Highmage's Plight (Highmage’s Plight Series Book 1) (11 page)

George watched her stalk off, while Fri’il looked at him, then glanced at Se’and retreating back.

Cle’or said, “We have wasted enough time. If we push the horses we should be able to reach Edous before dusk.”

“You’ll like Edous,” Balfour said. “It’s a decent sized city-state, although a tad boring.”

“I can do with boring,” George said.

’Se’and’s kinda cute when she’s mad.’

George leaned on his staff and muttered, “Shut up.”

Fri’il frowned, “What?”

“Uh, nothing, just thinking aloud.”

‘She’s cute too.’

“Shut up.”

Fri’il glanced back as Balfour struggled to not laugh.

Me’oh brought over salve, “George, this should help with those saddle sores. Could you use any help with it?”

“No!”

Balfour fell down laughing. Staff at least had the grace to keep its mechanical thoughts to itself.

The acolyte ran up the steps past the gleaming stone columns of the ebone rock used to build the Temple. The structure dwarfed the other buildings lining the square.

The black robed priest he reported to was skeptical, but allowed him to proceed. The young acolyte had the merest trace of elvin blood, but it was enough to wield magery. He bowed low, entering the study of the woman with long flowing black hair, her black robes silken. “High Priestess, I am honored!”

“Speak quickly and do not waste my time!” she rasped as she fed her pet, a black-furred beast rising on its haunches and growling at the acolyte. The creature shimmered and transformed into a large black feathered bird, squawked and leapt to its perch., and eyed the acolyte hungrily.

“I bring a warning, mistress! A new power has entered the city!” he shouted.

“Bah!” she exclaimed as the bird fanned its wings. “I would have felt such a thing! You waste my time!” Raising her hands, she began to cast a spell that would teach the lowly acolyte a lesson he would not soon forget.

The acolyte shrilled, “Please listen to me, mistress!”

She relented and altered the spell. The acolyte trembled as he felt the force of her magery build around him then settle within. He stiffened, thinking back to the arrival of the strangers. She saw them in his memory with acuity far beyond mortal seeing.

He had first seen the elvin half-breed dressed in the mountain furs. Only the faintest aura of the gift clung about him. His was clearly a paltry gift that might best manifest a weak skill for healing, something even the acolyte could not mistake for a major power.

He had observed the other members of the party, all human. The sight of the black cloaked Cathartan escort was curious. What errand for their sire would bring such people here so far from their cursed land?

Perhaps they bore a bespelled charm or talisman? The acolyte’s memory focused on the human male with a staff tethered by his knee.
He was rather strangely dressed. His tunic and pants were of an unusual fabric and color. The acolyte noticed the faintest aura of magery about him. It was instantly clear that the man had no trace of elvin blood, no inborn mage talent. Abruptly, that very impression vanished, making the acolyte wonder if he had really seen anything at all.

The staff suddenly drew the acolyte’s attention, he recalled. It briefly glowed with an immense aura of power. That must be the source of the magery. A mage’s staff lay in the hands of a human!

The High Priestess returned to the present aghast. That staff blazed in her mind with the purest power. It was disguised by a powerful spell that must have been forgotten in all but the oldest of Elvin Lore.

“I must have it!” she shrieked. She shouted for her gray robed servitors, old human males long sworn to her dark master.

They hurried to her from the adjoining room and quickly removed the acolyte’s wilted body. They did their best to avoid looking at the burned cinders that had been his eyes. As they carried him away, the dark bird squawked, straining to reach the fresh meat.

“Oh, not for you, my sweet,” she laughed, “soon you’ll feast upon a foolish human who fancies himself a mage!”

George tried not to gawk as they rode through the city of Edous. All thought of his saddle sores and the pains of actually riding a horse were forgotten. The city was incredible. Narrow streets filled with people hocking wares. A mother glanced out her second story window, saw their escort, then shouted to her children to come inside. The woman’s fear was much less interesting than the window’s wooden shutters beside her. He marvelled at the intricate workmanship and skill.

Ox drawn carts laden with produce halted for them as they passed, while his black cloaked escort smiled thinly as they watched the crowds. He felt as if he had gone back in time and was glimpsing an ancient city out of the Middle Ages. It was an archaeologist’s dream. Yet, in truth it was this particular archaeologist’s nightmare.

They reached their destination and the youngest member of his Cathartan escort, Fri’il, hurriedly dismounted and rushed to help him. Less awkwardly than he imagined, he got off the horse. She looked at him as if in reproach and took the reins.

He groaned, wishing he could have found some way to turn down the unwonted gift of their four member escort. The women had ignored their offer of release from service. As far as they were concerned, Sire Ryff’s lifebond to serve and protect them was inviolate.

George’s musings were driven from his thoughts as Balfour reached the door to the inn and spoke to Se’and, the nominal leader of their escort.

