The Spell Realm (6 page)

“Well, why don’t you share anyway?” the man suggested, taking a step in Barson’s direction. “Then you can go on your merry way.”

Barson’s hackles rose. He had no intention of giving up his supplies to this idiot—not when he needed to get to Turingrad with all expediency and had no time to look for more. These men were obviously used to taking what they wanted from hapless peasants and thought Barson to be one.

“What’s going on here?” Another one of the men approached, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword.

“This peasant is being disrespectful,” the first man said, jerking his thumb in Barson’s direction. “Thinks he’s too good for us.”

“I’m just passing through,” Barson said evenly, ignoring the anger starting to curdle low in his stomach. “I don’t want any trouble, and I’m sure you don’t either.”

The two men started laughing. Using their distraction, Barson walked up to his horse and quietly unwrapped his sword, keeping it sheathed and concealed behind his back, but within easy reach. He didn’t have a good feeling about this situation.

“What territory do you belong to, serf?” The first man stopped laughing and stepped up to Barson. “Not Kelvin’s, I bet. He won’t stand for this kind of attitude. You from Blaise’s land?”

“Right, Blaise’s,” Barson gritted out, his jaw clenching tightly at the thought of Augusta’s former lover. His patience was wearing thin. How did commoners deal with this? If it hadn’t been for his need to keep a low profile, he would’ve put these lowlifes in their place a long time ago.

Like wolves scenting prey, the other mercenaries came up to them, forming a large circle around Barson. He counted eighteen of them—all armed with swords and daggers.

“What’s that you got there?” One of them had spotted Barson’s sword behind his back. “You steal a sword from some guard?” When Barson didn’t reply, the man ordered, “Show it to me.”

“You don’t want me to unsheathe this sword,” Barson said quietly, his anger beginning to boil over. “Trust me—you want to continue on your way now.”

“You insolent—”

Without waiting for the man to finish his insult, Barson unsheathed his sword. He was done with subtlety.

Before the mercenaries could react, he swung, and the man who wanted the cured meat was on his knees, clutching the gushing wound on his throat. Without waiting for anyone to understand what happened, Barson swung again, and two more mercenaries were now on the ground, their stomachs sliced open.

Seeing their comrades die had a sobering effect on the rest of Barson’s opponents. The five men nearest him had their swords ready and started to look for an opening. Barson did not provide them with one. Parrying a few weak attempts at an attack, he quickly dispatched the attackers.

The ten survivors stared at him in shock, then attacked him en masse. There was a desperate ferocity to their attacks that Barson didn’t expect, and he staggered backwards before killing two more with a practiced swing of his sword.

Now the tide of the battle turned. Four of the remaining eight soldiers began to back away, abandoning their comrades. Yet another reason why these men would never be on the Guard, Barson thought with contempt. They had no loyalty, no honor.

Switching the sword to his left hand, Barson pulled out a dagger with his right. Slicing through the chest of his leftmost attacker with his sword, he threw the dagger at one of the deserters, spearing him in the back.

Six men left—three of them now running away at full speed.

Barson doubled his efforts, unleashing a brutal attack on the three men who were still fighting him. He needed to deal with them quickly, before their cowardly comrades escaped. He couldn’t afford to leave any survivors—not if he wanted to keep a low profile.

Lifting his sword, he swung in a large arc, leaving his side exposed for a moment. It was a risk worth taking at this point—and it paid off, as his sword cut through all three of his opponents at once.

Panting, he leapt over to his horse, pulling out his bow and arrows from their hiding spot.

Three arrows later, the number of survivors was zero.

* * *

By the time Barson arrived at his sister’s house, it was close to midnight. Knocking quietly, he waited.

The door opened. Dara stood there, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Barson?” Her voice shook as she reached for him. “You’re . . . you’re alive! I knew those rumors had to be false, I just knew it!”

Laughing softly, Barson hugged her, feeling the tension in her body. “It’s all right, sis. You know they can’t kill me that easily.” Pulling back, he looked down at her. “Larn is fine too.”

She nodded, stepping back. “I knew that—I put a locator spell on him right before he left. But I didn’t put one on you, and when the whole Tower started buzzing with the rumors about the Sorcerer Guard being dead . . .” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I was so worried—”

“You didn’t need to worry,” Barson reassured her, even though it was a lie. For the first time in his life, he had faced a worthy opponent and barely escaped with his life. “I was always going to come back to you.”

“Come inside,” she urged, pulling on his arm. “Tell me what happened. Why do you look like a peasant?”

“It’s a long story,” Barson said, following her toward the kitchen. Without asking, she poured him a glass of milk and pulled out a plate of freshly baked rolls.

Grinning, Barson sat down and started telling Dara about the battle with the strange sorceress—about her fighting skills and the incredibly powerful spells she used. His sister listened, frowning, interrupting only a few times to ask questions.

“So what now?” she asked when he was done. “The Council is up in arms about this. Augusta called an emergency meeting, scaring the entire Tower half to death, and the rumor is that she told them the Guard is dead. They’re supposed to vote on something important soon, but I don’t know the specifics. Jandison is being very closemouthed about the whole thing.”

“I can guess what they’re going to vote about,” Barson said, finishing his third roll. “If I’m right, it would be quite helpful to our cause if they make the right decision.”

“You think they’re going to go after her?”

“I’m almost certain they will. With us dead—and staying dead for now—the Council doesn’t have anyone they can rely on to fight their battles. If I know Augusta, she will convince them that this threat needs to be eliminated.”

“She thinks you’re dead. You know that, right?”

