Journeyman Warsmith Page 2

  The Journeyman Smith’s mind worked furiously. Why would anyone go back there? Why would they gather vile creatures… and how could they keep them at bay and survive? Kevon buried his head in his hands, and a thought occurred to him. “Portals? Someone is opening portals there?”

  “No one is safe in that place, Magi or otherwise. No one is doing this. It must be something already done.”

  “Of course.” Kevon raised his head to stare at Waine. “A portal Enchantment? I’ve never seen anything about it in any book, but I suppose it could be done…” He furrowed his brow in concentration. “Is this what Gurlin and Holten were doing?”

  “Perhaps they were keeping it in check,” Waine offered sullenly.

  The Seeker’s blood ran cold. In spite of the lingering heat, he shook and shivered as if it were midwinter. Kevon clutched his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth, eyes tightly shut. “They can’t…” he stammered. “They tried to… He wanted me to…”

  “I’m not saying that they were, that I even think they were,” Waine clarified, watching his friend turn inward with growing concern.

  Kevon watched in slow motion as he plunged the knife into Gurlin’s back. Was he testing me for something, thinking that I would strike with magic that could be countered if I failed the test? He groaned and sank deeper into remembrances. He examined the letter from Master Holten briefly before casting it into the fire. Was I supposed to find the letter, to approach Gurlin under false pretenses? Some evenings, when the heat of the day was too slow to surrender to the night, he still dreamed of flames, and could hear the screams of the dead mage Pholos.

  Kevon clutched at his chest and felt the necklace beneath his tunic. He remembered his promise to the new leader of the Myrnar, the Sea-folk, to avenge her sister’s death. The accusations of Delmer more than a year past. Shame for not acting sooner knotted in his belly.

  “No,” Kevon said, uncurling and taking a deep breath. “They were evil, I’m sure of it. Holten’s letter, Gurlin assigning me to kill Pholos, those might have been tests. The pearl wasn’t. I was never meant to find out where it came from.”

  Neck muscles grown thick from long hours of forge work tightened as Kevon clenched his jaw. “How do we get there?”

  Waine flashed Kevin a tight-lipped smile before speaking. “The only ones to get close safely have been military units. We’ll have to find one headed there, and go the rest of the way ourselves.”

  Bertus piped up. “Excuse me, but I thought you said that nobody that wasn’t with a large group has been heard from again…”

  The Adept nodded. “They weren’t us,” he announced proudly.

  “Waine, there is no one else I’d rather have by my side…” Bertus began solemnly, “If I were about to be overrun by a pack of crazed scullery maids! What makes you think that the three of us can do something everyone else has failed at? I know you’re in better shape than most for the rank you hold in the Guild, but…”

  The Warrior shifted his gaze from Bertus to Kevon. “Do you want to tell him… or?”

  Fidgeting with his leather armbands, twisting them to feel the comforting steel strips slide across his skin, Kevon sighed deeply. The bands, and the ring that he wore in their stead, kept him safe from his former Master’s scrying magic. The constant touch of iron and steel also denied Kevon one of his favorite things in life: the use of magic itself.

  “I don’t know if I can…” Kevon said softly. “He could find me… use me…”

  Images of his friend Pholos’s face in the blank, soulless gaze of a Control spell surfaced in Kevon’s mind, deepening his reluctance.

  “When winter comes, and the hours of darkness grow longer, how far do you think the evil will be able to spread? Where will anyone be safe?” Waine asked harshly. “This needs to end now, and we need to finish what we started.”

  “If Holten tried to find me, and has failed, he may believe I am dead.” Kevon volunteered. “It’s just been so long, I don’t know if I can even…”

  “If you can what?” Bertus asked impatiently.

  Kevon sighed and looked Bertus in the eye. “If I can still use magic.”

  “Use?” Bertus asked, bewildered. “What are you…?”

  Waine laughed and nodded confirmation when Bertus looked his way.

  “That’s not possible!” the younger man exclaimed. “It’s just not right!” Bertus was staring at Kevon, obviously discomforted. The youth maintained his icy gaze for what seemed an eternity, and was just starting to tear up when he quietly spoke again. “Can I see some?”

