Spirit Blade: Book III of the Dragon Mage Trilogy (7 page)

“That settles it then,” said Kazin. He glanced across at the smoke, which was not as black and billowing as before. “It would be safer to walk from here. I’ll fly us down to the base of the mountain. The sun is on the other side of the mountain now, so we will be covered from being spotted by its shadow.” He turned to Sherman. “How long do you figure it will take us to reach that village?”

The warrior squinted in the direction of the smoke. “I’d say we will arrive at sundown if we leave right away.”

“Alright,” said Kazin. “Let’s pack up.”

As the others went to collect their gear, Sherman came up to his old friend. “Kazin, can we talk a minute? Alone?”

“Sure,” said Kazin. He led Sherman a short distance away. When he turned to the warrior, he was disturbed by the big man’s agitated expression. “What is it?” he asked in concern.

“I - well,” Sherman hesitated and looked down. Then he steeled himself and looked up into the old mage’s blue eyes. “You’re going to hate me.”

“Why?” asked Kazin quietly.

Sherman slowly drew his sword from its scabbard and held it out for the mage to see.

“What is it?” asked Kazin, confused.

“Can’t you see?” asked Sherman. His hand began to tremble. “It’s the wrong one!”

It took a moment for Kazin to grasp what his friend was saying. Then it dawned on him. He bent closer to examine the weapon. It was indeed the wrong sword. “No!” he whispered in dismay. His eyes were wide as he looked into Sherman’s face. “How is that possible?”

Sherman swallowed. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “I - I guess I was in such a rush to help you in this quest. I was excited. I didn’t check to see if it was the right sword.” He patted the scabbard at his side. “This is the right scabbard. Somehow the magical sword must have been switched with this one. I haven’t used the magical sword in so long, I -,” he broke off, helpless to continue.

Kazin let out a long sigh. “Well, it makes no difference now. You have what you have. We’ll have to carry on without it. I only hope it isn’t the object that is the cause of our troubles.”

Sherman clenched his teeth in anger. “I should have noticed. The magical sword was lighter than this one. I should have noticed that right away.” He shook his head.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Sherman,” said Kazin, seeing his friend’s anguish. “You probably didn’t notice because every sword feels light to you. With your strength, it’s not a surprise. You could carry ten swords and they would all feel light to you. Besides, the hilt on this sword and the magical one both look very similar. I had to look closely to see it myself.”

“But our quest could be a waste of time,” lamented Sherman.

“It’s not a waste of time,” said Kazin sternly. “We have a lot of things to investigate before we call it quits. I still think it’s someone, and not something, that is the cause of our trouble.”

“It’s probably me,” muttered Sherman.

Kazin put a reassuring hand on Sherman’s shoulder. “I seriously doubt that, Sherm. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to correct the problem.”

Sherman smiled wanly.

While everyone was packing, Amelia pulled Harran aside. “Is Kazin going to transform into a dragon?”

Harran nodded and regarded the red-haired mage. He realized she had never experienced Kazin’s transformation before. “Yes. It’s a little intimidating at first.” He paused. “Come to think of it, it’s always a little intimidating. You never really get used to it.”

“Are we going to - to ride him?” Amelia looked nervous.

The dwarf winked at her. “Don’t worry. We won’t let you fall off.”

Amelia took a deep breath and looked over at the dragon mage who was conversing with the big warrior. “Oooh!” she said breathlessly.

Chapter 6

S
ir Galado awoke with a pounding headache. He opened his eyes but everything was dark. Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the dark and he noticed a faint glow on his right. It was the sword. Then everything came back to him in a flash.

