Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3) (11 page)

A longboat from the other ship awaited them on shore, and what, by all appearances, seemed to be the captain of the vessel greeted them, helping pull their craft up onto the beach.

“Friends of Kevon?” Yusa asked as soon as all of the passengers had disembarked.

“Yes, I’m Bertus, and this is Britger-Stoun,” Bertus clasped arms briefly with the newcomer.

“Yusa, captain of the fine vessel moored out yonder. My men will be returning there shortly, but I can help with introductions to our other friends,” he said, gesturing to where the three Elven Hunters stood, only half-blending into the trees at the end of the beach.

Without so much as a word, the bearing of the two Stoneguard changed from that of good-natured bullies to professional soldiers. From their limited nonverbal communication, Bertus was able to spot two other Hunters stationed apart from the rest, better hidden than the ones near the obvious path up toward the center of the island.

There was something odd about the elves that Bertus could not quite put his finger on, but he said nothing. He straightened his sword belt, slung his packed saddlebags over his shoulder, and began the sandy trudge to the path further up the beach.

Captain Yusa hurried to walk alongside Bertus, while Britger-Stoun hung back, followed closely by his Stoneguard escorts.

Shadows
…

The thought drifted across Bertus’s mind as he realized what the Elven oddity was. The trees the elves stood by threw long morning shadows, but the hunters themselves did not dampen a single glimmer of light. For some reason, the first thought that came to Bertus was a poorly cast illusion by Kevon, and he could not help but smile.

“Aye, beautiful, are they not?” Yusa asked, spotting Bertus’s smile.

Having been focused on weighing the combat effectiveness of his own group versus the five elves he knew about, Bertus had not noticed that two of the elves near the path were female. His eyes moved to the one he judged to be the leader, the oldest of the group. Her arms bore vine tattoos that snaked from the backs of her hands, up, around, and disappeared into the short sleeve of her woven fiber vest. Beneath the barest exposure of midriff, a skirt woven of the same material rode from low on her hip to mid-thigh. Tattoos on her legs simulated the shadows on the rough bark of the trees that grew nearby. Her long, honey-blonde hair, plaited on the sides, gave the impression of wind-blown wheat stalks.

“When they choose to be seen, I would have to agree.” Bertus altered his stride, making sure his swinging arms were further clear of his weapons than usual, noting the easy grace of the hunters with their half-drawn bows.

“There were others to be with you,” the younger Elven Huntress addressed Bertus. “A woman, an older Warrior, at the least.”

“We were separated. Please take us to Kevon.”

The elf’s expression darkened a moment before she nodded, and turned up the path.

Bertus followed, watching the elves that drifted to their flanks and kept pace. Nearly out of sight, two of the other hunters trailed behind them.

“Your friend has almost recovered,” Yusa reassured Bertus.

“Recovered?” Bertus stopped, and grabbed Yusa by the collar. “Recovered from
what
?”

“The strain…” Yusa gurgled, prying Bertus’s grip loose enough that he could speak. “The magic, the responsibility, the poison.”

“What poison?” Bertus yelled, and the surrounding elves drew bows, training them on him.

“The assassin…”

“Marelle…” Bertus noted Yusa’s shrug. “Alanna, Marelle, whatever she calls herself now. I knew her when she was good for him.”

“Bonesage tea,” Yusa offered. “She thought she was helping him.”

Bertus shuddered. “I’ve seen what it can do. It’s outlawed everywhere I’ve been, and for good reason.”

“I don’t like it either,” Yusa shook his head. “Nor do I allow it on my ship. But it kept him moving for days while we trekked up to meet the elves, and who knows how long before that?”

Marelle, or her memory, drove Kevon to become the Hero that we needed
, Bertus thought as they followed the path inland. He shook his head and tried not to worry about it anymore.

“Mirsa?” he asked. “How does she fare?”

“Sick also, at times,” Yusa chuckled.

“Well, how…” A flash of white and a crush of snapping undergrowth turned Bertus’s attention off the path. “Was that?”

“Unicorn. Yes,” Yusa laughed. “Welcome to the Glimmering Isle.”

“
Bertus
?” Kevon asked, trying to blink away his bleary vision. “And… more… dwarves.”

“I didn’t even bring them all,” Bertus grumbled. “Left most of them on the ship.”

