Siege Tactics (Spells, Swords, & Stealth Book 4)

by Drew Hayes

  “Thanks, Mitch. That would be a real help.”

  “Don’t thank me, Russell. Find that woman, figure out what she’s doing, and put a stop to it.” Mitch rubbed his arm, right where the new scar had formed. “I got lucky to escape with a minor injury. There’s a lot worse ways to get hurt. And if she keeps pulling this shit, eventually one of them will happen to someone else.”

  “Plus, you want payback,” Russell added.

  A touch of the old Mitch manifested in the malicious grin that spread across his tired face. “Well, if that happens to be a side effect of stopping her, I’m certainly not going to object.”

  * * *

  Across the plains of Urthos, the cart tottered on. So far, their wake consisted of three camps of slaughtered bandits, a few chatty travelers who asked too many questions, and one diced-up party of adventurers who’d happened to set up camp just as the cart’s travelers were getting ready to rest one evening. Killing them had been easier than doing the work themselves, so that’s the path that the driver had decided on.

  Not that the others needed much prodding. People who would balk at such an idea didn’t become servants of Kalzidar. Bowing to the god of secrets and magic, giving up one’s very name—these were the acts of those who craved power at any cost. Kalzidar was many things, nearly all of them horrid, but he made no deception about what he stood for, or the kind of clergy he wanted. The men selected for this mission certainly fit the bill; they were likely standouts for their dedication.

  It had been wise of their god to assign one as leader. Without his word being made clear, they would have bickered amongst themselves, and at least some would have died before the dust settled. There was no risk of such incidents now. They could all feel the power bestowed by Kalzidar pumping through their veins, fueling their magic and urging them onward. All they could think about, all their minds would focus on, was their goal. They had made good time so far, perhaps too good.

  The timing of it all had to be precise. Lost magics were in play, along with the very forces of the heavens falling into alignment. There was no room for error, no chance for mistakes. Entering ahead of the deadline was fine, if their timing lined up that way. The larger concern was getting everything in position and striking at the right moment.

  One step at a time. The cart rolled on, passing a massive tree growing alone on the plains, a marker they’d all been watching for. Not much to look at for the time being, but soon, that would change.

  After they made it into Lumal, the scenery would be far more splendid to behold.

  25.

  “The trouble with instinct is that it has inherent limits. Trusting your instincts is important, but improving what they demonstrate as possible is also essential. Running the first time you see a monster is instinct; training your legs and lungs to be better able to escape the next time is taking control of the reaction and improving upon it. That is why it’s imperative that you move beyond instinct when it comes to utilizing the mana that flows through you. Until you control it, you’ll never be able to purposely train that aspect of your abilities, and you need to.”

  Kieran spoke as Timuscor and Thistle remained still, weapons in their hands. Before each was a wooden training dummy, though Thistle’s was obviously set some distance farther away from him. Each was ready, listening and tense as Kieran went through the speech. They’d been at it for over an hour and were slowly learning the rhythm. First came small speeches, giving them intellectual insight into what they were trying to achieve. After that, Kieran would tell them to strike the dummies with varying degrees of strength. Just as their muscles were tiring, Kieran would switch back to speaking, allowing them a short while to rest.

  “Let’s take it from the top again. This time, we’ll do an escalating scale. Start off weak; the weakest possible attacks you can make. Go slow if you need to. Thistle, it doesn’t matter if you get nowhere near your wooden opponent. In fact, these first attempts should come up quite short. Timuscor, same for you and leaving a mark on the dummy. Don’t think about your targets; focus on the act of attacking. Every strike should be a tiny bit more powerful than the one before it. Small steps up in strength. Pay attention to everything about your body. Feel the breath in your lungs, the ground pressing against your feet, the wind on your skin. Eventually, you’ll feel the difference in your muscles as mana flows through them. When you have that, your training starts in earnest.”