He had been riding on the back of the griffin moving at incredible speed, the wind rushing loudly in his ears. The griffin had flown in a straight path, sure of its destination - or so he had hoped. After a few hours, they had reached the north shores of North Lake where the griffin had landed to give the soldier a break to rest and eat. Then they had been off again. From the air, the lake had seemed to stretch on forever. After another several hours, the griffin had shrieked, causing the dozing Galado to look ahead. In the distance, he could vaguely make out the form of a dragon as it dove straight down toward the surface of the lake. Then it had vanished from sight. Since Kazin was the only known dragon mage of his time, Sir Galado had assumed it was he and Sherman who were the ones who had gone down. The griffin never slowed until it reached the spot where the dragon had last been seen. It had then begun circling the area where the dragon had gone down. Below, Sir Galado could make out a giant whirlpool. It swirled with tremendous force, drawing in the surrounding water into ever faster spirals until it vanished in its center. He had wondered at the sheer size of the whirlpool. How the lake had managed to retain its water level with this whirlpool sucking so much of it away was beyond him. The griffin had then circled closer to the whirlpool where Galado could hear it rumbling like an angry beast. How could anyone - including Kazin in his dragon form - possibly survive such a force of nature without getting crushed? He had suddenly realized his mission was a failure. He had been too late. There was no way he could reach Sherman now.

He had looked at the sword safely strapped to his side and had moved to straighten it on his hip. A sudden movement by the griffin had caught him unawares and Sir Galado lost his hold on the great beast. Helpless, he had fallen toward the hungry whirlpool. The griffin had given one last cry - barely audible above the roar of the whirlpool - before Sir Galado plunged into its depths. Then everything had gone black.

Now, he looked around using the faint light of the sword, thankful he was still miraculously alive. There was nothing but darkness on all sides. He reached into his pack, which was half slung over one arm and soaking wet from the water, while, amazingly, his clothing was dry. After a brief search in the faint light from the light of the sword, he withdrew some wildhorn leaves. They were called that because each wildhorn plant consisted of two leaves curved up like a minotaur’s horns. These plants were unique in that they allowed anyone who ate them to temporarily see better in the dark. They were poisonous if too many were ingested at once, and the elves - whose eyesight was already very good - could not tolerate them at all. Any elf who ate these leaves could go blind with just a few.

Moments after eating some of the leaves, Sir Galado could sense, more than see, that his eyesight had sharpened. But it was still dark.

“Now what?” he muttered. He rubbed the back of his head and felt a large welt where he had obviously bumped it against something. He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked at the floor, but could not see what it was made of. It was smooth and dark, and the light from his sword would not reflect off it. As he moved his sword around to see his immediate vicinity, he noticed it went slightly brighter when he held it off to one side. It would go dimmer when he swung it in a different direction. Electing to use that as a guide, he moved forward slowly in the direction in which the sword gave off the most light.

He walked for a good twenty minutes in this way and finally came to a door set in a frame in the middle of nowhere. Sir Galado examined the door closely and examined the inscriptions across the top on both sides. The warnings made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Should he open it? The side indicating the past was likely the side Sherman would have used. The big warrior had said he was going back in time. Sir Galado looked behind him uncertainly but knew he could not go back. He couldn’t stay in this dark place forever either. He had no choice but to carry on, and that meant to step through the door to the past. He could only hope he would wind up where Sherman had gone.

He cautiously approached the door and grasped the knob. It was stuck. He tried harder to turn the knob and was about to give up when the sword in his free hand flashed. With sudden ease, the knob turned and the door swung open. Cautiously, Sir Galado stepped through.

It was lighter here, kind of white and foggy. The ledge was small and two posts beckoned to one side. The posts led to a swinging bridge that swayed in some unseen breeze. The creaking noise it made was a little unnerving, but Sir Galado was not fearful. He had encountered such things previously in his lifetime. What did cause him fear was the obviously magical aura of this place. He didn’t like magic because of what it had done to those he cared for. To him, it was a force of evil. Nevertheless, he had to cross the bridge. He glanced back and noticed the door had vanished. Brushing aside any foreboding feelings, he stepped onto the bridge.

