in the other Mage’s mind, Fire, Transformation, and Man. The implications of the spell sickened him, but nothing else seemed to be working. He channeled magic from the staff to strengthen the Fire portion of the spell, and Holten screeched with increasing intensity.
The effects of the spell began to show in a manner not unlike an oil-soaked parchment alighting from the bottom. The flames swirling around Kevon’s former master speared inward, beginning at his feet. Boots and clothing charred and flaked away to reveal the change taking place underneath. Holten howled, his voice nearly overshadowed by the wind from the superheated cyclone surrounding him. The transformation crept upward, flesh, and then bone not merely burning, but changing into living fire.
Kevon could feel the crippled Mage holding the portal open, and drawing more power from the opening. He considered trying to do the same, but Holten’s change was nearly to the middle of his chest, and it would soon be over. He focused on steadying the magic he was already using.
The Mage at his side began to falter, and it was only then that Kevon saw the lines of power that stretched from Holten back to his attacker, redirecting some of the spell that was killing him. The Warsmith shifted his focus away from supplying more power to the spell, and tried using the scant amount of magic he had left to slice away at the energy flowing back to his mysterious ally. Three feeble attempts, and Kevon’s reserves gave out. He threw all the power from the staff that he could stand to draw out into the Mage’s spell for precious moments before realizing the power that was being offered back to him.
Borrowed magic swept through Kevon, enough to shape into a counterspell that severed Holten’s attack. The deepening of the connection between himself and the other Mage shocked him with the sudden flash of familiarity.
The Master Mage’s arms flashed into lashing tendrils of fire, and the screams took on an almost gleeful tone. Holten was no longer attacking Pholos, but he too was now drawing power from the opened portal, beginning to take control of the spell that was almost done changing his entire being into flames.
No longer resisting, Holten’s transition to flames was nearly instantaneous. A sudden surge of drawn energy from the portal enabled him to double in size, a disfigured giant of elemental fury. Kevon and Pholos used their staves to deflect the bolts of flame that assailed them, but Holten’s size grew steadily, and it seemed only a matter of moments before they were overwhelmed.
“Shoot him!” Kevon screamed above the roar of the inferno that was beginning to engulf buildings on both sides of the street. One arrow is all it would take, he realized, to change the monstrosity before him back into a man.
Lances of fire screamed down the street to engulf guardsmen and horses before they could respond. The pained cries of man and beast twined with the crackling of burning buildings to force Kevon to a place he did not want to be, to a time when he had stood with Pholos before, and lost him, he’d thought, forever.
The thing that had once been Kevon’s Master turned its attention to the two Magi once again. “Buuuuurrrrrrrnnnnnn!” it wheezed, spraying jets of flame that they could barely resist, standing in pockets of free air that were still blistering hot.
“You can burn!” Bertus shouted, peeking over the pile of cobblestones he’d sheltered behind, flinging his recovered sword at the monster.
“Haaaa!” The Holten-flame split, and the sword passed through without effect. It flung a burst of fire toward Bertus, who scrambled back down behind the barrier that had nearly been the death of him moments before.
“Now!” Alanna shouted from the corner of the intersection, stepping out with throwing daggers at the ready.
In response, at least four crossbowmen leaned over different rooftops, bolts trained on the blazing monstrosity filling the street.
Seeing the danger on all sides, the once-Holten flared in anger and rushed toward his only possible avenue of escape. The portal.
Time slowed. Kevon saw where the flaming creature was headed, and that Pholos was in the way. I won’t let you down this time… he thought, as he lurched toward his friend. Kevon sprang the last few feet, knocking the younger mage to the ground, flinging his right hand upward to keep it from contacting Pholos, hoping it was high enough to end Holten’s fiery rampage.
The howling inferno passed close enough to singe the Warsmith’s fingertips, but did not hinder his foe’s escape. The last flickers of Holten’s new form vanished through the collapsing portal, and the night dimmed a shade, still lit on all sides by burning buildings.
Pholos struggled to sit, and clutched his staff, drawing power from the Enchanted weapon to quench flames rather than start them. He wrestled with the urges his own malice had imbued deep into the ensorcelled wood, and overcame them, mastering both his errant will and the flames.
Guardsmen arrived from all directions. Swords were drawn, crossbows aimed, and accusations leveled. Pholos dropped the staff and lay back, arms outstretched.
“No!” Kevon shouted, climbing to his feet and standing over the fallen Mage. “He saved us!”
One of the guard commanders leapt from his horse, shoved Kevon back, and drew his sword to hold the tip inches from Pholos’s neck. “And who are you, that we should believe?”
“A hero of the Realm,” Bertus called, propping himself up on the pile of stones he’d sheltered behind. “Stand down!”