  The weariness was part of the exercise; Timuscor understood that from the start. Being tired made everything hurt, that was true, yet in doing so, it also made it easier to feel every motion. When each twitch resulted in small tremors of pain, taking note of the twitches was a far easier task. Timuscor tried to put the words out of his mind, focusing purely on his body as it swung his longsword, achingly slow, at the dummy.

  According to Kieran’s first speech of the day, every adventurer in the world held on to some mana naturally. Mages kept and accessed the most; however, the act of augmenting bodies with bursts of magic also heightened their natural capacity to hold mana. This was why adventurers grew unnaturally stronger and tougher, some well past natural limitations, until they were capable of surviving otherwise deadly attacks. The more a person used mana, the better trained that aspect became. For casters, that involved heightening their overall mana capacity and efficiency in casting.

  Physical combatants like Timuscor actively used mana in very careful, controlled bursts. Unlike barbarians, who flooded their entire bodies with the stuff in a single go, knights used their mana-augmentation chiefly in the moments it was needed: the swing of a sword, the pull of a bow, the hurl of a dagger. The trouble was, that meant Timuscor was only going to be able to sense his mana-usage by finding it in those swings. Thistle at least had divine options; the gnome would learn more when he moved on to casting training. For Timuscor, the sword was all he had. His arms shook from the concentrated effort of moving so deliberately, so slowly. He struck the dummy again, increasing his power by the slightest amount.

  Hunting for a sensation he’d never noticed before was like being told to search the sunset for a new shade of red. How did he even know what he was looking for, and how would he be sure when he’d found it? It would be so easy to mistake any sensation as the one he was looking for and waste untold time chasing the wrong feeling. Timuscor put that thought quickly out of his head, as he had been doing with all inner doubts and fears. Worry had no place in this process; there wasn’t room for it. If the task could be accomplished, then this was the place to do it—under the guidance of a true expert, watching over their every move with intense scrutiny.

  Another swing, landing lightly against the dummy. Seconds later, one of Thistle’s daggers thudded uselessly in the grass, less than a quarter of the way to his target.

  “Excellent,” Kieran called. “Keep it up, slow and steady.”

  The blade felt heavy, but Timuscor didn’t permit so much as a tremble as he brought it in for another strike. He hoped the others were having better luck at their training, though he couldn’t imagine they were having much of an easier time.

  * * *

  Eric’s legs shook as he took another step, the taut rope shifting the slightest bit beneath his feet with every movement. He was only three feet off the ground, walking between a pair of wooden poles that looked like they’d been roughly shoved into the dirt, which very well might have been what Brock actually did. When he’d heard he’d be walking a rope to train, part of Eric expected it to be over a cavern, or a pit of hungry monsters. Only later did he understand that such a situation would have been too easy. In those cases, failure meant death. This way, failure just meant getting back up to keep trying.

  “Everything starts with balance.” Brock, for his part, was sitting on top of a rope of his own. In fact, he’d lain on it, jumped on it, and generally lounged as though he were on solid ground since they’d started this training. “When I was being taught how to fight, that was how they started every brawler’s train
ing. People think that our power comes from our muscles, but the muscles are a result of training, not a goal. Balance is the goal. Power comes from the stance, which comes from the footing, which comes from balance.”

  Eric took an uneasy step forward, sure this would lead to yet another sudden drop. His footing stayed secure, thankfully, even as he glanced over and noticed Brock leaning back for a deep stretch, effortlessly holding an angle that should have sent him tumbling to the ground.

  “You rogues are closer to my kind than you might think,” Brock continued. His commentary had been running throughout most of the session, and the burly bartender had already begun to repeat himself on a few topics. “We aren’t just the force of our strikes. Our movements are nearly as important. We don’t flood ourselves with mana like barbarians, and while we do use bursts when we attack, our kind also keeps an intentional, controlled flow of mana in our bodies at all times. Not just the normal accumulation, either. I’m talking about creating a new autonomic system. Like breathing, or a heartbeat, only instead, you’re channeling mana. It’s how we have such mastery of our movements that we go faster than our legs should carry us, or silence even the creaking of our bones as we slip through shadows. Since you’re working on instinct, you use only the barest amount of mana necessary to complete any given task.”

