Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

  Warcaster

  Mage Song

  Book One

  J.C. Staudt

  Warcaster is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 J.C. Staudt

  All rights reserved.

  Edition 1.0

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Reclaimer (Mage Song Book Two)

  Afterword

  Chapter 1

  Lady Alynor Mirrowell had no room in her life for a change of plans. That was why, when she looked out the high castle window to see a rider in the black-and-white checkered tabard of the Kingdom of Dathrond approaching down the east road at a gallop, she ignored him. Whatever he wants, he can find it elsewhere, she decided. Dathrond was a great distance away, but messengers from foreign kingdoms came and went all the time, and there was too much left to be done to suffer such a distraction.

  In one week’s time, Lady Alynor and her husband Darion were preparing to leave their keep amid the rolling hills of Orothwain to attend a wedding in Laerlocke. It was some distant cousin of Lady Alynor’s being wed, but that did not matter to her so much as making a good impression; much of her extended family had met her husband only briefly at their own wedding, and she was determined to make a proper showing of him for all the naysayers and ne’er-do-wells to see. A good showing would require a great deal of preparation in the days prior, and today happened to be one of those days.

  Alynor paid the growing sounds of the horse’s hoofbeats little mind as she perused the clothier’s wares. Master Malchaeus shadowed her through the parlor, hands resting on his thick belly, taking careful opportunity to point out the fineries of each fabric as they passed. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds of patterns in every color she could imagine; velvets, taffetas, and jacquards in lilac and silver and scarlet. “This one is exceptionally smooth to the touch. Is it not, my lady?” Malchaeus asked, licking his lips like a mutt beneath a supper table as she caressed a black and gold damask between her fingers.

  “It is, at that,” Alynor admitted.

  Outside, the soldiers were shouting across the walls of the inner ward. The screech of iron announced the opening of the gates. She heard the rider enter the courtyard and dismount.

  “Mina, draw the shutters,” Lady Alynor said. “This racket is positively unbearable.”

  “Yes, milady.” Alynor’s handmaiden was a tiny woman, partially of elven descent, if the high cheekbones and delicate features were any indication. Elven blood ran in Lady Alynor’s veins as well, though from further down the line.

  “Mr. Malchaeus. If forced to choose, which print would you recommend for a wedding?” she asked. Then she added with a smile, “So as not to outshine the bride, of course.”

  The clothier tapped his chin. “Why, my lady… were I forced, I would confess you are sure to flatter in any material you choose. You’ll be hard-pressed not to exemplify a stunning rival to any bride, if I may say so.”

  Alynor accepted his praise reservedly. “You are too kind.”

  “I speak only the truth, my lady. In particular, a teal or a light blue ought to provide the perfect complement to your natural tones. A bodice gown with velvet inserts will do nicely, I should think. How about one of these?”

  “I do like this one,” she admitted. She gave the fabric a touch. “Yes… this is simply marvelous.” No sooner had she spoken than another fabric caught her eye, a shimmering midnight blue with silver inlays. She clucked her tongue and crossed the room to it. “I’m afraid I rather fancy this one as well. In fact, I don’t think I can decide between them. Nor should I have to, for that matter. I’d like to order two dresses, Mr. Malchaeus.”

  “Eh—two, my lady?”

  “Shall I speak louder, or didn’t you hear me the first time?”

  “Yes, it’s just that… finishing a dress of this quality in a week will be a feat on its own, my lady. Two dresses, well…”

  “You do still work for gold, don’t you?”

  “Yes of course, but—”

  “Then I’ll pay double to have them done by week’s end.”

  Malchaeus’s eyes bulged. “Week’s end? But that’s… four days from now.”

  “Plenty of time to find a new tailor, if I must.”

  The clothier wriggled his thick mustache. “That won’t be necessary, my lady. I am… up to the task.”

  “I should hope so, Malchaeus. I’ve never known you to turn away good custom.” Or pass up a fat profit.

  “You have the right of it, my lady. Now then. Just so I’ve taken all this down correctly, I have one fitted bodice gown of the midnight-blue samite, and another of the white-on-sea-green damusk, both with matching velvet liners.”

  “Spot on, my dear Malchaeus.”

  “Very well. I shall make it so. Expect my return in four days’ time. Kopple. Rigg. Hop to it.” Malchaeus clapped his hands twice. His boys snapped out of their languor and began removing fabric samples from the parlor.

  Lady Alynor made her way to the kitchens next. Mrs. Lindell was too skinny to be a cook. A good one, anyway. Alynor had suggested they find a replacement, but her husband had vetoed the notion. She may not have the master’s touch, he’d said, but she’s a part of this family as much as you or I. She runs those kitchens like the seasoned veteran she is. And what’s more, the meals are always on time.

  Why Sir Darion preferred timeliness over taste, Lady Alynor hadn’t quite figured out. There were many things about her husband that baffled her more often than not. Like his penchant for drinking at all hours of the day. Or the inordinate amount of time he spent away from the keep, during which he often claimed to be hunting or hawking.