  The same relief Kevon had felt when he’d told Waine about his magic flooded over him. He slipped the armbands off slowly, and despite the overwhelming sense of vulnerability, packed them away in a saddlebag. “It will be a short while before I can even try,” he explained as he sat back down.

  “Why?” Bertus asked after a few minutes of strained silence. “No, I know why. I’m not angry. That’s a dangerous secret to even know.” Bertus picked absently at a stalk of snake-grass, flicking the sections in random directions. “But we spoke every day. I just…”

  “You’re right,” Kevon agreed. “It is dangerous just knowing. For you, and for me. I just wanted to protect both of us. But you, of all people, deserved to know.” Kevon put a hand to his head thoughtfully. “Now it’s safer that you do know, so I guess that’s why… I’m not going to change you into a toad.”

  Kevon pushed energy into the Illusion He’d formed in his mind, and projected a puff of smoke in front of Waine. He threw up a flat image of the Adept’s bedroll and saddle with a large toad on the blanket, keeping the image clear of Waine and any metal that would instantly disrupt the spell.

  The toad’s image croaked once at Kevon’s direction before Waine stuck a hobnailed boot through the plane of Illusion that concealed him from Bertus. The image wisped away, the symbol dulling immediately in Kevon’s mind.

  “Just an Illusion,” Kevon explained to Bertus. “I can’t change anyone into anything. Most of the stories about that sort of thing are just stories. You’d be surprised what you can do with a good Illusion, though.”

  “It looked to me like a mirror with a toad sitting in my place,” Waine scoffed. “That had to be the worst illusion I’ve ever seen you do.” The Adept squinted at Kevon. “Are you losing your powers?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kevon answered. “It did seem like it took more effort than it did before I stopped using magic. Not as much as before, when I was studying with Holten, but…” he frowned and thought a minute longer. “I’m going to have to be careful about this for a while now,” he continued, “At least until I get back in the habit of using both.”

  The Mage looked back at Waine. “The Illusion I used was simpler than most I’ve done, but only because it was meant for Bertus alone. It would have taken too much power to present that image from all directions. It would have looked odd from any other perspective, I suppose.”

  Waine nodded, and resumed talking. “If nothing has changed by the time we reach Navlia, we should be able to get within a day’s ride of the ruins.” He sighed before continuing. “If we were to ride hard and get to the tower by dark, we’d be worn out, and just in time for whatever it is that everyone’s so afraid of to wake up.”

  “So we need to go slower?” Bertus asked.

  “Exactly,” Waine answered. “We’d only want to travel during the brightest hours, when the danger would be least. Morning and evening we could hide, and Kevon could rest.”

  “If I’m resting morning and evening, and we’re traveling during the day…”

  “You’ll need to keep whatever’s out there away from us at night,” Waine said soberly. “I don’t know how you’re going to manage it, but there’s no way we can fight those things in the dark. Even a handful of those little imp-demons would slaughter us in full dark.”

  The Journeyman sighed. “I don’t know either, but we’ll have to manage somehow.” He reached into a tunic pocket
and found the pouch with the iron ring. Kevon twitched as the jolt from the ring’s touch hit him harder than he had expected. He looked at Waine, then at Bertus. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Chapter 3

  Kevon whirled around, blocking the edge of Waine’s sword with the two short clubs he brought up to shield his face. The steel bit into the wood, but Kevon’s magic did not falter. He remained focused on controlling the movement of his body, no longer bothering to extend the spell to his weapons and risk the interruption.

  Allowing himself a quick smirk, he shoved Waine’s blade away with his left club, stepped lightly over the sweeping kick directed at his front leg, and raked the edge of his right club against Waine’s ribcage. Comforted by the Movement rune glowing brightly in his mind, Kevon blocked three more sword strikes and leapt backward about five yards to gain a moment to look at his weapons. The clubs were notched in quite a few places, and he did not even want to think about the shape Waine’s sword was in.

