Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1) Read online

  “What do you mean in tone?” Darion asked.

  “The mage-song is comprised of seven tones, such as are found in many musical scales. Any of the thousands of sigils contained within the language of magic can be spoken in any of the seven tones, depending on the spell. Each tone carries with it a variant effect, and thus each sigil can be said to have seven variations. It is therefore important for you to develop a sense of pitch—or, failing that, to carry panpipes. Like these.”

  Sir Jalleth produced a small device from his cloak, an instrument with seven notched barrels made of river reeds and arranged left to right from shortest to longest. The old knight brought the instrument to his lips and blew a note, resonant and pure. It was so clear Darion could hear it in his head long after Sir Jalleth had stopped playing it.

  “Now you try.”

  When Darion reached out to take the instrument, Sir Jalleth pulled it away, laughing.

  “No, my boy. With your mouth. Speak the tone you just heard.”

  Darion was abashed. “You mean… sing?”

  Sir Jalleth gave him a soft smile and nodded.

  Darion doubted he had ever sung a note in his life. He felt silly, opening his mouth to emit a sound he had no control over. He tried to remember the note Sir Jalleth had played, but what had felt so clear only a moment ago became lost behind a wall of uncertainty.

  He cleared his throat and tried to speak the tone, but the sound which emerged was more screech than song. He shut his mouth abruptly, then burst into laughter. “That was horrible,” he admitted. “I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”

  Sir Jalleth chuckled along with him. “Give it time, my lad. As they say, there’s no better place to start than right where we are.”

  ***

  Darion fondled the panpipes in the pocket of his cloak, remembering. Despite Alynor’s protests, they had left Fenria Town at first light and ventured into the mountain passes without the minstrel in their company. Alynor had been too intoxicated on that accursed singer’s mage-song the evening before to listen to one of Darion’s stories, so he’d gone the night without telling her one. He wasn’t sure how much he ought to tell her about Sir Jalleth, or whether he would ever tell her about him at all.

  “I still don’t understand why we had to leave Kestrel behind,” Alynor was saying as their horses trudged up the narrow winding path in single file.

  “I don’t understand why you feel sorry for him, Alynor. A man with such resources will find his own way without putting us out for it.”

  “We were to be his way,” said Alynor. She’d been cranky all morning, and now she was descending into one of her moods again. “He only wanted your protection.”

  And my gold too, no doubt, Darion reflected. He kept his silence; if she didn’t believe the minstrel’s deeds were corrupt to begin with, there would be no convincing her of his potential for other crimes. “Plenty of protection to be had in these parts,” he said. “Someone else will come along.”

  “I didn’t want someone else to come along,” she whined.

  And so it begins, he thought. Whatever mischief that minstrel had spread among the Moonshade’s patrons the night before, it had rendered his wife unwell this morning. She behaved as though she’d done a night’s worth of heavy drinking when she hadn’t taken so much as a sip.

  Last night in their room Alynor had tried her hardest to tempt Darion, whispering sweet things to him in a dreamy voice as they lay abed. They hadn’t coupled in over a week, and he’d been tempted. He had known she was not herself though, so he’d declined the offer.

  The day was bright and cloudy, though they could see thunderheads off in the distance. Townsfolk and travelers passed them along the mountain road, tapering off in number as they ascended to the heights and drew further away from Fenria Town. They continued on in silence until early afternoon, when they exchanged sufficient words to arrange the consumption of their midday meal on the move.

  As he was handing her a ripe apple from his bags, Darion heard a noise behind them. Far back along the road, a hunched figure sat on an old gray horse, keeping pace at a slow walk. Darion checked his longsword and alerted Lady Alynor to the figure’s presence.

  “Might be nothing,” he told her, “but one never knows. Be on your guard.”

  The sky darkened as the afternoon drew on. The clouds darkened overhead from a peaceful white to a brooding gray. When Darion glanced back, the figure was still behind them, a little closer than before. If it’s that fool singer, come to follow us despite my refusal, I swear I’ll run him through, he promised. But there came neither word nor song from the shrouded stranger, whose visage only darkened with the sky. Kalo and Lana gave no sign of fear or discomfort, so Darion chose to heed the horses’ judgment.

