Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) (26 page)

Celia was less worried since the encounter with the
craglings, knowing that she could access the power of the violet magestone from
a distance.  The only uncertainty was how large was that distance.  Of course,
she could feel the stone's direction and approximate distance in her head, much
like a lodestone would attract iron.

They were hustled south, their hands bound in front of them,
a dozen guards surrounding them as they made their way into the westward
marching army.  They got several looks, from mildly curious to downright nasty,
as they were led at a faster pace through the common soldiers towards the front
of the army.

Eventually, after a league or so they came to the front of
the army as it had begun to slow and form ranks.  The scouting party that had
captured them led them to a large fire of black and violet flame, most
obviously magic.  A large black tent rested on a small hummock a short way
away.

The scene was confusing as it was ominous.  There were eight
men lying around the fire, heads towards the flames.  Several paces back from
their feet, in all eight directions were hundreds of men, lined up in pairs
facing the fire.  Normal torches were lit around the clearing of men, casting
flickering shadows the other fire was eating, but allowing everyone to see...
somewhat.

The captain of the scouting party went up to one of his
superiors, had a quick conversation and came back to the four prisoners. 
"To the tent wit' them," he ordered his men.  They prodded the group
with their swords, but Robart turned and kneed the soldier prodding him in the
groin, dropping him to the ground.

"Another one of you pokes me with a sword will find it
buried up your arse!" he threatened.  Two more took the place of the one
writhing on the ground, and though they pointed swords at him, they did stay a wary
distance from him.

"Move," stated the captain.  He reached over and
grabbed a crossbow from one of the soldiers.  "If he makes 'nother move
like that, put a hole in 'im."  He looked at Robart meaningfully. 
"Try that again."

They were herded towards the large tent, and were forced to
kneel outside.  The soldiers with their belongings and the captain entered the
tent after a brief discussion with the two guards posted at the entrance.  As
the flap was lifted a soft, warm glow came from within.  Several soldiers came
and went carrying messages.  After a bell or so, Celia's knees were getting
sore, and her lower legs numb from sitting on them, pins and needles running up
and down her cramping calf muscles.  She began to drift off, the events of the
last several days catching up to her, the comfort of the violet magestone resting
in the back of her mind.  She could sense that now was not the time to act,
with tens of thousands of Goralonian soldiers around her.  Besides, it did not
appear that they had captured Salrissa, so that was one more card in their
favor.  She would wait it out - for now.  She closed her eyes and felt into a
light sleep, still sitting up.

Suddenly, a loud noise pulled her from her catnap.  She
opened her eyes to see soldiers shouting and running around, and the fog lit
from above with a white flickering light.

"That will be a signal arrow from one of the Imperial
scouting parties," Valena offered quietly.  "Someone from our side
must have spotted the army."

"Someone from your side maybe," Hoyle rebutted
just as quietly, "I don't have a side."

"If you don't choose a side, then you fight for
nothing," came Valena's response.  She was shifting uncomfortably in her
seated position as well, Celia noted, no matter how calm she projected her
demeanor.

"Haven't found a side I like yet."

At that moment, as the white light from above withered away
to nothing, a tall, thin figure stepped from the tent.  The figure's hawkish
nose, white hair in wisps behind his head, and runes drawn in blood on his face
and forehead rose gooseflesh on Celia's arms.  He was still wearing the thin,
metal circlet on his brow that held a glowing crimson magestone.

A second, much larger figure stepped from the tent.  Celia
recognized him as the warrior that Salrissa fought in the hallway of the
Goralonian Merchants' Guild what seemed like an eternity ago, but was in
reality only about a fortnight.  He was saying something to the warlock as he
exited the tent, "- will be warned.  We must move now!"  He looked at
Celia and the other three and scowled.  She thought she saw a small start of
surprise on his face when he spotted Robart, but he covered it quickly.

"Patience Marcon, we still have time.  Our agents will
need to make the preparations.  Please go see that the ritual is ready to
proceed."  The warlock gestured vaguely towards the black fire and ring of
lying men that they were led past earlier.  Marcon scowled again, but moved off
in the direction indicated.  The warlock moved up to within a few paces of
them, the scouting party still surrounding them with weapons drawn.

"We meet yet again thief.  You are a tenacious one, I
will give you that," the warlock whispered, the darkness giving his voice
an ethereal quality.  "It has led you to the end of your days, I'm
afraid."

"Oh, I suspect you will be afraid, in short
order," Hoyle replied, some of the cockiness back in his voice, making it
sound more like the Hoyle she had first met.  The warlock looked at him with a
small amount of confusion.

"If I didn't need willing subjects for this ritual I am
to perform shortly, you four would certainly be laid out by the fire," he
stated after a short time contemplating Hoyle and his previous statement.