  Alynor wasn’t fooled, however; she saw the way he looked whenever he came home. Often it would be long past dark when he and his hunting companions returned to the keep, yet he would appear peaceful and pristine, showing no trace of sweat or exertion. He would spend the rest of the evening alone in his study, drowning himself in wine.

  Neither was Alynor naive to the political motivations behind her marriage to Darion; their union had been arranged for one reason, and one only. Her father, Lord Hallard Mirrowell of the Greenkeep, needed an ally against the ogre hordes of the western Breakspires, who had been plaguing him for many a year. Sir Darion’s experience with ogres was unmatched in the realms, the tales said, though he had yet to lift a finger of aid since the wedding. He’d sent his retainers—units of footmen and spears—to the Greenkeep often enough. But he’d remained at Keep Ulther all the while, never to cast a single spell in battle—the feat for which he was so renowned.

  Alynor could stil
l recall the night they had first been introduced. She had been wearing a gown of cream taffeta with black embroidery all through the neckline. She loved that gown, and had thought she looked quite acceptable in it. Sir Darion had merely bowed and kissed her hand before walking away to find himself a drink. She had thought him very handsome; distinguished, even. Yet for all his courtesies, his affect had been tainted with a sort of crude indifference, as though their betrothal was a game to him.

  That was what their marriage felt like, too. A game. Only it wasn’t a fun game, so much as the kind of game you couldn’t stop playing, and the more you played the more it tortured you for want of a decent resolution. She’d find no such resolution with Sir Darion, who was as closed-off and secretive as the private armory in the highest room of the south tower, which he kept locked at all times and never entered.

  At least, she had never seen him enter it. He never even spoke of the place. She only knew it existed because she’d reviewed the keep’s lands and incomes with their castellan, Albur Appleby, when she’d first arrived and assumed her duties as lady steward. Appleby had assured her that any discrepancies in the castle finances could be remedied at the turn of a key. A key which only Sir Darion possessed.

  She had tried not to dwell on the mystery of that room, just as she had tried to shield herself from the reality that so few of her girlhood dreams had come true. All the love, the friendship, the companionship she had hoped to build with her husband… those had been empty dreams. Sir Darion paid her little attention unless it was to keep his courtesies at supper or to perform his husbandly duties in the bedroom. The two of them, husband and wife, otherwise filled the roles of cordial acquaintances.

  And what of Darion’s former career as adventurer and savior of the realms? During the weeks after their wedding, she’d made such inquiries of him on several occasions. But after his first few gruff refusals, she’d given up trying. Thus, she had learned more about him by reputation than by anything he’d told her himself.

  Mrs. Lindell gave Lady Alynor an irritable glance as she entered the kitchens. Alynor had taken to checking in on the cook at least once a day, if she could manage it. Not because the woman required oversight, but because Alynor hoped the additional pestering might lead the woman to seek employment elsewhere. There were plenty of inns and lodges and high lords’ estates in Fenria Town, Linderton, Rivermont, and Riverend, where Mrs. Lindell was sure to find work if she had it in mind to make a change. Orothwain was a wealthy kingdom, where even the poorer classes were well-cared for in times of peace such as these.

  “Milady,” Mrs. Lindell acknowledged without ceasing her work. Bits of carrot rolled away from her fast-moving knife.

  “I hope you aren’t too far along on those meat pies I suggested earlier this afternoon,” said Lady Alynor.

  Mrs. Lindell stopped chopping. She put the knife down and gave a sigh. “Not at all, milady.”

  “Good. I’d like you to prepare a special something for my husband this evening. Say, his favorite? Roasted duck and fritters.”

  “Fritters, marm.”

  “Yes. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, marm.”

  “Very well. Good day.” Lady Alynor smiled as she took her leave.

  She had begun to grow curious about the messenger from Dathrond, despite herself. There had been urgency in his pace. Urgency did not normally accompany favorable news. If the news was important enough, the messenger would’ve been instructed to deliver it to Sir Darion himself. Now, where might my husband be found at this hour? she wondered.

  After a few inquiries, a servant girl told her she’d seen Sir Darion in the gardens out behind the keep. Lady Alynor ascended to the high hall, from whence she might catch a glimpse of him while escaping his notice. When she looked down onto the garden patio, Darion was sitting in his favorite outdoor chair beside a small round table bearing two empty flagons of wine. The messenger stood before him, reading from a parchment scroll.

  They were too far away for her to hear what was being said, but she could see the perturbed look on her husband’s face. They began to argue, though it was mostly Darion yelling while the other man listened. After a moment, Darion pushed himself to his feet.

  Alynor ducked beneath the windowsill, hoping he hadn’t seen her. She waited several seconds before peering out again. The messenger was kneeling before Darion’s chair while Darion trudged up the hill toward the keep. The scroll lay curled on the side table.

