Magic Astray (The Llandra Saga) (12 page)

Chapter 11

Randall was only out for a moment. He woke to Kirsti pulling him to his feet and screaming in his ear. “Get up—the battle still rages on!”

She had a short sword in her hand; she must have gotten it from a fallen soldier, as he hadn’t seen her with a weapon until now. As soon as she seemed satisfied that Randall had regained his senses, she rushed out of the courtyard gate and into throng of people beyond.

The battle wasn’t anything like he envisioned it would be. Nobody was paired off, dueling in any kind of civilized manner. There were no well-defined battle lines, or any sense of military strategy. Throngs of attackers pressed in at small knots of guardsmen, each hacking furiously at any exposed flesh within their reach in a boiling mass of chaos. There was no subtlety in this kind of fighting, no sense of fair play or honor. There was only a kind of primal blood lust as men viciously tried to kill each other as quickly as they could.

The soldiers were doling out far more damage than they took, due in large part to their better armaments, but they were still in danger of being overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. Kirsti waded into the battle, stabbing and slashing with her sword, her face eerily calm. Randall knew that her serenity was due to the spell she had cast upon them both, but there was still something unsettling about the way she methodically hacked through the enemy with no expression at all on her face.

There was no sign of Nia. Randall knew he should be worried sick, but under the influence of the spell, he had to admit to himself that there was nothing he could do for her anyway. He would just have to trust that she was as well-trained as she had claimed.

From the far side of the battlefield, a steady pulse of magic teased Randall’s senses. The enemy Mage was still alive. Randall drew the elven dagger from his waist, and opened himself to Llandra. The power came easily, as it had ever since he broke through the aether-blindness in the elven city. He pushed a portion of it into the runes carved into the hilt of the blade and hidden under its wrappings, reserving the remainder for an emergency.

Time seemed to almost slow, as it had when he had last used the dagger in this way. In his mind’s eye, he could see a constantly shifting path through the battlefield that would bring him face-to-face with the enemy Mage. He began dancing and weaving through the combatants to reach the far side in a ballet of death and pain. Behind him, he left a symphony of pain as his blade cut into the enemy again and again.

The Field Mage matched him step-for-step, achieving with raw strength and determination what he accomplished with finesse and cunning. They had fought their way deep behind the enemy lines when a large knot of men blocked their passage. As Randall prepared to step among them, Kirsti shouted a word and threw out her hand toward the attackers. Roots tore themselves from the earth, rising up like snakes to wrap around the foe, pulling them to the ground and holding them fast. The sounds of snapping bones and strangled screams faded behind them as they pressed onward.

Eventually, they reached the far side of fighting, where a young man stood with his head bowed, guarded by a handful of elven hunting panthers. As he chanted softly, power pulsed from him in waves, rolling across the battlefield. The cats leapt to attack as Randall and Kirsti rushed toward the elven Mage. Without thinking, Randall shouted a word of power and metal shrapnel sprayed from his extended palm, bringing down several of the cats.

The pair of Mages braced to fight the remaining animals when from somewhere behind them, a large pike flew over the charging cats like a spear and buried itself deeply into the elf’s chest. The elf’s body toppled backward like a ragdoll, instantly snuffing out the spell he was weaving over the battle. Randall glanced behind over his shoulder, spotting Nia standing there, breathing heavily. She must have fought to keep up with them as he and Kirsti slashed their way across the battlefield.

He quickly returned his attention to the panthers, just in time to see one of the large cats leaping directly at his head. He dropped and rolled to one side in the nick of time, saved by his magic-enhanced reflexes. The cat landed just behind him, its momentum carrying it into Nia, bowling her over. The two tumbled to the ground, snarling and shrieking as they rolled around tearing at one another. Randall quickly scrambled to his feet to rush to her aid, realizing as he did so that she wasn’t shrieking at all. She was laughing. The cat rolled off Nia, arching its back and hissing as Randall approached.

“Hush, you,” Nia said playfully, cuffing the panther on the end of its nose. “Randall is a friend. Randall, this is Hunter.” She had used the elvish term for the animal’s name, a word sounding like “halyoor”, but Randall understood the meaning clearly.