  The Adept closed the gap in seconds, chopping fiercely at Kevon, yelling . Kevon blocked hard with his left club, and wrenched the embedded blade from his opponent’s hands, casting both weapons aside. He hurled his other club high in the air above Waine’s head. Dumping the rest of his magic into the other rune flickering hungrily in his mind, Kevon projected a roaring column of flame that incinerated the thrown weapon before it reached the top of its arc.

  The two combatants sat down on nearby rocks, breathing hard.

  “Better,” Waine gasped. “The combat, and the fire, both better than you were doing before the mines.”

  The Mage shook his head. “Raw power, maybe.” He took a deep breath and held it, exhaling slowly. “It still takes too much effort. I get tired from using magic again, and I didn’t before. And handling metal hurts again.”

  “Another week until we reach Navlia,” Waine sniffed. “Do you think you’ll be ready then?”

  “I am improving,” Kevon agreed. “A few more days of practice, I’ll be better than ever. But having to ride with a whole Guard unit for three, maybe four weeks… I won’t get any more chances before we leave them for the tower.”

  “Do what you can,” Waine said, clapping Kevon on the knee. “Bertus is getting better, too.” The Adept Warrior raised his voice and continued speaking. “It’ll be interesting to see how he does with a real bow, someday.”

  The youth looked up from the leatherwork he was mending to glance at his crossbow, then back at the Warriors. “It does fine for now.”

  Kevon shivered inwardly. The crossbow he’d been shot with was not nearly as sturdy as the one Bertus used, and that bolt had been for hunting small game. The quarrels Bertus used left huge, gaping wounds, and he had been forbidden to use it for hunting after he’d all but torn a rabbit in half with a single shot. Bertus would carry his own weight in combat.

  * * *

  His magic did improve, and Kevon felt more confident than ever when they rode into Navlia. Spellcasting took almost no effort, and the touch of metal only turned his stomach slightly now.

  The Seeker gave Bertus money for stabling the horses, and extra for the young man’s room at an inn. Then he and Waine walked directly to the Guild, still unsure of who might know them on the street.

  The Guildhall was abuzz with excitement. Rewards were now being offered for completed patrols of the westward roads, additional rewards for the carcasses of whatever it was causing the troubles. No one who had returned had yet to see any sign of what caused the others to disappear.

  That did not stop some of the more brash Novices and Seekers from speculating, and boasting of their plans to be first to solve the problem.

  “They say this new commander leads from the front,” one Novice said flippantly. “All the better,” he continued, “He’ll get a clear view of my skills from there.”

  “Turning from green to yellow isn’t a skill I’d boast about,” a nearby Adept drawled, inspiring chuckles from nearby listeners. “It sure won’t impress a man who took down two bull orc by himself when he was up north.”

  Waine stopped drinking and turned to ask the speaker a question, but at that moment, six uniformed soldiers marched into the Hall’s common area. The two rows stepped to each side, and turned to face each other, flanking the hallway they’d just emerged from.

  “Attention!” one of the soldiers droned loudly, and those already present in uniform stood quickly.

  `”Enough of that!” a familiar voice admonished roughly. “Save the theatrics for the nobles. We’re all friends here.” Carlo walked into the room and shooed his escort off to some empty tables. He nodded curtly at Kevon and Waine before speaking again.

  “I need ten men. You two,” the Blademaster said, pointing at Kevon and Waine, “and eight others.”

  Kevon grinned and raised his mug in salute. Heads turned to gawk briefly at the newcomers who had been chosen, then voices rose to compete for the remaining spots.

  The Commander waited until all the volunteers had spoken, then quickly pointed out eight. The six other uniformed men moved quickly to provide the new recruits with paperwork and instructions. Carlo spoke loudly, “That is all.”

  “Two bull orc?” Waine teased as Carlo pulled up a chair at their table.

  “You know how the men like to exaggerate,” Carlo answered gruffly. “That’s why I didn’t tell them about the other two.”