  Soon the first raindrops began to fall. There was nowhere to take shelter and it would be several hours before sunset, so they lifted the hoods of their cloaks and pressed on. A steep cliff rose to their right, while a thinly wooded mountainside sloped downward to their left. The path widened enough for two riders to travel abreast, so Alynor sped up and came alongside Darion. The mysterious rider stayed with them all through the afternoon, coming a few lengths closer every hour. Why doesn’t he pass us by? Darion wondered.

  By the time dusk rolled around he could stand it no longer. The road was wide enough now that half a dozen horses could’ve ridden it abreast. He reined up along the cliffside and waited for Lady Alynor to join him.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the rain.

  “I want to let this person go ahead of us,” he told her.

  “You mean the person stopped in the road back there?”

  She was right. The figure had halted when they had.

  “Hey,” Darion shouted. “Hey.” He waved, beckoning the rider forward with one hand and gripping his reins with the other. There was still a significant distance between them, and the rider made no move to close it. “He’s just sitting there,” Darion said, bothered. “Perhaps I’ll ride back and see what he’s about.”

  “Don’t,” Alynor said. “I don’t want to be left alone out here. We ought to find someplace to make camp for the night soon anyway.”

  “I’ve got to do something about him,” said Darion. “This fellow is up to no good, I’ll tell you that much.”

  Alynor shivered. “Then I’ll ride over with you. He must be waiting for us to move out of his way, or something.”

  Darion gave her a doubtful look, though he suspected it was too dark for her to see it. “Fine. Stay behind me, and let me do the talking.”

  She didn’t reply. She was staring at the two hulking shapes coalescing from the darkness by the roadside ahead. The rider began moving forward again. Oh, this is a fine quagmire we’ve wandered into. Trapped between some brigand and the ogres he conspires with. Darion was surprised to see ogres this far north of the Breezewood, but he would’ve known the shape and size of them anywhere, in darkness or daylight.

  “Oh no… Darion…”

  “I see them, I see them,” he said. Kalo began to shift restlessly beneath him.

  “What do you propose we do?” Alynor asked.

  “Keep your back to the cliffside. If anyone approaches you, run. I’ll catch up.”

  “What are those things?” she asked.

  My specialty, Darion thought. “Do as I say, woman.”

  Alynor wheeled her horse around, ready to dash away in either direction if provoked. Darion had little choice but to ride out into the middle of the road and wait. When he drew his longsword, his hand was trembling. Bloodcaller’s blade was four feet of dwarven-forged steel, but in the nighttime rain it glistened as black as sharpened iron.

  Darion’s foremost worry wasn’t his ability to swing a sword, however. He may have been out of practice, but he was convinced he could still wield a weapon with the best of them. His uncertainty came from whether he could cast a spell worthy of such a battle and live to tell of it.

  �
��Dyek, Eroz, Inom, Tsad…” he began, chanting each sigil as its image flashed through his mind. Sir Jalleth had taught him to keep his voice quiet as he intoned the mage-song, letting the sound resonate high in his chest rather than in his mouth. All one needed to produce was the physical resonance of the tone. The forces of magic were always at odds with nature, seeking to circumvent its rules; to build and destroy where it was not meant to happen. Magic simply needed an enabler, someone to conjure its manifestations into being.

  Darion rested the heel of his palm on Bloodcaller’s crossguard. The gray-horsed rider had sped his mount from a walk to a trot, and the two bulky shapes were grunting and lumbering down the path from the opposite direction. Darion reached the spell’s second-to-last sigil and stumbled. Was it Urit or Kovl? He couldn’t remember. Another fraction of a second passed, and he lost it.

  He started over. Alynor was shouting at him now, trying to tell him something—trying to warn him about something—but he was too focused on the spell and the rain and the coming fight to hear her. They were closing fast on both sides. If he did not finish soon, he would have to fight them without magic, three against one.