Barson nodded. “Yes. But that’s a good thing for now. I will go see her after the vote. For now, if she has any feelings for me, it might be best if I stay out of sight.”

Dara regarded him with a smile. “I see. That’s one way to nudge the vote in the direction we need, I suppose. If they do decide to go after this sorceress, are you going to let Augusta go as well?”

“No.” Barson shook his head. “At that point, I will tell her everything and have her stay back with me. This is a golden opportunity for us, and we could use her help when we put our plan into action.”

“And it’s not because you don’t want her dead?”

“Of course I don’t want her dead.” Barson stared at his sister. “She’s mine, and I intend to keep her.”

Dara grinned. “I thought as much.”

“I need your help with this as well,” Barson said, returning back to the topic of the vote. “Do you think you could subtly influence your new mentor, Jandison, to vote the right way?”

Dara looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think so. I can tell him that I heard the rumors—and that I fear both my brother and my fiancé are dead. That’ll start the conversation, and I’ll play it by ear from that point on.”

“Good,” Barson said approvingly. “By the way, how did Ganir react when Augusta called the meeting? I thought that was the Council Leader’s job.”

“It is,” Dara said, smiling. “Rumor has it that he was livid. The other apprentices said that Jandison was quite amused by that.”

Barson considered that for a moment. “If you think the old man doesn’t like Ganir, try to use that when you talk to Jandison.”

“Of course, brother.” Dara inclined her head. “I know how to go about this.”

“I know you do.” Barson smiled at her. “Just be careful. We’re almost there.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“We also need to keep a very close eye on Ganir in the next few days,” Barson said. “Make sure he doesn’t get in our way.”

“Do you want me to talk to our allies in the Tower?”

“No,” Barson said. “I’ll do it this time. They need to get used to dealing with me directly.”

Chapter 8: Gala

Lying down on a thin pallet in her tent, Gala stretched out and closed her eyes, listening to the familiar murmur of Maya and Esther getting ready for bed. She felt tired after their long trek, but she also felt exhilarated. The discussion she’d had with Blaise about the universe swirled in her mind, and as she slowly drifted off to sleep, she wondered about the grandeur of the world she found herself in.

* * *

Gala slowly became conscious of being someplace strange. Taking a look around, she found that the place—if it could be called a place—was achingly familiar. She had a sudden strong sense of déjà vu. She’d had this experience before. This was where she was born. This was the Spell Realm.

It was also a place she had once seen in a dream.

She had to be dreaming now, Gala realized. From what she’d read, the knowledge that it was a dream was supposed to wake one up, but in her case, nothing changed. She was still there, in that mysterious place that her mind sought to comprehend.

She had a sense that she had a body, or at least eyes, nose, and ears. Yet at the same time, she knew that the Spell Realm allowed no bodies, or any kind of matter, in fact. There was no energy, no time, and no space here. Thinking back to her conversation with Blaise, Gala became certain that this Realm was not the same universe as the stars they were looking at. It was something else. A place of potentials, of abstract information. If something could be said to exist here, it was patterns of order . . . and some of these patterns were capable of thought.

There were intelligences here, she realized with amazement. Intelligences quite different from human beings, and from her. There was also something out there . . . something familiar that was broadcasting what she could best describe as a feeling.

A feeling that seemed to be curiosity about her.

In a sudden change of scenery, her dream mind seemed to take her to this entity.

Without knowing how she determined it, Gala knew she was in the presence of the curious intelligence. She saw a kaleidoscope of slashes, colors, and lights forming unusual shapes. She could smell exotic scents, hear sounds that appeared to form something like music. And all of this was happening without light, chemistry, or air to vibrate.

Suddenly, an external thought entered her mind.
What are you?

I am Gala
, she thought back, surprised.
What are you?

For a moment there was silence. Then another thought reached her.

I am Dranel.

Chapter 9: Augusta

Pacing around her room, Augusta mentally ran through the list of Council members.

She was certain that Moriner and Kelvin would vote to go after Blaise’s monstrosity—and that Ganir would vote against it. The rest of the Council was more ambiguous. Gina—Blaise’s replacement—should theoretically be interested in doing anything that would prevent Blaise from coming back to the Council. However, Augusta was not friends with her and had no idea if she had judged the young woman correctly. There were also eight other Councilors whose vote could go in any direction—far too large of a margin of uncertainty. Augusta needed at least three more people on her side, preferably four, in case Gina didn’t act as rationally as Augusta hoped.

Sitting down at her desk, Augusta considered the remaining players. Lenton, Mansir, and Pesla were spineless creatures who almost always sided with Ganir. Furak did too, usually, but Augusta thought he could be swayed. One of the younger Council members and an expert on defensive spells, Furak had always had a soft spot for Augusta, once even going so far as to send her a bouquet of flowers for her birthday. More importantly, though, he owed her a favor—and this was as good of an opportunity to collect as any.

That left Dini, Ruark, Dania, and Jandison. The first two actively disliked Augusta and talking to them could only do harm. If they were sufficiently scared, they might vote to go after the creature, but they could just as easily vote against out of sheer spite.

Now Jandison . . . There was some hope there. The old man had always been pleasant to Augusta, though she found him to be a bit of a dark horse when it came to his allegiances. Although he was the oldest member of the Council, he was not nearly as respected or influential as Ganir. Augusta wondered whether he might resent that fact.

Dania, the librarian, was Augusta’s secret weapon. Nobody would expect her to go against Ganir, her friend and ally, but Augusta had some ideas of how to persuade her. The price would be high, but it would be worth it in the end.