Pawn Of The Planewalker (Book 5) (2 page)

“I am not an animal.”

“That’s right, Garrick. Animals do not fight their destiny.”

Garrick scoffed and turned away. “You make a good jest, Braxidane. But I’m more like a disease than an animal. What destiny does a disease have?”

“You are full of opinions, Garrick. So, let me ask you for another. Just what should a man do when his brothers need him for a task that he has no stomach for?”

Garrick kept his gaze on the horizon. The ride had calmed his hunger, but hollowness still churned within him. He would need to feed again soon. The idea made him shudder. He thought then of the battle at God’s Tower, and the warriors who had died there.

And he thought of Sunathri.

He wheeled to face his superior. “A proper leader doesn’t destroy—”

The heron was gone.

Garrick gritted his teeth and reveled in the pain the sharp air brought to his lungs.

He had been in the wild for weeks now, hunting for Lectodinians, finding them one-by-one, and taking his vengeance upon each. Perhaps it was not as pretty as one might want, but it was something. And it kept the others safe. The Freeborn were in better hands with Darien and Reynard. He wasn’t going to put the men and women of the Torean House in that kind of danger again.

He turned the horse toward his camp.

Will would have dinner prepared, and it was late enough that the boy would be worried.

Tomorrow Garrick had another mage to destroy.

His hunger stirred at the thought.

Yes.

Tomorrow.

He would hunt again tomorrow.

Chapter 2

Wintertime brought raging storms and cold tides that crashed like battering rams against the volcanic cliffs of de’Mayer Island. It was a harsh place, rocky and wind-whipped, isolated. It was due to this isolation that its namesake, the famous general Corid de’Mayer, was shackled here and left to fend for himself in the island’s deepest catacombs. It was also due to this isolation that the Koradictine order of mages had made it their stronghold.

Ettril Dor-Entfar, Lord Superior of that Koradictine order, stood before a water-filled decanter and an empty brazier at the center of his private chamber deep in the workings of Areguard, the ancient fortress built into the rock overlooking the westernmost shoreline. A relief map of Adruin spanned the far wall and told a story that was not to his liking. The order’s losses at God’s Tower had been extreme, and word of their weakness had triggered uprisings across the whole of their holdings. They had never been strong in the eastern half of the plane, but they had lost Mordwood in the northwest, and Daggertooth to the south. They had been run out of Whitestone and the entirety of the Wildlands.

Now, even Badwall Canyon appeared to be shaken.

At least de’Mayer Island was still theirs. For now.

He pursed his lips. He had to rally his forces. The Koradictine order had to make a statement before they lost too much.

Ettril spoke magic and strolled carefully around the decanter, choosing the right moment to slowly spill its water into the basin. Leverage points passed energy from Talin, the plane of magic, through his link. The water boiled with the smell of curdled blood. More water flowed into a thin layer at the bottom of the basin, cooling it, then shimmering with the beginnings of an image. Ettril lifted the spell further, pulling detail to the surface until it became a woman’s rounded face.

Iona, ranking mage of Badwall Canyon.

Her wiry hair was unkempt and her lips were thick and red. She seemed to be out of breath.

“Your timing is impeccable,” she said. “The Lectodinians are here, and they are here in force. They've convinced the townspeople to revolt. The situation is dire.”

“It is good to see you, too, Iona,” Ettril replied.

“I don’t have time for this, Superior.”

“I’ll be brief, then. Badwall Canyon cannot fall. I need you to lead a counter-attack, crush any and all resistance.”

Iona laughed.

“You
are
an old fool, Ettril.”

“Be careful how you address me. I’ll not take insolence lightly.”

A pounding came from behind her, the sound of footsteps in an outside corridor. Iona glanced nervously over her shoulder.

“The order is dead, Superior. It may not appear that way sitting in the comfort of your island. But even if I wanted to execute your orders, there is no one left here to command.”

“You are a coward!”

“No, Superior. I'm just a mage trying to stay alive.”

The pounding came from the door again, this time accompanied by shouting voices that Ettril couldn’t make out.

“And right now,” Iona said, “I’m a mage who has to get out of town before its citizens string me up. News travels, Superior. They know we’re weak, and they’re making us pay for our boldness this past spring.”

“Iona, I demand you stand and fight.”

“Goodbye, Ettril.”

“I’ll execute you myself if I have to.”

“Then I’ll be seeing you soon. But right now, I’m leaving before the sheriff breaks the door down.”

Iona stood, and the basin clouded.

Ettril sat back with acid flaring in his stomach. She was fleeing Badwall. Casius was holding Farvane, but not as a Koradictine stronghold. Jormar was lost in God’s Tower, somehow defeated by the Torean champion. No Koradictine leader had faced such upheaval in the centuries since Koradic himself had founded the order.

“Bosic!” he called to his assistant.

Rustling came from the hallway, and the door whispered open.

“Yes, sir?”

“Come here,” Ettril said with a calmness that belied his emotions.

Bosic shut the door behind him, and scuttled in with a shambling limp caused by his club foot. His robe was Koradictine red with a dark blue collar turned up. Its sleeves hung loosely at his wrists.

“What can I get you, Superior?”

“I need every high mage on the island here tomorrow morning as the sun rises.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

Ettril thought. “No.”