Seeing Randall’s bewilderment, she laughed again. “He’s my hunting partner. I have trained him since he was a kitten, though our meeting would have been much different if I hadn’t killed Bran,” she explained, gesturing with her eyes toward the fallen elf.

“You knew him?” Randal asked, glancing around him. Everywhere on the battlefield, the fighting was coming to an end. With the elf’s control gone, most of the rebels were routing, quickly fleeing the field. Others stood confused, as if unsure what to do next.

“I knew him. He’s from Dyffryn. These weren’t rebels, Randall—they were just regular people. Bran had them under compulsion.” She looked repulsed by the idea. “Rhys didn’t even have the courage to send our own people after you. He used the glamoured.” She spit into the dirt, as if the act could clear the foulness of the statement from her mouth.

“Come, we will make sense of this later,” Kirsti said, joining the conversation and placing her hand on Randall’s shoulder. “We must assess our losses, and there are wounded to tend to. You should have that looked at, as well,” she said, nodding toward his left side.

Randall looked down, surprised to see a large gash running from his sternum to his ribs, weeping blood into his tunic. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been cut. He gasped and gripped at the wound with his free hand to stem the flow.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Kirsti chuckled. “Though I imagine it will leave a nice scar.”

“What will happen to these people?” Randall asked, indicating the peasants around him with a wide sweep of his hand.

“If they were truly under compulsion, then they will be tended to and allowed to return to their homes,” Kirsti said. “They took up arms unwillingly, and have already suffered enough.”

The trio picked their way across the field, stepping around the bodies of the fallen. Randall tried not to look too closely at the carnage; he had brought down a fair number of the enemy, and he wasn’t ready to face the fact that the people he had killed had probably been innocents who were fighting against their will. Not looking made it easier not to think too deeply about it.

Part-way across the field, a group of soldiers had surrounded one of the fallen, their voices rising in agitation. Occasionally, one man would reach down toward the splayed body, only to jerk backward a moment later, yelping in frustration. Kirsti pushed two of the guardsmen aside, revealing Berry crouched down low on the inanimate form, spitting and hissing.

In the heat of the moment, Randall had forgotten all about the sprite. He must have joined the fight shortly after Randall had been blown from the battlements. But he couldn’t understand the donnan’s odd behavior.

“Berry, what are you doing?” he asked as he elbowed his way into the circle for a closer look at the prone figure. It was Eamon! Berry snarled and slashed his claws any time a guardsman tried to draw near.

“Back away! Get back, all of you,” Randall ordered, dropping to his knees behind his old traveling companion.

He held his ear to Eamon’s lips, listening intently. Shallow breath faintly whispered from the boy’s lungs, confirming that he was still alive, though barely so. Bitter shame tore at Randall’s heart. If it weren’t for him, the boy would still be safe at home instead of lying in the dirt flirting with death.

“It’s my fault,” he said, more to himself than to those around him. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

He fished Erliand’s talisman out from under his tunic, pulling the cord over his head and placing the artifact on Eamon’s chest. “You can’t die. I won’t allow it,” he vowed fiercely, filling himself with magic. The soldiers around him began to shift nervously in unconscious reaction to the power he was summoning.

The talisman’s runes began to glow a dull red as Randall pushed magic into the device. Powering an artifact was difficult in even the best of circumstances, but getting even the smallest amount of magic to flow into the battered and abused artifact was a herculean effort. Randall placed his hands over the talisman and bore down with all his might, willing the power he had gathered to feed the runes.

After several long heartbeats, Randall’s hands began glowing, lit up from within by the light radiating from the runes. Eamon’s eyelids began to flicker, and he panted weakly, but Randall did not let up on the pressure, willing all his power into the talisman. There was a sharp cracking sensation, like breaking ice, and the light faded instantly, like a snuffed candle flame. The pressure he fought against was suddenly gone, as if there was no longer anything to press against, and he gasped at the sudden loss of mental resistance.

