Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3) (9 page)

“How strange,” Kevon commented, as his gaze shifted back to the lead elf’s face, and her piercing light yellowish-brown eyes. “No shadows.” He sighed and slumped to the unshaded ground before the trio of elves.

The lead elf placed a hand on the shoulder of one of her escorts, and whispered something in her native tongue.

Without hesitation, the hunter was in motion, headed up the path, bow slung and arrow re-quivered.

Mirsa’s mind worked frantically to grasp at the fragment of speech she’d heard. “
Elder?
” she whispered.

Mirsa felt the elves approaching well before they reached the door. The other inhabitants of the city poked at the corners of her awareness, almost like another Mage thinking of an unconcealed spell across a room would, but she could feel the newcomer bending the caged Light around them as he moved. The effect was less powerful than the waves of hammered energy she’d felt in the Dwarven Hold, but more focused, purposeful. Her eyes locked on the door just before the knock announced their arrival.

Relaniel entered first, but her companion swept around her to where Kevon lay unconscious on the bed in the center of the room.

“He hasn’t moved since we got here,” Mirsa commented as their noble escort reached her side. She watched the newcomer lean over Kevon, throwing no shadow, as several of the locals here did not. “He bends the Light…”

“Aelion Lithtaure,” Relaniel commented, watching the Elder herself. “One of his names, means ‘bender of light’, in rough translation.” She took a seat between Mirsa and Alanna. “Our healer, our seer, the Hand of M’lani.”

“M’lani…” Alanna muttered, thinking back to the stories another lifetime ago. “She’s supposed to be…”

“She
is
the matron of my people, much as L’drom is to the little one there,” Relaniel said, looking to Rhysabeth-Dane. “I realize that truths quickly become stories in the world of Men, and that they have no claim to any one of the creators.”

“Fascinating!” the Dwarven librarian made shushing motions at herself as everyone but Kevon turned her direction at her outburst. She stopped her scrawling notes for a moment. “Would I be able to speak with you about my personal research later?” she whispered across Mirsa to the elf.

Relaniel nodded once, a faint smile playing across her lips.

“There is much wrong with this man,” Aelion announced. “Poison, fatigue, and other severe damage to his body and spirit that I cannot fathom the enduring of. He should be dead. Many times over.” He ran his hand over Kevon’s forehead. “Yet there is something… keeping him here. Drawing him here. What little energy he has left points…”

Aelion turned to address the others directly. “I’ll do what I can to heal him. Even so, it will not be quick, and may not be complete.” The elf waited for signs of acceptance from all present before continuing. “Then I will begin. You may, or may not want to observe.”

Relaniel fidgeted and stood along with Mirsa. “I’ve seldom seen this, very few have, and never outsiders!” she whispered to the Mage. “It is the highest honor.”

Alanna stood and exited, scowling. Rhysabeth-Dane peered over toward Kevon, but returned to studying one of her texts.

The healer moved between Kevon and the window, stepping in front of the rays of light that barely touched his sleeping form. The rays shone on unobstructed by the elf’s intervening body, and Aelion stretched his hand out to rest on Kevon’s chest.

Outlines of what should have been shadows around the Elder glowed to double their brightness. The reverse shadows thrown by the two lit torches in the room flared out and away from Kevon, while the intensified rays from the window crept up further on the blankets covering him.

Aelion closed his eyes and spoke in low tones. Undeniably Elven words floated to Mirsa’s ears, but flickers of images reminiscent of spoken magic fluttered at the corners of her awareness.

The anti-shadows brightened further. The ambient light in the room did not lessen, but grew flat in comparison to the living brilliance. Wavering torch-fueled images writhed, stretching and curving in exaggerated horseshoe arcs that pulsated toward where the Elder’s hand rested on Kevon. The fluttering mismatched rhythms of the lights steadied, and fell into a regular ‘one-two… one-two’ pattern, and Mirsa felt her own pulse matching the light, and Kevon’s heartbeat.

The light flowed slowly into Kevon, and his color improved a shade, as the rhythm slowed and grew more stable. The extra light dimmed away by degrees as Aelion’s speech drifted into silence.

“This is all I can do for today,” the elf announced. “When he is well enough to consider moving, we will see if performing the ceremony on the grand dais would help speed his recovery.”