“Carlo? He’s not with you? And Alma?”

“Alma and your brother-in-law, Martin, are with Carlo.” Bertus placed a hand on Kevon’s chest to keep him from struggling up into a sitting position. “And several other dwarves…” he added, smirking.

“Martin and Alma?”

“I approved,” Bertus shrugged. “You’ll just have to wait.”

Kevon settled back on the bed, breaths deepening and slowing. “So tired… I just want to sleep…”

“Rest, then. We’re here. We’re safe. Carlo and Alma are well on their way to us.” Bertus moved toward the doorway. “I still need to speak with the others.”

Bertus led the dwarves out of the room into the custody of their Elven escort. “Take us to our friends,” he said, turning his head and swiveling his gaze to meet that of the silently approaching Huntmistress. “Please?”

Bertus followed the eldest elf, taking care not to stare so openly at the incongruity that the inked shadows on her legs posed as she strode shadowless along the woven branch pathways that led from building to building.

“The others are staying here,” the younger huntress gestured toward the doorway of a dwelling that stretched between two of the larger trees in the vast network of suspended buildings. “We will begin preparing another across the way. I trust you will not cause any trouble if we take our leave?”

“I can’t speak for my companions, but I’ll be good.”

The Huntress wrinkled her nose at Bertus’s jest, but the elves continued upward into the higher tiers of the aerial city’s structure.

“Kylgren-Wode!” Bertus cried as the dwarf answered the knock at the door. The two clasped arms in greeting before Bertus moved clear of the doorway to reveal his companions.

“Aye. Yusa said ye’d be along,” the ambassador grumbled.

“Don’t act so grumpy,” Bertus admonished him. “We’re all here for the same reason.”

“We need te get word back te Bargthar-Stoun as soon as possible,” Kylgren-Wode said, shaking his head. “I have reason te believe Kevon is-”

“The Mage from the tapestry in the throne room?” Bertus interrupted. “So do we. The Dwarven King is the one that showed it to us.”

“Kylgren-Wode.” Britger-Stoun stepped into the room, barely hiding the sneer in his voice.

The Dwarven ambassador shrank back for a moment in the full glare of his superior, a reminder of the dwarf he’d been during his time in the Hold. The moment passed, and he stepped forward to offer a hand in greeting the Noble. “So yer uncle has sent ye te retrieve the Hero?”

“Te protect, not retrieve,” Britger-Stoun corrected. “If he is the Hero, he’ll return on his own.”

“Well, he’s yet te stand on his own in more than a week,” Kylgren-Wode shrugged.

“He should be better after he sleeps a little,” Mirsa said, entering from a side room. “Bertus.”

Bertus drew his Dwarven-forged blade and handed it hilt-first to the nearest Stoneguard. He pulled the dagger at his belt from its sheath and dropped it behind him. Casting a downward glance to check for other metal, he stepped forward to meet the Mage’s rushing embrace.

“Don’t leave again,” she said, pushing him back after she’d finished squeezing.

“I missed you, too.” Bertus laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

“Ugh!
Bura
?” The Stoneguard in the doorway shifted to the side. Rhysabeth-Dane slipped in beside and past him, aiming the business end of her walking stick at the other burly dwarf’s ribs.

“
Zarre
…” the other Stoneguard tiptoed aside, Bertus’s sword held concealed behind his back.

“Aelion and I have finished translating the second set of symbols,” Rhysabeth-Dane announced. “He’s not certain what the other three languages are, but says one might be Myrnar.”

“Ye speak Common?” Britger-Stoun blurted.

“Aye, and yer as dahft as yer uncle,” the librarian retorted, mocking his accent. “The Elder also wishes to discuss another possibility with us, as soon as Kevon is feeling a little better.”

“Listen, you!” Britger-Stoun griped, stepping toward Rhysabeth-Dane.

Bertus tore his gaze from Mirsa, and turned to place a hand on the Dwarven Noble’s chest. “No, you listen. We’re grateful for your help. Our goals are the same. Kylgren and Rhysabeth are a vital part of what we are trying to accomplish here. Don’t try and make this about who is more important. You won’t like the answer.”

“If ye were any other Man, I’d have yer tongue cut out,” Britger-Stoun whispered in the sudden silence of the room. He sighed. “But I yield te yer judgment on this.”