“I’ll handle this,” he assured.

She looked at him condescendingly. “Master, I’m quite experienced in these matters. But, if you would like to make our arrangements, please do.”

George, frustrated, explained, “I would like to get some rest, so if we could just get on with it, I would appreciate it.”

Se’and straightened and bowed, then held the door for them to enter.

“M’lord Je’orj,” she whispered, “you do not yet comprehend the honor my sire has granted you both.”

“That’s doubtless true,” he replied.

“Welcome to Edous!” an old innkeeper greeted. He suspiciously eyed Balfour in his mountain garb. “It is you, master Winome. It has been some time since last you passed this way. But surely you are a healer by now.”

Balfour winced. Years before he had come through Edous on his way to the Imperial Healer’s Hall in the Aqwaine Empire. He smiled, putting aside the memories of his failure. Things were different now that he was George’s protégé.

The innkeeper nodded at the elfblood’s companions.

“How may I serve you, Master Winome?”

“We are a party of six and seek suitable lodgings for the night. Preferably two rooms and an adjoining bath,” the young elfblood added, glancing at his companion, who could not quite hide his saddle induced limp.

A pained look crossed the innkeeper’s face. “I’m so sorry. But I’ve no such available. Perhaps you might care for space here in the common room?”

Balfour opened his mouth to protest, when Se’and abruptly confronted the man.

“That will simply not do, sir. We are a Cathartan Household and must have private accommodations suitable to our station. We will take your best rooms for a fair remuneration, of course.”

The innkeeper smiled and cleared his throat.

Piqued, Balfour was ready to interject as George placed a restraining hand on his arm. He sighed as Se’and smiled thinly. The innkeeper named the price, to which she responded, “That’s a price for a room in the Empire, but here in the Crescent?”

He protested.

She raised her hand, “Does not Cathartan gold still bring higher value in the exchange?” She jingled her weighty purse.

Greed gleamed in his eyes. “Say a gold per suite per day?”

She chuckled. “Let’s see the rooms first just to be certain they a worth such a price.”

With a clap of his hands, the innkeeper grinned. “Right this way, my lady.”
The innkeeper brought them to a hall of vacant, mid-sized rooms, none impressive to George but suitable enough to rest in. They looked upon a simple room with a wide bed and a small window overlooking the street.

“Balfour and I will take this room, you and the others may take another,” George commented casually after the innkeeper left with Se’and’s gold for the night’s lodging in his hands.

Se’and simply smiled at George and shook her head, following him into the room. “I stay with you as is my duty. Me’oh will join Master Balfour in the other.”

The elfblood healer glanced behind him as Me’oh took his bag to the other room. She paused, waiting for the elfblood at the door.

“My lord?”

Balfour swallowed and glanced at George helplessly, then noted the same look on his friend’s face. Se’and, in the meantime, set their bags down defiantly.

“This is not necessary,” George stated, already knowing such protest was futile. “I am quite capable of protecting myself.”

“That’s debatable, but not the issue, m’lord,” she said as she closed the door. She had picked up calling him “m’lord” again. “We have our duties to perform and it is best you come to accept our role,” she added, assessing the large single bed in the room.

George cleared his throat and leaned heavily on his staff, “This is not Cathart, Se’and. Men are not an endangered species as they are in your land. We don’t need to be protected at the cost of your very lives.”

Se’and shook her head. “Accept that we are yours, body and soul. We are a Cathartan house by bond at my sire’s word. There can be no higher responsibility.”

“You know what I intend,” he said, even at that moment feeling the inexplicable pull westward. “You know what I must do.”

“You are Summoned,” she replied, having seen the impact of the spell take its physical toll on him. “We will accompany you to the Empire and help you find the answers you seek. But understand we intend to do our duty.”

He could hear the pleading note that underscored her words. “Understand and respect that and matters will be much simpler.”

He moved across the room and gazed out the window. His protests were indeed futile, while she could not understand the distance between them.

Viewing the city from this vantage, he slowly closed his eyes and concentrated, opening himself to rapport. As Se’and watched him standing there, his staff began to glow. The disguising wooden image grew faint, revealing the scaled wyvern hide insulating it that lent the staff its camouflage. The crystal staff’s glow danced in response to George’s thoughts.

The city rose before him in his mind’s eye. Lines formed, creating a map in relief. The true details of the city’s foundation, hidden beneath grime and myriad structures, formed. The only difference between this visioning and so many others he had had over the years was that this site was not an ancient ruin needing painstaking extrapolation. This was a place that should exist only in the much vaunted past, not his here and now. His consciousness expanded outward, touching the reality that was the city-state of Edous. He did not belong here; wherever here was in the cosmos.

“This isn’t even my world!” he said breaking rapport, opening his eyes wide.