Aelion nodded to Relaniel, and circled around to the door. “Until tomorrow.”

Chapter 16

Bertus rushed to the ship’s railing, throwing his arms around it to stop himself as a swell pitched him forward. His heart leapt as he spotted the thin ribbon of land ahead. His chest and arms ached from the impact, and the strains of the previous weeks.

“We’re almost there,” he called over his shoulder to Britger.

“My friends say yer not there yet, and not going te be fer a while,” the dwarf chortled, pointing to the two Stoneguard that stood nearby, padded clubs at the ready.

Grunting, Bertus pushed off from the railing, turning and taking three short steps toward the middle of the deck, getting enough space between himself and the edge that he felt comfortable maneuvering. He caught the club that the Dwarf-King’s nephew threw him, and twirled it a few times to limber his wrist. The Stone-Oak shaft was heavier than any sword he’d used, but lighter than the hammers the dwarves were accustomed to. Early on in the voyage, he’d used that to his advantage, turning the lack of a complete follow-through into a half-second respite to evade the next attack, or launch one of his own. After the first week of sparring sessions, his Stoneguard mentors had adjusted the speed and responsiveness of their attacks. Mercifully, they’d also begun wrapping the ends of the weapons with thick cloth to spare the inconvenience of broken bones.

Bertus charged the pair of dwarves, veering toward the one on his left as he approached. The Stoneguard on the right took a step back and brought his club up in a defensive position, waiting to see what would happen next.

Swing for the knee… There it is…
Bertus thought as the dwarf moved to attack.
These little guys don’t like it that I’m taller than them, do they?

Bertus leapt over the attack, lashing out with his right foot and smashing the unsuspecting defender in the face as he drubbed the other dwarf a glancing blow on the side of the head and shoulder. He pivoted on his left foot as he landed, his right tracing an arc on the deck behind him until he’d turned back to face the two dwarves. Setting his left hand down for an instant to steady himself, he grinned.

“Ye’ll only get te do that once,” Britger-Stoun called from his perch on the upper deck.

“Once is all I needed,” Bertus laughed. “Now they know I can do it, they’ll be watching for it.”

The two Stoneguard stepped further apart, shaking off their injured pride, moving to not quite opposite sides of Bertus before they started closing in.

Bertus dodged and parried the attacks for a good ten seconds, landing a solid strike on each of his opponents before he let anything slip through his guard. A sudden blow to the ribs, then three more hits in quick succession toppled him to the deck.

“What’re they saying?” Bertus asked, sitting up to lean against a crate, and touching his split lip to see the blood on his fingers.

“That on land, ye’d not have lasted half as long,” the scarred dwarf said, descending the stairs to stand by Bertus. “I must agree that they are not at their best here at sea.” He smirked a moment longer. “They like ye though, they’re not holding back.”

Bertus shook his head, pain exploding at each change of direction. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“We should prepare te go ashore,” Britger motioned to the East, where silhouettes of sails and circling gulls thickened. “The sooner we find yer friends, the sooner we can get back te the Hold.”

Bertus checked his pack, counted the coins in his purse before he got ready to leave his cabin to go ashore. He had enough water for two days, enough to eat for four, and more than enough money to spend to find out where his friends had gone from here, if anyone knew.

He steadied himself on the handle of the cabin door as the ship rolled a few degrees more than it had been, then opened it and emerged into the noonday heat.

Britger-Stoun was helping the crew pull the gangplank back onto the deck, and the others were coiling the mooring lines.

“Shouldn’t we be…”

“I didn’t make it halfway te the shore,” Britger chortled. “A deckhand from another ship seen two dwarves, and some men a while back. Said they were headed te the South. So we sail south.”

Bertus nodded, touched his lip, winced, and returned to his cabin.

Chapter 17

“Don’t these accursed dwarves ever sleep?” Carlo whispered to Martin, as they passed out of earshot, walking on the outskirts of the camp.

“Some of them,” Martin reassured the commander. “The regulars, I’ve seen asleep, for certain. I think the Stoneguard sleep in shifts every few days, when no one else is watching.” He shrugged. “I could be mistaken.”

“They don’t shirk, I’ll give them that much,” Carlo admitted. “Makes all of this easier on us.”