“Good,” Bertus asserted. “So, then, we wait?”

Chapter 20

“I’d wager that’s more smoke than the Blacksmith’s district should be sending up,” Martin commented as they rounded the hill and Navlia came into view.

“It’s not the palace, but very nearly,” Carlo squinted to get a more precise read on the smoke plume’s origin. “Looks like we’re riding straight through.” He held up a hand to signal a stop. “Pass the rations!” he shouted. “We move again in five!”

“At least the moon is nearly full,” Martin whispered to Alma, who glanced at the sun that was just touching the western horizon.

“Take heart, tonight we dine with royalty,” Alma laughed, moving around to the dwarves to finish parceling out the evening meal.

“Or die with them,” Martin muttered to himself. The dry, dense bread lost all taste in his mouth, and he tossed the crust away from the wagon.

“Does it look bad?” Alma asked as she bundled up the rest of the provisions and handed Carlo his portion.

“The column thickens in the middle,” he answered, pointing to the middle of the smoky plume. “It could be the wind, or it might have been the worst of the fire is hours past. Either way, it still looks bad now, and we’re not stopping again until we get there.”

Carlo’s mounted soldiers milled around ahead of the wagon, watering their mounts from their own skins. The Commander chewed mechanically, finishing his meal in short order, and calling out to begin the frantic dash toward their destination.

The miles flew by, and in under two hours the light of the risen moon had seen them halfway to the base of the eerily lit cloud of smoke.

“The team needs to rest!” Martin shouted as Carlo dropped back from the head of the formation.

“We’ll go on ahead,” Carlo shouted back. “Be on your guard!” He dropped back further, and signaled for the two soldiers following the wagon to move up and flank it. Spurring the stallion back up to speed, he motioned to the riders ahead to break away, and by the time Martin had slowed the wagon to a stop, Carlo and his men were out of sight over the next hill.

The two remaining soldiers tethered their steeds to the back of the wagon, jumping down to help wipe down the draft horses before the chill of the evening could turn their sweat cold enough to endanger them. As they turned back to their own horses, the Dwarven regulars were at the ready, watering and graining just enough to refresh the animals without slowing them down.

“It’s been a few minutes since the team stopped breathing hard,” Alma observed.

“Right.” Martin glanced around. The dwarves were settled back into the bed of the wagon, and Carlo’s men were checking their saddles, preparing to ride again. “Let’s go to town.”

Carlo and his soldiers galloped single file through the opening gate, his relic shield held high as identification. He turned out of formation at the inner gatehouse, while his men surged ahead and secured the intersection. “What burns?” he demanded of the emerging watchman.

“A section of the palace wall!” the Guardsman saluted, averting his gaze. “The Court Circle has been battling the Dark Brotherhood!”

“Why have the Guildsmen not put down these rogue Magi?”

“Sir! The Guildhall has been razed… The Dark ones hunt down those with the brand. Many seek refuge behind the palace walls, but most of the Blademasters are dead.”

“Marco?”

“I’m… sorry.”

“Others follow us. A wagon and more troops. Escort them to the palace when they arrive. Protect them with your lives.” Carlo headed down toward the market square, his men spreading out in a defensive ring around him. The Blademaster pried his eyes away from the rooftops long enough to unlimber his crossbow and make sure it was ready to fire.

When they turned south from the square to head to the palace, Carlo could see that they had nearly circled the fire. The fire had been on the western side of the palace wall, near the stables and barracks, far from where the royals were housed. Remembering how completely this Dark Brotherhood had invaded the last time he was here, Carlo wondered if the attack was truly over. “Eyes open!” He called, and began the advance toward the palace gates.

The occasional eye peeking through a shuttered window was all that greeted them on their way up to the gates. The ironbound portal started to creak open, accompanied with shouts of encouragement, as Carlo and his men approached.

“To arms!” Carlo shouted, spotting the dark portal forming in the middle of the street off to the left of the gate. As he backed the stallion away, he noticed the Magi emerging from an alleyway in the opposite direction. “There!” he shouted, spinning around to face the new threat.

Two of the Magi stepped out to either side of the third, flaming spheres building between their contorted hands. Carlo swung his crossbow around, steadied it a moment, and squeezed the trigger. He tossed the empty bow to a nearby rider, and slid off his horse, sword drawn and iron-banded shield hefted defensively.