The silence was broken two or three times by an eerie shriek, but Sir Galado kept going. He didn’t want to tarry here any longer than necessary. He was a good three quarters of the way across when he stumbled over a broken slat. It snapped off the rest of the way with a loud ‘crack’ and then all hell broke loose. Black bat things dove down on him and threatened to knock him over the rope railing of the swing bridge. The bridge shook with approaching footsteps and some zombies appeared from beyond the mist like some hideous apparitions.

Before they got close, a dark cloud swung down toward the man. To the cloud, this was almost too fortuitous to comprehend. Here was the opportunity it had been waiting for! Without thinking about it, the cloud dove toward the man, hoping to take control of the man and control the body for its own nefarious ends. But the cloud had missed examining the man for magical energy, otherwise it would have noticed that the sword the man wielded was created from a powerful magic. As it closed on the man, the cloud was inextricably drawn into the tip of the sword, where it was absorbed without resistance. As the cloud encountered the good spirits housed within, it clashed with the good magic. The sword swirled as the balance of good and evil fought for dominance. To Galado, with his limited experience and understanding of magic, the sword was reacting magically to the danger he now faced.

The zombies were now nearly upon him, and further contemplation of the sword was removed from Galado’s mind. He swung the magical sword easily, striking several bat things before having to contend with the approaching zombies. As his sword struck each of the zombies, a shadowy wisp of light emerged from the falling bodies to be drawn into the sword’s edge. These auras added to the dark portion of the sword’s swirling colours, making the sword coalesce with more darkness than light.

Seeing this enraged the bat things and threw them into a frenzy. The spirits under their control were being stolen one by one and drawn into Sir Galado’s sword! They attacked the hapless soldier with such vehemence he had to retreat. As he backed away from the approaching throng on the bridge and the aerial foes, he didn’t notice the lone zombie who approached from the destination side of the bridge. It quietly laid a hand on the soldier’s shoulder and squeezed with incredible strength until it drew blood. Sir Galado opened his mouth in agony but no sound came out. The zombie moaned and released its spirit into the soldier’s open mouth as its old host body collapsed. Sir Galado’s mind exploded into a thousand tiny lights as the spirit fought him for control of his body. He mindlessly thrashed about with his sword, taking down two more bat things and drawing the spirits from several more zombies into his sword in the process.

Suddenly his body convulsed, and he turned with renewed energy to face the end of the crosswalk which was not far away. Nothing stood between him and the door. With super human strength, he bounded toward the doorway with incredible speed. As he yanked the door open, he could hear the shrieks and cries of dismay behind him. The sounds stopped abruptly as he stepped through the opening and slammed the door after him.

The daylight was blinding and it took a good five minutes for his eyes to adjust. He squinted at his surroundings. There was a low valley before him with some scrub brush dotting the landscape. He didn’t know where he was but didn’t care. He took a deep breath and let it out again. He had forgotten what it was like to breathe fresh air. Sir Galado’s mouth twisted into a distorted smile. He was alive again! It was now time to go and stop his untimely demise from taking place! With an insane laugh, Sir Galado bounded down into the valley.

No sooner had he gone a short distance when there was a deep rumble beneath him and the ground shook. He staggered to a halt and fell to his knees as an earthquake of significant proportions caused him to become unsteady. It lasted a good full minute before the quaking stopped. When it had subsided, he rose back to his feet and charged ahead again. But once again, his gait became unsteady and he tumbled headlong onto the ground. This time it was not a result of an earthquake. After he rolled to a stop, he sat up groggily and shook his head. Galado wondered what was going on. Where were all these strange thoughts coming from? Why was -? The world spun and he fell to his back as a sudden dizziness swept over him. A crooked grin appeared on his face again and a laugh that was not his own emanated from his lips.

At the same time, an earthquake rumbled across the valley.