Se’and frowned at how forlorn he looked, the staff once more appearing to be a thing of wood.

“An even better reason to trust my judgement, m’lord.”

Sighing, he heard the door open and could see Fri’il and the fierce looking Cle’or, with their baggage in hand, talking heatedly about something. Se’and fought hard not to laugh at George’s puzzled expression. Abruptly the conversation ended and Fri’il hefted her bags and entered their room with a sheepish glance at the staring George.

“What was that all about?” he muttered as Fri’il secured the door behind her.

Smiling broadly, Se’and shook her head as Fri’il blushed and headed toward the adjoining bath chamber and said, “I’ll see to your bath, m’lord.”

“Fri’il, set those over there, your sleeping mat is on the floor there. Then see to it that dinner is sent up.”

The two women left him alone while the staff in his hand sparkled, remarking something unheard to everyone but George. He scoffed and mumbled back to it, “Oh, just mind your own business.”

Steam rose from the tub as George lowered himself gingerly. He sighed as the hot water soothed his aches. Picking up a bar of sweet smelling soap he began scrubbing the dirt from his skin. After a while, he sat back and took a moment to luxuriate in the peace and quiet.

Abruptly, Se’and and Fri’il entered the chamber, wearing only their bodices and sleek knives strapped to their legs. Embarrassed he ordered them out. They smiled back as Se'and grabbed a bar of soap and Fri’il moved behind him to massage his shoulders.

George hastily tried to launch himself out of the tub, then quickly thought better of the idea and hurriedly covered his privates. With a thin lipped smile, Se’and started rubbing soap into his hair. Swallowing angrily, thinking enough was enough, he shut his eyes tight and concentrated, then mentally “pushed” the two grinning women away.

Shoved roughly backward, the women steeled themselves for the fight. They had expected and prepared themselves for his magely trickery. Se’and took a firm grip of his hair, and held on for dear life while Fri’il dug her fingers into his shoulders, putting painful pressure on his nerves. The force exerted against them suddenly eased as George grunted in pain.

Grinning, Se’and asked, “Going to behave yourself?”

He turned his head and glared at her.

“You will let us do this properly,” she asserted, and yanked on his hair for good measure.

He gazed up at the ceiling and realized he had dropped the soap. Sighing, he acquiesced.

Fri’il gently massaged his neck and back as Se’and took great pleasure in working out the tangles in his hair.

Finally, finishing their ministrations, they left the chamber. Gratefully, he rose halfway from the tub then paused, looking about for the towel. He was certain that it was near a moment ago, then noticed that his clothes were gone as well.

During his momentary confusion, Se’and and Fri’il burst back into the room with the towels to dry him. He gaped, stunned as the two now naked women dried him thoroughly before ushering him out. Each gave him a quick kiss on the cheek for his good behavior.

He glanced back as Se’and got into the tub, while Fri’il added more hot water from the stove before helping wash her hair. He left one of the towels behind as he struggled to think about something else, anything else.

It was bad enough
, George thought,
that to get home I must follow the Summoning’s lead. I’m not going to let them mess with me, demanding I play a role in this marriage-by-bond tradition
.

Me’oh had since taken up guard duty. She asked him if she could help him dress for bed. He simply stared back at her then said, “No, thank you.”

She grinned, “You will learn to appreciate our ways.”

I hope not
, he fervently wished. He wanted to get off this world and back home. He swallowed hard and asked Me’oh to turn around. He wanted some dignity.
 

The streets cleared as grey-robed acolytes of the temple appeared in the quarter. They began surrounding the inn. The city guard then decided to patrol another district. Sight of the acolytes also caused the quick barring of windows. When all was quiet, the black robed priests and the High Priestess of the Lord of Demons herself approached, accompanied by her shape-changed and now dark furred hellhound.

She motioned to her minions, who flocked to her. “I want them all dead and the staff brought directly to me. My pet is only to be used should any of you fail me.”

The acolytes paled. “We will not fail!” they averred.

Her smile chilled them as she waved them away, while a half dozen of her priests remained by her side. “The human will see what true power is just before he dies.” She chuckled, knowing that soon the staff would be hers.
 

George slept fitfully with Se'and resting soundly beside him. Sweat gleamed across his brow as he fought in the thrall of a familiar nightmare. He dreamt of standing at the dig, examining the two peculiar stones that had apparently served as the base for an arch, then falling, seemingly forever. He relived the fight with the wyverns and the outcome in his nightmare was the same as in his waking life. To relive it as it happened was terrifying all the same.

‘George, wake up, your heart and respiratory rates are dangerously elevated. Recommend entering primary rapport mode.’

Se’and was shaking him as he opened his eyes and whispered, “You were shaking and crying out. Are you alright?” Fri’il rose hurriedly from her sleeping mat.