  “So, four?” Kevon asked, lowering his mug to the table. “Bertus told me about the two…”

  The Blademaster nodded. “About a week after we turned back for Eastport, the horses panicked again. I knew that the only way to safety was forward, so we charged on through. They weren’t expecting that, and rushed out too late. They chased us for about two hours, and by that time, I had used all of my crossbow bolts to wound the smaller orcs that kept gaining on us.”

  The Commander paused to accept the mug of ale that a serving maid brought him, drank deeply, and sighed. “I caught up to Bertus and gave him the stallion’s reins. Dove into the brush and waited until the bulls ran by. I managed to hamstring the larger one and get clear, but had to face the other one down. It almost… ended badly.”

  Kevon noticed the Carlo’s left hand clenching and unclenching as he spoke. The Seeker followed the line of the older man’s arm and saw the lighter skin tone mottled up and down the length of the exposed limb. Kevon’s hand went unconsciously to his left arm, where two circles of similar discoloration were barely visible.

  The older man nodded to confirm Kevon’s suspicion. “Sometime during the trip, your healing potion wound up in the boy’s bags. He wrapped the arm and made me drink the accursed thing.” The Blademaster took a swig of ale, as if to wash away the remembered taste. “Luckily, it helped enough we were able to keep up the pace we’d set. We came out of the forest and rode hard until we met a patrol. We split the patrol in half and switched to fresher horses. Two patrols later, we reached Eastport. They raised the alarm, and took us to the barracks. I was half dead, and couldn’t find the boy. No one knew where he was. Next thing I know, he’s standing over me with two more of those potions, pouring them down me, and nothing I can do about it.” Carlo chuckled. “The squad thought it would be cute to have him be the one to mark me again after my brand healed.”

  The Seeker’s right shoulder twitched involuntarily as he thought of the pain he’d felt when he received his sword-brand. At least I passed out, he thought grimly. I can see now why Warriors don’t particularly like the idea of healing potions.

  “How is the runt doing nowadays?” Carlo asked, not managing to hide much of the warmth that crept into his voice.

  “He’s doing well,” Kevon began.

  “He’ll likely test for Novice when we return from this mission,” Waine said cheerfully.

  “So he’s here, huh?” Carlo asked. “I can arrange for him to stay here at the barracks until we return, and then…”

  “He’s our third,” Waine interjected, “not you.” The Adept smiled as
the Blademaster glared arrows at him and slowly lowered his mug.

  The Blademaster tsk’d softly and glanced at the silver buttons stitched on the breast of his uniform. “And here I thought I was the one who decided matters like this.”

  “Not this time,” Kevon said quietly. “You don’t have any idea what is going on over there. You and your men can get us close quickly, but then the three of us will have to go on alone.” He sighed and looked up from his mug to stare into Carlo’s confused eyes. “It’s not that we couldn’t use your help, but you’re just not ready for…”

  “I’m not ready?” Carlo shouted, and all other sound in the room abruptly ended. “You’ve grown some, I’ll grant you that, but you’re in no position to tell me that I’m not ready for anything!”

  “I’m sorry, Carlo,” Kevon responded, his hushed voice fairly echoing in the becalmed room. “But that’s just how it needs to be.”

  “I like you, boy,” Carlo growled, “That’s why you’re not in chains right now. But by the gods, I will put you in your place!”

  Carlo stood and removed his outer uniform tunic. Kevon swiftly but deliberately removed his armbands. Waine slid his chair back and spread his hands in a gesture of noninterference.

  “Now hold on,” Kevon said evenly. “If I win…”

  Bursts of laughter rocked the room. Carlo continued his preparations, moving his healed arm in circles in an apparent attempt to limber it up.

  Is he really warming it up, or trying to draw me into a trap? Kevon thought, amusedly. He waited for the laughter to end.

  “If I win,” Kevon continued slowly, “Will you concede that it is only by the strength of my conviction?”

  “What are you babbling about?” Carlo barked, even more annoyed now.

  “Will you agree to let me have my way in this matter, and that there is no shame in losing?” Kevon asked, standing and carefully preparing himself, handling his scabbarded sword gingerly until Waine took it from him.