Chapter 7

A
rch Mage Gresham looked around at the drawn faces of the high-ranking mages around him. Sleep appeared to have abandoned everyone these days. The war was taking its toll on them all and there seemed to be no end in sight. They needed an advantage that would give them an edge. Something they could have that the enemy could not steal, buy, or duplicate. New magical items and inventions only lasted for a while before they were taken from the dead soldiers and used against those who had created them. If the item was particularly potent, it was studied by the enemy mages and duplicated or modified for their own purposes. Most of the magical items eventually came up against a powerful spell caster from either side, who used their magic to neutralize the weapon or shield. This resulted in an overconfident maneuver by the one wielding the magical item, only to discover its magic had failed. This often resulted in fatality, since the magic was no longer there to be relied upon. With the weapon, helmet or shield neutralized, they were no different from ordinary soldiers.

Magical rings, it turned out, were the most potent weapons. Giving the wearer super human strength, accuracy, courage, or speed, rings were the most practical invention for the battlefield. Enemy mages had a more difficult time stopping the advance of someone with magical enhancement generated by rings than any other form of magic. It was harder to isolate a ring-wearer than a magical weapon wielder. To confuse the enemy, the Black Tower mages handed out hundreds of identical rings to every soldier. Some contained magic, but most did not. The enemy could not tell the magically enhanced soldiers from the ordinary ones by just a glance at their fingers. They had to watch each soldier very carefully to ascertain who was magically enhanced. More often than not they used neutralizing magic to neutralize a soldier, only discover the soldier never wielded magic. This waste of magic was a strain on their own magical reserves.

Arch Mage Gresham sighed and removed his pointed dark blue hat. It was creased from continuous use and the tip was bent. He scratched his head with other hand and patted down his black wavy hair. He put his hat back on and cleared his throat. When he opened his mouth to speak, a hammering noise from somewhere within the building interrupted him. He waited until the noise stopped and proceeded to speak.

“The enemy has been pushed back for now. We have control of the west bank of the Jackal River again. However, I think it’s premature to celebrate. They keep coming up with more creatures to drive us back again. The various roving bands are beginning to join together into one force under the command of a powerful warlock. It’s still unknown who or what he is, but he seems to be rallying all of our enemies under one banner.”

“At least he hasn’t got the support of the dragons,” said a female voice. It was the voice of Arch Mage Penna, second in command next to Gresham. She was a middle-aged woman with brown hair and penetrating pale blue eyes.

“Yet,” muttered another mage. It was Arch Mage Toele.

Mutters echoed around the table as another round of hammering emphasized the point.

When the hammering ceased, another arch mage piped up, “My work with orb development is looking promising. We are another step closer to harnessing the dragon’s life force.”

“What will that accomplish, Brendan?” scoffed Toele. He was an older mage with grey hair and a long grey beard. His wrinkled face gave his sour disposition an almost cruel look.

Brendan frowned. He did not like Toele, and didn’t need to prove himself to the older man. Toele had a tendency to look down upon the younger mages among them.

“Go ahead,” urged Gresham. “I think we’d all like to hear of your progress with the orbs.” He gave Toele a withering stare and the old mage leaned back and raised his hand in a mock gesture of defeat.

Brendan shook off his anger and let his enthusiasm for his project take over. “We were able to successfully turn away a dragon that was intent upon razing a town to the south. It was just preparing to fry some cattle in a pasture when my associate held up the orb and cast the spell we had devised. The dragon lost its train of thought and failed to emit its fiery breath. Furthermore, it lost altitude and crashed into the ground!”

“Did you capture it?” asked another mage. It was Arch Mage Violet. She was a younger arch mage with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was very interested in Brendan’s project and Brendan was more than happy to receive attention from the attractive mage. He was himself handsome to the ladies with light brown hair and large brown eyes. He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

“No. Unfortunately, the crash landing of the dragon caused my associate to lose his balance and he fell, dropping the orb and losing his concentration on the spell. The dragon regained its composure and flew away. It didn’t return. The farmer was very relieved, and invited my associate to a celebratory feast in his honour.”