"You will not succeed," Valena said firmly. 
"Evil will devour itself."

"Ah, the Daughter speaks.  Yes, I suppose that is true,
but is a matter of perspective, isn't it?" he replied.  "The Emperor
invaded my country over sixty years ago, killing tens of thousands.  He left a
garrison of ten thousand soldiers in Karvesh, allowing the country to wither,
feeding off the table scraps from his Kastrum Imperium for decades, the people
poor and barely able to feed their families.  Now the same Emperor, still a
young man by all accounts, still sits on the throne, a throne he obtained by
death and conquest.  He maintains his rule by fear and intimidation, and you
imply that we are evil.  You see, it's all perspective."

"That's why I haven't picked a side," Hoyle said
quietly to no one in particular.

"Indeed," replied the warlock, having obviously
heard him.

Celia heard a shout from the direction of the fire, and
turned to see the burly soldier named Marcon waving the warlock over.

"Well it appears we are ready to begin the ritual.  We
shall continue this conversation, your last, once I return.  Captain, take them
into the tent, and make sure they stay put," he ordered in his now
telltale whisper.  He turned and walked towards the fire, where the others were
waiting.

The captain gestured, and two men each grabbed the four of
them and hustled them into the tent, where they were led to a solid pine tent
pole and secured to it.  Their feet were also tied together.  The captain
ordered four soldiers to watch them, and turned to leave the tent.  "I
suspect that ye will have wished to have stay'd oot of this business," he
said, his accent thick in spots.

"No worries," Hoyle replied, "the night's not
over yet."

Jonn

Jonn the Stark sat with the other three members of the
scouting party around their meager cook fire.  His friends had nicknamed him
the Stark because of his unnaturally white hair at his early age of twenty
six.  That and the surprised look that they kept teasing was always on his
face.

They were sheltered in a copse of trees half way up the side
of the narrow ravine about a league east from the fort walls that protected the
Empire from Goralon.  You still had to look way up to see Farad’avor hovering
over the pass
, but it was far enough away that you did not feel like it was
going to fall on you
he thought.  Assuming you could see through the thick
fog that was blanketing the pass.

Ever since the Goralons had closed the border to trade,
Captain Keyth had ordered scouting parties out to the ridges and valleys, out
past the half way point between the Empire fort, unimaginatively called 'The
Fort' by the soldiers, and the Goralonian palisade about two leagues away. 
They were to look for anything suspicious or troop movements by the
Goralonians.  If they spotted anything, they were to fire a flaming arrow into
the sky to alert the Fort and the citadel.

  The problem with that was that today was Spring Planting's
Eve, and the moon was new, and the cursed valley was full of mist.  Looking
around, Jonn could not see more than two paces past his companions in the
firelight.  The night was darker than dark, and covered in a wet blanket
besides.  They were all huddled as close to the fire in their wet cloaks as
they could be, but the cold still seeped into their bones.

"We're s'posed to be watching out fer stuff, is all I'm
sayin'," muttered Tarence.  He was the one always saying that they should
be doing something, but the first to stop when no one was watching.  He was
visibly shivering in his cloak, rubbing his hands in front of the small fire.

"How're we supposed to be seein' anything in this
mess?  I say we head back," volunteered Dern.  He was the complainer of the
group. 
Every group had one
thought Jonn, at least every group he had
ever been in.

"Shut up the two of you!" hissed Karlen, the squad
leader.  "With the amount of noise you two make, you wouldn't be able to
hear a fart out o' yer own arse!"

Jonn stood up.  "Goin' to take a piss," he
volunteered as Karlen looked up at him.

"Just don't take long.  Something's going on tonight,
this mist ain't natural, my knee tells me so," Karlen said as he rubbed
his left knee absentmindedly.  He was convinced that since the injury to it
several years ago it could sense magic or unnatural occurrences.  The men went
along with it, but no one believed it.

Jonn nodded to him, and felt his way, more than walked, a
short ways into the sparse trees.  By ten paces away, he could not even see
their fire.  He shook his head as he unlaced his breeches and relieved
himself.  He could not see where he was aiming, it was so dark, but could hear
it hitting the dead grasses and shrubs.  He laced up and turned to return to
camp, but came up short as a man was standing right behind him.

Seeing the look in the stranger's eyes, barely noticeable in
the darkness, Jonn reached for his sword.  He barely felt his attacker's blade
enter his chest and pierce his left lung, nor the impact as his face hit the
moist ground.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw several more shapes move
past him barely visible in the mist, all clad in black, moving more silently
than Jonn thought possible.

His breathing ragged, he tried crawling back in the
direction of their fire.  The pain was immense, crippling even.  His breathing
was becoming harder as his left lung filled with blood.  He was coughing it up
now it an effort to clear his lung.  Handspan by handspan, Jonn slowly crawled
and pulled himself the ten paces toward the fire.  He was determined to get to
the bow and signal arrow that were there.