  Another step, and this time, Eric’s foot wobbled as it landed. In a split-second, he was down, a fresh cloud of dirt congealing around him as he coughed. It was strange, he could see the next step in his mind’s eye, could feel the rope beneath his feet, but the more he walked it, the harder the task became.

  “Your body will not keep balance on its own. Balance must be taught, be learned, be willful. As you grow tired, your instincts will falter. You’ll use too little mana for a task, or too much. Pay attention, feel the flow ebb and shift. When you can feel it, you can take hold of it. And once you control the flow of mana, you’ll be capable of finding the exact right amount to pair with your body for any given task. It will take untold time, mind you, to reach that level of mastery. But if you do, your possibilities will expand in countless directions.”

  Brock finished his stretch, then nodded to the rope. “All of that comes much further down the road, though. For now...”

  It was an obvious hint, even if he hadn’t trailed off, and Eric didn’t ignore it. He brushed his shirt off—they’d shed the armor for this exercise—then walked to the nearest post and hopped right back onto the rope.

  “For now,” Eric repeated, “everything starts with balance.”

  * * *

  Unlike the others, Gabrielle was having a fairly easy day. That was largely because less interest was being put on training her in lieu of focusing on understanding what she was, how her axe worked, and what the relationship between them had become. Gabrielle hadn’t precisely known what to expect; she’d half-assumed it would be a lot of questions with pauses so Simone could ponder the responses.

  Instead, she was currently centered in a glowing green circle of runes, with a smaller circle of red runes by her feet containing her axe. They’d walked into what looked like a mausoleum near the edge of the graveyard, only to reveal a set of stairs leading down into a massive space stuffed with magical items and books. Simone had set up the circles, and had largely been keeping to herself ever since. Occasionally, she would ask Gabrielle a question, usually about her past with the axe, but every now and then, Simone checked to see if Gabrielle felt different. Those latter questions worried Gabrielle, much as she tried to hide it. What was Simone tinkering with that would produce new sensations, and would she accidentally turn Gabrielle into a real corpse by mistake?

  The thought was less terrifying than it should have been, largely because, if there was ever a place to not fear the permanency of death, it was with Simone. All around her lair, skeletons were puttering about, tending to menial tasks like cleaning or bringing her steaming cups filled with unknown liquids. If Simone did accidentally kill Gabrielle, she’d hopefully have the decency to raise the barbarian once more. Being a different kind of undead might not be so bad; at least Gabrielle would have a clearer idea of the rules she was supposed to be playing by.

  “Interesting. Very interesting.” Whatever Simone was seeing, Gabrielle couldn’t make it out. From the way the pale mage was squinting at thin air, there had to be something visible. That, or Gabrielle had entrusted herself to the clutches of a magical madwoman. Not likely, true, but certainly possible.

  “Wait... huh. That doesn’t... it shouldn’t... Wait... Damnation! Is that for real?”

  The curse was a surprise, but it had nothing on what came next. Simone stood, walked into the circle of green runes and hunkered down to take a much closer look at Gabrielle’s axe. The tip of her nose was less than an inch from the blade, like Simone was trying to check her reflection in the metal. Whatever she saw there seemed to confirm her suspicions, as Simone stood back up and walked out, motioning for one of the nearby skeletons to come close.

  “Go find Julian. Bring him here immediately, no matter how he whines. Tell him I insist he hurry.”

  In response, the skeleton let out a few noises that sounded like unintelligible rasps to Gabrielle, yet drew a nod of confirmation from Simone. It tottered off at a quicker pace than bones should probably manage, turning down a hallway and quickly fading from sight.

  “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about?” Gabrielle asked.

  “I hope to, eventually.” Simone had retaken her seat; evidently, Julian’s presence wasn’t so necessary that work couldn’t proceed without him. “I’d like to wait until we’ve got more than speculation and theory, however. What you are—what I think you are—is not entirely unique, but it is also far from common. Julian is something of an expert in the condition, so I’d like to have him weigh in before I start sharing ideas that might yet prove to be wrong.”