  One of the ogres bellowed. Darion came to the last sigil and realized he was about to be pummeled. With a curse, he gave up the spell and turned to parry the ogre’s club as it came swinging out of the darkness. The club was as thick as a man’s leg and tough as stone, hardly yielding a notch where it met his sword.

  Darion shoved the club aside and made a downward cut, catching the ogre in the crook of his elbow. The creature dropped its club with a growl. Behind him, Darion heard the shrouded rider approaching at a gallop. He leaned left to avoid the second ogre’s wild swing, then turned to see steel flash from beneath the rider’s cloak.

  Just when Darion thought he was done for, the rider leapt off his horse and danced into the fray, moving with a quickness that belied his hunched frame. To Darion’s surprise, the figure stepped past him to slash at the ogres, deft and cunning with his two short blades. When the ogre’s narrow miss caught the hood of the figure’s cloak and tore it off his head, Darion saw the long flaxen hair and slender features beneath. It is that damnable singer after all.

  Kestrel’s blade sank through the ogre’s ribs, and the great beast stumbled backward and fell. Darion did not see the swing coming from the other side, where the first ogre had retrieved his club with his other hand. The blow sailed past Kalo’s head and struck Darion square in the breastplate. He sprawled backward, rolled off his horse’s rump, and landed on Kestrel’s shoulders.

  The singer gave a grunt and slipped aside before Darion’s weight could take him to the ground. He somersaulted forward as the ogre’s club came crashing down where he’d been standing. When he rolled to his feet, he was at the creature’s flank, where a well-timed slash bent it behind the knee. The singer tossed his off-hand blade into the air and caught it in a reverse grip to drive the point down through the kneeling ogre’s shoulder. With a shudder, the creature swayed on its knees. Kestrel withdrew his blade and shoved the ogre with his boot to send it toppling forward into the mud.

  Darion lay with his back in sucking mud, winded and unable to rise. His breastplate was dented, and his sword had somehow wound up stuck in the ground inches from his head. There was mud in his ear, and the rain was driving at his face through a gap in the trees.

  After making the rounds to be sure both ogres were dead, Kestrel came over to help Darion to his feet. “Must be hard to move around inside all that armor.”

  “Not as hard as it is to see you again.”

  “Lucky you, eh?” Kestrel said, offering a bow.

  “I used to think so, until you came along.”

  “Oh, my dear Kestrel, it is you,” Lady Alynor exclaimed. “It seems you’ve quite saved the day—the night, rather.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything when I called out to you?” Darion asked him.

  “After last night? You refused to let me travel with you.”

  “So you chose to travel behind us instead…”

  “I told you he was a clever one,” Kestrel said, giving Alynor a smile and Darion a smack on the shoulder. “I thought it best not to spoil the charade, after I’d gone to so much trouble to ask.”

  Alynor laughed. “I’m so glad you were able to join us after all.”

  That makes one of us, thought Darion. “Ogre skin is hard as stone. How did your swords make such an easy thing of it?”

  “Music is not the only magic I know,” Kestrel said.

  “Then why did you offer to pay for my protection? You obviously don’t need it.”

  “Clearly I overestimated you,” the singer said breezily.

  Darion felt himself flush with embarrassment. “I’ve gone a bit rusty with my spells. I’ll get them back.”

  “You’re past rusty, my friend. You made me look like a war hero just then.”

  Darion waggled his head. “I don’t know about that. Your swordsmanship is… bordering on acceptable, I suppose.”

  Kestrel snorted. “Just because a man can get the job done doesn’t mean he’s the best one for it.”

  “Perhaps you both are, only… put together,” Alynor suggested. “At any rate, we’re all together now. It’s no good splitting up again in country like this.”

  “We’re better off without this knave in our company, my lady.”

  “I won’t trouble you,” Kestrel promised. “I’ll even whip us up a nice breakfast in the morning.”

  “I’ll not close my eyes tonight with the likes of you lurking about,” said Darion.

  Alynor glowered at him. “Is it really necessary that we stand out in the rain and discuss it right this instant? What say we find a spot to rest for the night and hash this out in the morning?”