“It sounds like you were able to at least distract the dragon,” said Penna.

“But do you really think the orb can control a dragon?” asked another arch mage. It was Arch Mage Belham, a chubby, balding man with a jolly disposition, especially when food was present.

“I do,” said Brendan resolutely. “It’s only a matter of time before we capture a dragon. We just have to establish a bond between the dragon and the orb.”

“I think I may spend some time working with you on this project,” said Gresham. “There may be a way to link the dragon to the mage via the orb, rather than to the orb itself.”

Brendan blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He recovered quickly. “I appreciate any assistance I can get.”

Gresham smiled. “Very well. We’ll let Violet help you as well. She has come up with unique ideas in the past. With both of you on the same project, you may make headway more quickly.”

Brendan blushed and Violet smiled.

Gresham turned to Arch Mage Belham. “How goes the ring production?”

Belham smiled. “Very well. We are churning out more magical rings than ever. Soldiers are lining up in droves to obtain one.”

“Is it still effective in confusing the enemy?” asked Gresham.

Belham laughed. “You bet! The generals that have returned from the front say they have seen enemy creatures stealing rings from the dead, thinking they are all magical. When they do come across one with magical enhancement, they tend to fight one another for it. It distracts them from the fight and makes them an easy target for our soldiers. It’s probably the reason for our recent successful engagement.”

“Very good,” nodded Gresham. He turned to Toele. “How is the magical weapon production coming, Toele?”

The old mage straightened as though he were elsewhere with his thoughts. “What? Oh, yes. The magical weapons are coming along, but slowly. It doesn’t help that the caravans of goods from the Dwarven Mountains are frequently being attacked by roving bands of ogres. As most of you are aware, the dwarven convoys must pass through ogre territory to reach us. This requires increased numbers of security escorts to protect them. Although we have offered assistance in this area, the dwarves have declined to accept our help. It is a matter of honour to them to protect their own convoys. Our assistance would shame them into looking like they can’t deal with the problem themselves. Despite this, most of the dwarven crafted weapons are still backordered anyhow. Apparently, King Hammarschist wants more gold. Again. If he keeps increasing his prices, we’ll be broke before the war ends.”

“Can’t we manufacture the weapons ourselves, or obtain them from somewhere else?” asked Arch Mage Penna.

Toele shook his head. “Our weapons are not crafted with the same quality as the dwarven ones. As a result, most of the time our weapons are not capable of retaining magic. It takes a fair amount of magical effort to endow a weapon with magic. If the weapon is too impure, we are just wasting our time and energy. The magic will just not be absorbed. As for other weapons, the ones of elven manufacture would work, but they take longer to order because the elves are so far away. Moreover, they don’t generally manufacture very many from high quality tempered steel. They prefer to manufacture and use bows. We still have a number of bows to endow with magic, and another shipment will be arriving soon. The one disadvantage is that magic on wooden weapons fades over time. The only wooden weapons that retain magic indefinitely are the ones made from ancient trees, usually more than two hundred years old. The elves refuse to sell weapons of that grade since they consider such trees to be sacred.”

“That’s why we have to recharge our staves from time to time,” finished Arch Mage Gresham.

Toele nodded. “Correct.”

“Very well,” said Gresham. He looked around at the assembly. “Is there any other business to discuss?”

“When is the construction of the tower going to be completed?” asked another arch mage.

“There is still a long way to go,” sighed Gresham. “We keep having to stop work to fend off dragon attacks. The interruptions are causing inconveniences with the work crews, but the delays are unavoidable.” Gresham smiled grimly. “But once the tower is complete, the magical shield we set around it will repel any dragon attack. We will finally be able to work in safety.” As he finished talking, the hammering noise resounded around them again. “Meeting adjourned!” yelled Gresham above the din.