Randall turned his hands over. The talisman had broken into two irregular pieces, with larger cracks running along their faces. Eamon groaned and rolled over onto his side, coughing weakly and drawing in deep, ragged breaths.

“He will live,” Kirsti said quietly, as if she were afraid of intruding on the miracle she had just witnessed. She stared at Randall, wide-eyed. “My men will take him inside and see that he is cared for,” she continued once she regained some semblance of composure.

Randall nodded, as the remnants of his gathered power fled. Exhaustion pressed down on him like an invisible weight, robbing him of the last of his stamina. His head sagged against his chest like a broken marionette—he lacked the strength to even hold it up. He, too, had lost the strength to hold back his anguish, and as the soldiers gingerly lifted Eamon to carry him into the fort, tears streamed down the Mage’s face to mingle with Eamon’s blood in the dirt of the battlefield.

Chapter 12

Randall’s wound was deep enough to require stitches, but wasn’t considered life-threatening. The soldier who served as a medic had offered him a drink of strong spirits to help dull the pain before patching him up, but Randall had spurned the offer. He had never had much luck with alcohol, and there were too many bad experiences dancing in close partnership with his memories of being drunk.

Nearly an hour later, he wished he had taken the drink. The wound was long, and had taken nearly fifty stitches to close. After the first stitch, the medic had given him a scrap of leather to bite down on, but it did little to quell Randall’s cries as the man went about his work.

“I wish I could give you smaller stitches, so the scar wouldn’t be so bad,” the soldier said, eyeing his handiwork. “But we have to conserve the thread. There are others to tend to.”

Randall spit out the leather, and tried to say something appreciative, but all he could do was nod, his chest heaving as rivulets of pain-induced sweat ran down his side. Spying the bottle of spirits in the medic’s hand, Randall weakly lifted his arm to wave the man off.

“It’s not for you to drink,” the man explained, as he gently put the leather scrap back in between Randall’s teeth. “It’s to ward off infection. Bite down. This is going to hurt.”

Randall did as instructed, and steeled himself. It was no use; it was as if the man had splashed his wound with liquid fire, and Randall tilted his head back, howling in agony. After the pain subsided, the man patted Randall on the shoulder, with a smile on his face.

“You did fine,” he said affectionately, patting Randall on the shoulder. “Now get out of my infirmary. There are those worse off than you that need my attention.”

Randall flushed as the soldier helped him into a sitting position. “Why didn’t you help them first?” he sputtered indignantly. “I could have waited!”

“The Field Mage says that without you, we’d all be dead,” the soldier said gravely. “That puts you at the front of the line. Now get back to your quarters and rest. I have work to do.”

Randall shuffled down the corridor, feeling guilty. Every man here had put his life on the line today, the same as he did. Even more so, actually—they didn’t have an enchanted dagger or magic at their fingertips. It wasn’t right that any of them should have to wait or risk death because he was given preferential treatment.

Once back in his room, he curled up underneath the rough blanket, sulking. Nothing was turning out like he’d hoped. He had made an enemy of the elves almost the instant he stepped foot onto their soil. He had nearly gotten Eamon killed.

He hated to admit it, but some of his fondest memories were of his travels on the road with Brody, Tobsen and Declan. Had they not betrayed him and tried to turn him over to the Rooks, he would have relished joining them and enjoying the company of their friendship. All he wanted to do was see the world and have fun doing it, but instead he was, once again, caught up in events that were larger than he was. Would he never have the chance to have a simple and happy life?

Dozing fitfully with such dark thoughts haunting him, he barely noticed when Berry hopped up on the bed and curled up next to him. The donnan’s gentle purring soothed Randall’s troubled dreams, and soon he was sleeping soundly.

He woke the next morning in a foul mood. He was still troubled by the previous day’s events, and the deaths of so many innocents weighed heavily on his mind. He felt especially guilty about Eamon, and Kirsti’s prediction that the boy would live was of little comfort. Guilt and anger welled up within him, and he lied in bed, quietly sobbing as the image of Eamon lying wounded in the grass turned over and over again in his mind.