“It will be done, sir.”

Then Bosic went away quietly.

That was more like it, Ettril thought. A rapid response to a direct command. And it would be done, too. Bosic had been his apprentice since he was a child. He would never, of course, be a high mage. Some things just weren’t meant to be. But Bosic never stopped trying, and he knew his place—both traits that were sorely lacking in many these days.

Ettril stood and faced his library.

He was getting old. His back ached, and a pop came from one knee. That didn’t matter, though. He was still strong enough to control the order, and the first rule of control was to make sure no one got the wrong message.

It was time to make a statement.

And over his lifetime he had found that nothing commands obedience like the sight of a dead body.

Chapter 3

Garrick crouched down in the hallway.

He felt the Lectodinian’s presence on the other side of the door. It was Tevaran Kigg, a powerful mage who was now in the middle of casting an intricate spell forged with energy from the plane of magic. Kigg had been among those who had joined the raid on his superior’s manor so many months prior. It was time to exact his revenge.

His hunger reached out and touched the mage’s life force. It was raw, and bold, and firmly connected to the man’s body. He felt the mage’s connection to the plane of magic in ways that were deep and disturbing. He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed of himself for having such an intimate connection, or angry at himself for the fact that he had grown to enjoy it so greatly. Garrick could feel, for example, how every scrap of the Lectodinian’s attention was consumed in his spell work, and that now was exactly the time to strike.

One sharp kick broke down the door.

He cast raw magic about the room as he drew his blade.

“Wha—” Kigg said. “What are you doing?”

“Avenging a wrong,” Garrick growled as he swung.

The blade became red and blood–gored.

The mage’s life force peeled off its body, tasting sweet and powerful. Garrick breathed it in like something physical, like blood, or like a heart beating inside a man’s chest, as natural as an arm or a leg, as essential as breathing itself. He shuddered as he fought its panicked dance, and gasped as the life force struggled against the pull of his god–touched gravity. It was like a fish fighting on the line, a steady string of vital pulls that eventually faded to dead weight.

When he was finished, Garrick left the mage’s room as he had found it. He wanted nothing of this man beyond what he had now, and there were still horses to release.

Garrick completed those chores, then left the manor.

The mage’s life force warmed him as he picked his way down the rocky outcropping to reclaim his mount. Two more Lectodinians remained on the list of those who had raided Alistair. When he was done with them, he would go west to hunt Koradictines. If his planning was adequate and he spaced them out properly, his tour could keep his hunger fed throughout the winter.

Garrick set his jaw and began to ride.

Will—who was perhaps twelve years old but was maturing rapidly—would be waiting. Garrick wasn’t looking forward to the boy’s wide-eyed stares, or the questions they would bring.

Will had joined him with great enthusiasm, and Garrick had taken the boy along because he felt something that was hard to explain about him—a kinship, or a connection like Will was a brother of some kind. And for his part, Will seemed to think similarly. The boy just understood Garrick, he
listened
like no one else did. The boy instinctively knew that Garrick’s magic was different from others, and seemed to sense when it was best to stay away from him and when it was safe to be nearby.

And, of course, Will had saved his life.

Convincing him to stay behind as Garrick hunted was getting harder. But he remembered what it was like to be Will’s age. He knew exactly how hard it was to take care of yourself, better yet someone else. Will shouldn’t have to deal with that, and Garrick would do what it took to keep him safe.

When he returned to camp, however, the boy was nowhere to be found.

Will’s horse was still tied to a tree, and their fire pit still gave off thin wisps of smoke. The bedrolls had been prepared, but were not yet loaded onto the animals.

Hackles raised along the nape of Garrick’s neck.

“Will?” he said in a low voice.

He felt the presence of two people sitting behind a slab of shale that jutted from the ground nearby. He pulled his sword silently and reached for his link. He had been an idiot to leave Will alone, a fool to think the Lectodinians would take the swath of destruction he was cutting through their ranks sitting down.

He brought magefire to his fingertips and he turned the corner.

A mage was sitting on the rock beside Will, but he was not clad in Lectodinian blue or Koradictine red. This man was tall and thin, and dressed in black trousers. A travel cape, also black, was pulled over his green tunic.

“Garrick!” Will said, standing up.

Garrick gritted his teeth as he calmed himself. His magic had its head, and it was everything he could do to pull it back. He gazed at the young man standing beside Will.

“The Freeborn were to leave me be,” Garrick said.

“Don’t worry about Jawsie,” Will said. “He’s got a message for you.”

“Jawsie?” Garrick replied, still holding his blade before him. “I don’t recognize you.”

“My name is Jaw Millerson,” the mage said, holding out a hand. “I’m new in the Torean House.”

Garrick finally sheathed his blade.

“A message?”

“Indeed, Lord,” the mage said. “Two messages, actually.”

“Go on.”

“The first is that Superior J’ravi needs your voice. The house is struggling over several key points.”

Garrick winced.

In a politically deft step that was made to draw the Freeborn together, his friend Darien—a man without magic—had appointed Garrick to his board of consultants. Garrick promised to support his friend, but he had no interest in sitting at a table when there were Lectodinians left to hunt.

“And the second message?”

“Commander J’ravi wishes you to know that his father, Commander of the Dorfort guard, is not well, sir.”