  It was hard to argue with Simone wanting to be thorough, even if Gabrielle was itching for answers. Better to be sure than to operate under a wrong idea, especially given how varied the undead could be. Sunshine was deadly to some, yet she’d had only the most minor of skin issues in the light. That didn’t mean her kind of undead wouldn’t have its own version of sunshine, though. The sooner she knew what she was, the better her chances of surviving. Still, it was hard not to be curious.

  “Not to be disrespectful, but aren’t you the legendary necromancer? Why is this Julian guy more of an expert on my condition than you?”

  “Simple,” Simone replied. “Because, if I’m right, Julian is another of your kind.”

  * * *

  Jolia watched as the barrel burned, flames licking at its sides. With a wave of her hand, she extinguished the flames. A flick of her staff purged the damage, leaving the barrel looking brand new again. “For someone working off a crash course, you’re holding together quite well. Nice aim and focus, good pronunciation, careful motions. Whoever taught you did a fine job of drilling in the fundamentals.”

  With a snort, Grumph agreed. His time with Dejy had been limited, so they’d focused on building a foundation above all else. Deepening Grumph’s mana pool, learning a few new spells that might be helpful, and practicing the essentials of casting over and over.

  As he panted, Jolia handed over a stoppered bottle. Grumph downed the contents quickly, a surge of warmth filling his stomach, stretching out through his entire body. Moving mana from person to person with Dejy had required an artifact. Jolia either lacked one or preferred not to work that way, because she hadn’t even proposed the option. Rather, she’d shown up with a magical bag stuffed full of strangely-colored potions. They didn’t refill one’s mana, per se, but drinking them temporarily increased Grumph’s natural mana recovery. While he wouldn’t be able to summon a storm like Jolia had, the potions were permitting him to continue casting minor spells long after his natural reserves would have run dry.

  “Again, when you’re ready. Don’t just say the words and make the motions
. Understand that what you’re doing has a purpose. You are shaping the spell, guiding the magic. If I were your real teacher, I’d be educating you on what every intonation and gesture adds to the equation, so you could build spells of your own, but with such limited time, let’s focus on understanding that the relationship exists. When you completely understand a spell, you can make changes on the fly to suit your needs.”

  Jolia muttered as she waved her staff, and from it came a blast of fire identical to the ones Grumph had been conjuring. Then, she did the same, seemingly identical motions. This time, a stream of sustained flame shot out, scorching the air around them. It stopped, and she repeated the spell a third time. A small red orb, barely bigger than a marble, shot directly toward the barrel. The instant it hit, an explosion came from within, turning the barrel into burning wreckage.

  “Same basic spell, with a few modifications. All of that comes with time and study, mind you. What I want from you is to learn one technique, because I think it will serve you the best in your journey ahead. Pay attention as you cast, feel the moment when mana leaves your body to fuel the spell. In that moment, you have control. You can push more mana in to increase the effectiveness, or keep some back if you want to pull your shot. Learn this, and every spell you have becomes more versatile, as well as more dangerous.”

  They stood, neither moving, for several moments. Finally, Jolia’s patience wore thin. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  In response, Grumph merely raised a finger to point at the smoldering remains of the barrel.

  “Aye, right, you need a target. My mistake.” With a quick wave of the staff, Jolia caused the barrel to fly back together, reforming the parts that had been turned to cinders. “There you are. Now, get back to it.”

  26.

  A full morning’s training had left Thistle sore, weary, and with no shortage of things to mull over. He hadn’t yet mastered the lesson, which felt forgivable after only a single day of trying, yet the ideas Kieran had put inside his head refused to lay still. The task had been set before Thistle, and as was his nature, he immediately went to trying to puzzle a way through it. Unfortunately, this problem didn’t seem to have a way it could be thought around. No tricks, no tactics, no sudden inspiration would move the obstacle from his path. It wasn’t the first time Thistle had faced this sort of challenge, but they were always especially problematic for him.