  “It so happens I know of a free inn just down the way there,” Kestrel said.

  “Free, you say? Whoever heard of a free inn?”

  “Everything’s free if you know how to get it.”

  “Then pray, tell me… of what use is the gold you’ve so generously promised me?”

  “It was more offer than promise,” said Kestrel. “Right now, it seems I ought to be the one charging for protection. And I don’t recall you leaving a tip for my performance last night. Mayhap we can start with that.”

  With every word the minstrel spoke, Darion had to try all the harder not to show him the back of his gauntlet. This one’s got a tongue like a whip and the wits to use it, he thought. I’d like to hit him so hard he loses both. “Take us to this free inn, and I’ll toss you the coin I would’ve spent otherwise.”

  “As you say, milord.” There was a glint in Kestrel’s eye and a smirk on his lips as he mounted his horse and led them down the road.

  There was a break in the cliffside after another league or so, where a second road crossed over theirs and continued up the mountainside. Kestrel turned right and led them through the narrow gorge. At the top sat a long low cabin made of hewn logs with a shake roof. Smoke rose through two stone chimneys, one at the left side and another at the rear. The faded sign hanging over the door read: Wayfarer’s Rest.

  “This will do for a place to get out of the rain,” said Darion, looking forward to a warm hearth and a hearty meal for the second night in a row.

  “I think it’s lovely,” said Alynor, who sounded just as weary of the rain as he was.

  After stabling the horses, they went inside and hung their cloaks on the antler pegs beside the door. They found themselves surrounded by thick fur rugs and cozy chairs, a blazing fire, and the smells of roasted meats and sweet pipe tobacco. There were long bench tables near the bar, but the area surrounding the hearth was more den than dining room. Old men dozed in their chairs, conveying a sleepier atmosphere than one might find at an inn closer to town.

  “Welcome to the Rest,” said the barkeep, a robust, surly man with a field of sparse white stubble clinging to his flabby chin. He gave them a casual glance, then did a double-take. “Why, if it i
sn’t Kestrel the Crooner,” he said, a gap-toothed grin spreading wide across his face. He rounded the bar and clapped the minstrel in a forceful embrace.

  “Hobert the Handsome,” said Kestrel, giving the man a playful pinch on the cheek.

  Hobert gave a broad belly laugh. “You’ll never learn, will you, you old rapscallion? Who might these friends of yours be?”

  “Allow me to introduce Sir and Lady Ulther, of Keep Ulther,” Kestrel said.

  “Now that rings familiar,” said Hobert.

  After his miserable performance in the battle earlier that evening, Darion wished no one knew his name. He was starting to believe the rumors of his servants; rumors of his growing incompetence, the mark of an antiquated hero trying to restore some sliver of his former glory. Perhaps they were right after all. Perhaps he no longer was the man everyone knew by name. He was an empty shadow parading around in that man’s armor.

  “The man you see standing before you is none other than the Savior of the Realms, the great Warcaster, Sir Darion Ulther,” Kestrel said with flair.

  “Dear me, is that right? Consider me honored, milord. Please, do sit down. Make yourselves at home.” Hobert escorted them to a table in the near-empty dining area. It was long past suppertime, but he served them tankards of ale and shouted their requests to his cook anyway.

  When the bar was clear of patrons, he joined them at their table. “I still owe you from last time, don’t I?” he said.

  Kestrel shrugged. “If you like. I certainly wouldn’t refuse a pair of rooms for my friends and I here, if offered them.”

  “They’re on me tonight then,” said Hobert. “Dinner, beds, and breakfast in the morning.”

  “You are a jötun among men, Hobert.”

  “That’s as tall a tale as I’ve ever heard,” Hobert said with a laugh. “Truth is, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Think absolutely nothing of it, my dear friend,” said Kestrel. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Hobert gave Kestrel a pat on the shoulder and stood to finish cleaning the bar.

  When the barkeep was gone, Darion opened his purse and slapped some coins onto the table. “For this free inn you’ve found for us,” he said brusquely.