  She looked around for something to occupy herself with. Her eyes came to rest on her knitting, the socks she hadn’t picked up in weeks. She dashed across the room to her chair and flung herself into it, taking the needlework in hand just as the outer door opened.

  Darion walked in, giving her a suspicious look as he crossed the room.

  Chapter 2

  “I always thought magic was the stuff of nature—that casters drew their power from the world around them.”

  “Magic is no more a complement to nature than nightsoil to a harvest feast, my boy. One has naught to do with the other, save one of the same letters. Magic is a most… unnatural thing. To wield it, in fact, is to belie the very laws of nature.”

  The young squire and his aging master sat at a low table in the damp recesses of the elven longship Windcutter, hunched over an ancient tome while the flame of a lone candle danced and guttered with each stormy wave.

  “How do I know if I can use magic?” Darion asked.

  “Anyone can use magic, boy. Save for those who’ve lost their éadras. Every creature in the realms is born with magic in its blood, but only those able to speak the language of magic can wield it. That takes study and practice. Most people in the realms can neither read nor write the language they speak every day, let alone find the means to study an ancient tongue. Of the ones who do, few find they possess the patience and dedication required. It is often years before one learns one’s first spell.”

  “Years?”

  “It’s not as if one can simply wave one’s arms about and wiggle one’s fingers and expect the trees to raise their roots and dance about, is it?”

  Darion hung his head. “No, I suppose not,” he muttered. “How does anyone have the patience to wait so long?”

  “It’s the same as any other learning,” said Sir Jalleth. “Some have a knack for it; others don’t. Even the untalented can make up for their lack with enough time and attention.”

  “You’ll teach me, won’t you?” Darion asked hopefully.

  “I will, at that. You’ll develop your skill as I did—through repetition and study. When we arrive in Ralthia and make camp, we’ll get to work. We’ll work at it until such a time as you have it right.”

  “What about my second spell? Will I have to wait years longer for that?”

  Sir Jalleth chuckled. “You’re always looking so far ahead you forget to look around you, lad. Think of your second spell once you’ve mastered your first. That’s the hardest—the first one. After that, it comes quicker.”

  ***

  Sir Darion Ulther belched.

  His memory-dream faded until he was no longer a curious boy in that dark dripping cabin on the Windcutter, but an old man, seated alone on the garden patio in the midst of a bright summer day. Before him spread a lush green landscape of pastures and gardens and groves, the summation of his domain as Champion of the Realms and Lord Protector of Orothwain. Behind him, the round stone towers of his keep jutted into the clear blue sky, majestic in their simplicity.

  Darion thought often of his old master these days. He’d been having these memory-dreams as long as he could remember, episodes so vivid he felt as though he were reliving them. At the best of times, he could remember every detail of faces, voices and events. At its worst, a memory-dream was a waking nightmare.

  Unfastening the buttons of his waistcoat, Sir Darion let the fullness of his belly slump free like a ball of bread dough. He lifted his winecup and drained it in one long draught. The wine was the only thing th
at made him forget anymore.

  He chanted the sigils of a long-forgotten spell before flinging the cup high into the air. With his other hand, he reached out to take the mage-song, then loosed a crackling blue bolt that sent the winecup spinning away end over end.

  Each time the cup began to fall, he hit it with a new bolt to keep it aloft. After a dozen of these, the mage-song returned to its slumber. He let the cup clatter to the stone patio, where it rolled away into the grass.

  “Man’s got to keep himself sharp,” he muttered, though no one was around to hear.

  Had anyone been listening, they would’ve laughed. Sir Darion had heard the rumblings of dissent among his servants, the jests about his ill health, his laziness, his lack of experience governing a vassalage. They said he was past his prime, an outmoded militarist never meant to be a lord. Perhaps they were right, but their sentiments stung him all the same. He had engaged in all manner of distraction, but no such amusement could halt the inevitable sunset of his youth; all that remained to him were the remnants of a haunted past and the bleak promise of a civilized marriage.

  Marriage had not agreed with him thus far; his wife, Lady Alynor, was a shrewd woman who exhibited far more sophistication than affection. To her credit, she had been loath to place too many demands on his time. So Sir Darion had contented himself to occupy his own fancies while the lady of the castle maintained her social appearances and fulfilled her civic duties as lady steward over the Ulther lands and holdings.

  The clop of hoofbeats on the east road pulled Sir Darion from his thoughts. A rider was approaching the keep, moving fast along the edge of the Breezewood. He was dressed in a long woolen tabard checked in black and white squares, with the two-headed likeness of a jötun emblazoned in the center. A Dathiri soldier, Sir Darion knew at once. But what was a lone Dathiri rider doing so far from home?

  It seemed Sir Darion would soon have his answer. He heard the men opening the portcullis to allow the rider through. Two of his guards emerged through the postern gate a few minutes later with the man in tow. They approached the high-backed wooden chair in which Sir Darion was slouched, sweating off the remains of his lunch and enjoying the insobriety wrought by the two jugs of wine he’d emptied in the pursuit.