The first few nights had been near chaos as the soldiers, civilians, and dwarves had been unfamiliar with each other’s habits, and the workings of such a diverse group. By the end of the first week, the routine was formalized. The five soldiers under Carlo’s watch scrambled to care for the horses and establish a perimeter. The three Dwarven regulars set up tents and started fires for cooking. Martin, Alma, and the Dwarven translator prepared the evening meal, and cleaned up, usually with the help of the Dwarven soldiers.

“Tell me more about this book they were so concerned about,” Carlo turned to Martin, once they were far enough from camp.

“I only know what Bertus told us, that it’s ancient, cryptic, likely powerful.” Martin admitted. “They were seeking elves that could read older script.”

Carlo nodded. “They’ll be sailing for the Glimmering Isle, then. With a sizeable head start.”

“They were fleeing Eastport, when they sent Bertus,” Martin offered. “Perhaps they did not sail there straightaway.”

“Mmm.” Carlo grunted. “Perhaps. “We’ll see when we find them.”

“There’s a stream up ahead,” Martin pointed toward where the faint gurgling could just be heard, and then patted a pouch on his belt. “I have an extra line, if you’re interested.”

“Another time,” Carlo sighed. “The men get unpredictable about this time of evening, when there is no clear task ahead of them, and soldiers from an unfamiliar faction sharing camp.”

“I’d wondered,” Martin laughed. “The dwarves have been acting different since we met up on the frontier.” He scratched his head. “Except for the Stoneguard. Nothing seems to bother them.”

“Good luck,” Carlo said, turning back toward camp. “I’ll send a detail if you’re not back before dark.”

Martin walked toward the stream until Carlo was well out of sight, then turned aside and slipped deeper into the forest.

“
Dubrath pak-ta!”
one of the Dwarven soldiers muttered as one of Carlo’s men bumped against him and almost stumbled into the fire. The other two Dwarven regulars chortled and jostled one another.

“Accursed runts,” another of the soldiers under Carlo’s command hissed.

“Stay your tongue!” Alma pointed at the man with a mostly empty ladle, sloshing gobbets of soup on his uniform. “They are here to help us. Far from their homes, out in the open, this cannot be easy for them.” She smoothed her apron. “But you…” she pointed at the dwarf who had spoken.

“
Skooze.
” He tilted his head down in acquiescence.

“Just like children…” Alma sighed. She glanced at the Dwarven Stoneguard, who had sat watching the incident without reaction. “And you…”

One corner of the dwarf’s mouth turned up in a smile, and Alma couldn’t help but laugh.

“Ye handled that well,” the Dwarven translator said, sopping up the last of his soup with a crust of bread, and sloshing the wooden bowl through the tub of wash-water as he finished his meal. “Learn the language, ye’d make a fine ambassador.”

“And deal with this… wonderfully juvenile behavior… constantly?” she asked.

“Ye’ve got the words of a diplomat already,” he shrugged. “And the ear of our King. A handful of seasons in the Hold, ye’d be a great help te both our peoples.” He shuffled his feet before looking back up at her. “Some might expect fer the sister of the Blademage te be more than a farm wife.”

“I’ll not mention that affront to the other farm wives I know,” Alma glared at the dwarf. “And what my brother is or is not has no bearing on what I do with my life.” She thought a moment. “Besides dragging me back and forth across the Realm, obviously. Making me consort with dwarves and soldiers, probably getting me mixed up in more magic than I care to think about, eventually. Damnation.”

“So ye’ll consider it!” the dwarf laughed, and slapped Alma on the back. “We’d be lucky te have ye.”

Alma shook her head as the translator worked his way over to his countrymen, slapping heads and chastising the soldiers in their native tongue.

“No luck fishing?” Alma asked as Martin entered camp empty-handed, under the watchful eye of the visible Dwarven Stoneguard.

“Not tonight,” he answered, flashing empty palms for all in the camp to see.

“You’ll do better next time,” she reassured him, scraping the last of the thickening soup into a bowl and handing it over.

“Only another two weeks, at this pace, until we reach Navlia.” Carlo said, depositing his empty bowl in the washbasin.

“Only.” Martin smirked. “This way is easier on the arms, I suppose.”

“Enjoy the journey, boy.” Carlo barked. “Destinations are seldom what we expect.”