*      *      *      *      *

The warlock surveyed his army as he stood in front of his tent. Black, brown and drab coloured tents and shelters dotted the valley below him, interspersed with smoke and flames from cooking fires. A kind of mood emanated from the valley, a mix of anticipation, anger, revenge, and bloodlust. The assemblage consisted primarily of orcs and goblins, disgruntled human mercenaries, and lizardmen. More of their kind joined them daily, desiring the spoils of war and other benefits associated with the battle. A size of this gathering was more expensive for the human enemies they faced than for the warlock. It was fortunate that the orcs and goblins relished the taste of human flesh, and if there was not enough to go around, they would eat the corpses of their own kind who had fallen in battle. The warlock made sure to allow them the spoils of war to keep up morale. Besides, he was not interested in those things. What was important to him were power and success. The failure of the past few days irked him, but he was patient. The further west his forces were pushed, the further the humans were from their home bases. This stretched their supply lines to their limits. He could only hope that the ogres to the north would strike those supply lines soon, thereby cutting off the advancing forces of humans.

He clenched his teeth angrily. Why did the ogres have to operate independently? Why couldn’t they join forces with him? But he knew they weren’t intelligent enough to see that if he could coordinate their forces to move in unison with his own, he would be able to secure a victory that would benefit everyone. Even the smallest ogre was five times as powerful as a human, and one ogre armed with a club or mace could easily compensate for a well-armed human wearing a ring of strength. They were nearly twice the size of a human and built far more solidly. The warlord chuckled. So were their skulls. There wasn’t much room for a brain. So far, his calls to meet with the ogre chieftain had gone unanswered. Still, he would continue to try. Eventually he had to get through the chieftain’s nut of a skull.

Roving bands of trolls to the south were causing havoc with the humans as well, but those isolated raids were minor compared to what they were truly capable of. If only he could find their leader, if indeed there was one. He could turn them into a force to be reckoned with.

Another force the warlock was trying to rally to his side was the minotaurs. They had long had tensions with the dwarves, and were always looking for an excuse to go to battle. They loved to fight, perhaps more than any other race the warlock knew. They were just as big as the ogres, and fought with ten times more ferocity. They were also more intelligent. Their society was more structured than the rabble he now controlled. To have them join him would be a boon to his entire army. But they were east of the entire human colony. They were so far east, in fact, that they were on the other side of some impenetrable terrain. Separating them from the humans was a low jagged mountain range with gaseous vents that were unbreatheable to any who ventured too near, and a vast swampland that was virtually impassable. Any who ventured into this area rarely returned, and stories of what survivors had encountered bordered on the absurd and ridiculous, with stories of strange creatures to hallucinations and visions. To get to the humans, the minotaurs would either have to send a fleet of ships south into the Bay of Barlin, where elven and human patrols abounded, or circle north through a pass in the mountains patrolled by giants similar to humans. Then they would have to travel over a cave-riddled mountain range inhabited by the dwarves, right into the dense forested section just south of the mountains where the ogres were encamped. This meant the warlock had to have the ogres on board first, because otherwise they would regard the minotaurs as a threat encroaching on their territory. They would surely come to blows unless they had a common goal.

The warlock sighed and looked up into the sky. It was a dying shade of red as the sun faded, giving way to the moon and stars. From above was where this war would be decided. Whoever could get the aid of those infernal dragons would have the winning hand. He knew the humans were trying just as hard as he to control them. Whether they became allies or served him by some other means, victory would be his. He would gladly offer up his army as an offering to them for his victory. They could feast on all the combatants from both sides for all he cared. Too bad they didn’t like the taste of orcs and goblins.

A servant came out of the tent to contact the warlock. It was a creature half orc and half goblin. It had all the physical characteristics of an orc but the mind and attitude of a cowardly goblin. “Sir, the commanders are waiting.”

The warlock turned to him with a scowl. “I know that! I’ll be there when I’m ready!”