The guard commander whirled his blade around and resheathed it with a flourish, stepping back and inclining his head toward Kevon before turning to bark orders at those crowding into the intersection after him.
“Are you all right?” the Warsmith asked his fallen comrade, offering Pholos his unadorned hand for support. “Are we all right? If Holten could do that much with just the power from the portal, what can he do once he’s there?”
“That was Holten?” Pholos rasped, taking Kevon’s hand and climbing to his feet. “No,” the Mage answered, leaning on his staff for support. “He’s a good as dead in there, after what he’s been through,” he coughed. “You can’t draw power from your surroundings on the other side. If he can’t manage to turn himself back quickly, he’ll burn out.”
I’d rather be certain, but we’re in no shape to risk finding out either way. Kevon nodded, and turned to check on Bertus.
“Broken leg,” the Novice announced, sitting on the piled stones, face three shades paler than normal.
“We’ll get some healing potions in you,” Kevon reassured his friend, “You’ll be good as new in a few days.”
“Those don’t always work the way you intend,” Pholos cautioned. He coughed raggedly. “Sometimes, things heal wrong.”
Unable to think about the implications of the Mage’s warning, Kevon turned to check on Alanna. Who is gone, already, of course. He shook his head, sweeping his gaze around and past everyone else in the increasingly congested street. Leave it to her to run off without dealing with-
Horses shied and reared as a body crunched to the cobbles from the rooftops above. Kevon rolled the corpse over with his foot. It was the younger of the two assassins he’d suspected had been one of Alanna’s- of Marelle’s- assailants, throat slit from ear to ear. He glanced upward, but was not surprised when nothing appeared out of place besides the still-smoldering scorch marks on all of the surrounding structures.
Maybe she’ll come back to me, after all, the Warsmith thought, unable to stanch the hopeful thoughts that flowed through him in the wake of all the destruction that had just transpired.
“Mirsa!” Kevon nearly shouted at the nearly fainting Seeker. “Is she here? Is she safe?”
“With the Dwarves.” Bertus whispered. “You can go fetch them in the morning.”
“So touching…” Pholos groaned. “I’ll come back when it’s over.” He swung his staff in a circle, slicing the tip upward, opening another flaming rift that was met with shouts and drawn weapons. “It’
s a different place!” he rasped, hacking and coughing and stumbling toward it with the staff once again in use as a cane. He stepped into the portal and they both vanished.
“Get a litter!” one of the Guard captains shouted to a nearby subordinate, dismounting to attend to Bertus. He clamped a hand down on Kevon’s shoulder. “I think the two of you have some explaining to do.”
Epilogue
The sun peeked over the placid ocean horizon, its rays glaring into Mirsa’s face and waking her slowly. She reached into her pocket and drew out her last mint leaf, began chewing it to quell the nausea.
“No more smoke,” Kylgren-Wode commented as he spotted her stirring.
Stretching out and yawning, the Master Mage felt the leather strap of her concealment charm rub on her neck, the wooden pendant dangling against her skin. Out of habit, she removed it and pressed outward, searching for Kevon.
For the first time since they had parted ways, she could sense the Warsmith. He was not in Eastport, he was closer. And he was moving. She replaced the talisman, and looked to her companions.
The ambassador was perched atop the wagon, watching the countryside, axe near at hand. Rhysabeth-Dane was huddled in blankets near the remains of the fire, reading from the book and her notes, whispering softly.
“I thought that book was in Dwarven, not Elven,” Mirsa remarked as she moved within earshot.
“It is in...” the librarian began. “Wait...” she scanned down the line on the page of her notes she had been reading. “That is the pattern!” she exclaimed, circling the column of figures, and making a few quick notations. “Ancient Elven is closer to ancient Dwarven, these runes sound much like completely different words, in another language!”
“It’s likely the same with the other three, then,” Mirsa’s speculated. “We just need to find the right languages for the translation. Brilliant!”
Rhysabeth-Dane beamed with pride for just a moment before turning back to her notes.
I’ve always wanted to visit the Glimmering Isle, Mirsa thought as she drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders against the morning chill, and sat next to the diligent librarian to wait for Kevon’s arrival.
About the Author
Chris lives in a small town in Western Idaho. His interests include hunting, fishing, and camping when time permits, and MTG, MMORPG’s and reading when it does not.He collects various kinds of reproduction weaponry, and would like to expand that collection into Delve weapons on Ragnarok. He and his family actively volunteer in their community, and are strong supporters of libraries and literacy.
Chris is currently working on Volume III of The Blademage Saga, an as-of-yet untitled Sci-Fi/Fantasy hybrid novel, and his first cookbook: Cooking the Hollaway – Recipies and Philosophies for a Shorter but Happier Life.
Follow the progress of The Baldemage Saga, among other things, on Chris’s writing blog at sleepingdrake.blogspot.com.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
About the Author