Rocks scraped his arms, his fingernails ripped from his
fingers as he clawed his way closer, ever closer, to his duty.  His friends may
give him a good ribbing about his white hair and shocked expression, but they
would never question his loyalty to duty.  Time slowed to a crawl, his only
thought was that signal arrow.

Finally he bumped into something in the dark.  It was the
armored body of one of his friends.  He couldn't tell who, as the fire had died
down in the time it had taken him to crawl his way back.  He felt all around
the fire, still able to feel some of the heat from the embers in the small pit
they had dug.  It seemed like it had had dirt kicked over it.  He couldn't find
the arrow or the bow.  He could feel the blood filling his belly now, as well
as his other lung, the coughing now just moving it between lungs.  He knew his
time was short.

His hand found a long thin stick, but it was just the branch
they had been using to stir the fire.  His mind was growing thick, his vision
narrowing to a point of light, even in the darkness.  He prayed to Voral, the
Father, to give him one last dram of strength as his fingers finally found the
bow.  It was already strung in case of emergency, string waxed against the
wetness.  His other hand found the arrow and fumbled for the fuse.  He rolled
over once and felt the heat of the embers on his shoulder just below the dirt. 
He jammed his now numb hands into the dirt and grabbed a handful of buried
coals.

His mind registered the smell of cooking meat, but he
managed to grab one coal and hold it against the fuse.  Suddenly, the fuse lit
up, sparkling in the dark.  Jonn strung the arrow and managed to lift the bow
above him, arrow nocked.  His last thought that sent giggles through his mind,
and caused him a series of coughs as he pulled back the string, not even
registering the fuse burning against his face -
what if the arrow comes
straight back down?

The arrow flew, not very high, but as it left the bow, the
fuse hit the arrow's payload, a small canister of unknown composition that lit
up the night as it exploded.

Koltan stared at the magemirror in shock.  His master had
just ordered him to do the thing that he had dreamed of doing ever since
arriving at Mahad'avor.  He felt as if it was Winter's Heart and he had just
been given a priceless gift.  Of course, this was a two edged sword.  Kartem
wanted him to prove himself with this task.  If he succeeded, then they would
both be rewarded.  If he failed - but he was not going to fail, so why bother
thinking down that path.

He gathered his things, laying them out on the floor around
the bound body of Griffan.  He was semi-conscious, Koltan having bashed him on
the head while he was leaving.  He had tied him quickly, gagging him so he
could not invoke his magic.  He had known that something was to happen this
night, the night of the new moon, and though it was not yet dark here at
Mahad'avor, other events were unfolding far to the east.  That's why he had
subdued Griffan when he had arrived for his shift, because he was going to need
blood to complete his task tonight, and he preferred it not to be his own.

The circle was just right, aligned with points of the
compass, the dark candles he now lit with the torch from the walls.  He would
need a little of his own blood to begin the ritual, but his prisoner's would be
used to complete it.

His preparations done, he stepped into the circle and kicked
Griffan again in the side of the head to keep him addled, and began his
chanting.  His undulating voice rose and fell in pitch and tone as his master
had taught him those years ago, coming to a crescendo.  As the voice
reverberated around the chamber, Koltan took his small dagger and struck it
across the palm of his hand drawing blood.  He dripped the blood onto Griffan's
chest, as he yelled that last syllables to the blood ritual, then drove the
dagger down into the prone man's chest to the hilt.

The candles flared, and then went out as if by a strong
breeze.  The torch guttered angrily on the floor outside the circle but kept
burning.  As the echoes of the incantation died down, he worried that he might
have done it wrong.  However, a blackness began to seep up out of the stones,
wriggling toward the blood that was now pooling around the body.  Koltan
involuntarily flinched as it crawled up and over the body, pulling the blood to
the surface all over the skin until the body was a wet, red mass of flesh.  The
blackness grew as it fed on the offering until it was a swirling cloud larger
than Koltan.

Then, as fast as Koltan could blink, the cloud of blackness
enveloped him.  It felt like little hooks digging into his skin.  The
experience was more painful than anything he had ever experienced, and he
screamed until his body was out of breath.  Then as the pain subsided he felt
the power as the blackness shifted around him, forming muscles and sinew and
skin, as it seeped into his bones, his heart, his very being.

Stepping forward, he smashed open the door to the chamber
and stepped out into the hallway.  His new black form blended with the shadows
as he felt the blood magic hunger for more blood.  As much as he felt
invincible with the power he had, he knew he had to use stealth first if he was
to achieve his mission.

After he killed Endergot, he could let the blood magic loose
to feed.