Se’and frowned as he merely muttered, “Report.”

‘You seem to have had a powerful stimulus from the Summoning.’ The probability is high that it is a warning. Alert status is advised.’

George glanced at the softly glowing staff leaning against the bed board. Fri’il and Se’and were looking at him in concern as they saw him nod and mutter, “Scan and wake Balfour. I fear we may not have much time.”

“M’lord?” said Se’and.

The staff flared and the scan swept through the building and the outside environs. He smiled grimly, “We’ve company coming, ladies.”

That said he hefted the now brightly glowing staff across his lap, which muted the light it cast.

“Robbers?” Se’and questioned, shaking her head.

“Not common ones, if they are. They seem to have magical assistance from the feel of it. Fri’il, back your sleeping mat away from the door and take a position over there.”

The staff flared with brilliant light as Fri’il moved to her new post and drew her short sword. They all grew quiet and watched the door. Se’and poised on her knees atop the bed, her bodice’s drawstrings still loosened for sleep. A bead of sweat dropped from George’s brow as he deepened rapport with his computer staff. More and more functions were taken up by the recesses of his mind as the staff’s glow dimmed to the light of a burning ember.

George whispered to Se’and, “We wouldn’t want our friends to know they are expected.”

After a time, the floorboards outside began to creak under foot.

There was an abrupt hush outside, then red fire engulfed the door and it burst asunder. Fiery splinters rained across the room. For a moment, Fri’il was forced to shield her eyes as the first grey- robed figures rushed inside, silhouetted by the smoke and flame.

Se’and drew and cast two of her daggers into the smoke, even as George hissed, “Don’t kill them!”

“Will they do less?” she hotly replied as her victims fell back wounded.

“Don’t kill!” he demanded even as cries of pain could be heard from the other suite.

The red fire that had shattered the door gathered itself, while George hastily peeled back the disguising leathery hide from the tip of his staff. Revealed was pure glowing white crystal, which surprised Se’and. George grimly looked at the balled fire which now hovered above the remains of the shattered door, then used the pent up force he had stabled in his mind and sent a pure bolt of white fire into the magical force rising against him.

The explosion was deafening to the gray robed minions seeking to charge into the room behind the dark force. They were knocked backward into the hallway, unconscious. A blast of purest malevolent intent abruptly shot into the room as a black-robe figure strode through the doorway.

White fire flared from George’s staff and deflected the blast. The figure cupped his hands and red energy welled as he readied another attack.

Fri’il cast a dagger at him as she moved to put herself between her lord and harm. “No!” George shouted even as the black-robed mage chanted an incantation.

Her dagger slowed in midair as George leapt forward and grabbed the young woman backward with one arm. The black-robed figure’s chant ended as the dagger stopped and spun back toward Fri’il.

Energy flashed from the blazing crystal staff, blasting the dagger as George fell backward onto the bed with Fri'il struggling in his arm, desperate to defend him. A ball of energy shot from the priest’s hands and was upon them. There was a terrible flash of light and an explosion.

The resultant blast shook the very walls.
 

Staff’s shrill warning had awakened Balfour. He woke Me’oh and Cle’or and alerted them to danger. In the melee that soon began, Cle’or fought their attackers with unmatched fury, her sword a blur of motion.

The legendary skill of Cathartan swordswomen was revealed to be no mere boast to the acolytes, who dodged back out of the room. One cried out to someone yet to be revealed as the window overlooking the balcony shattered. A black-robed figure stood there with hands raised, chanting. Me’oh threw one of her daggers, which bounced off him.

Hearing the spell forming, Balfour concentrated and without uttering a single bespelled word reached out with his gift. Stretching out his hand, he lightly touched thumb to forefinger and the black robed figure, who he recognized as a servant of the Demonlord, staggered, clutching at his throat, the spell forgotten as he struggled to breathe. He desperately gasped out the final words of his spell and Balfour’s bed burst into flame.

Cle’or ignored the distraction to pursue her attack, forcing the last gray-robed minions back. They shouted for help and the sound of running feet confirmed reinforcements a certainty. Me’oh pushed Balfour back into a corner, holding her sword poised for defense as Cle’or readied herself.

Still without uttering a spell, Balfour gazed at the burning bed and concentrated his will. The flames were smothered, suddenly starved of the oxygen upon which they fed. The gasping dark-robed priest stared in astonishment, one echoed by the circle of priests working in concert with the High Priestess below, whose combined strength powered the dark spells being used this night.

With the last of his strength, a bolt of energy blasted from the choking priest’s hand and arched toward the elfblood. Balfour tried to ward it yet knew it was futile, even as he released his mental hold on the mageborn’s windpipe. The dark figure sank to his knees and sucked for breath.

Cle’or grimaced and leapt between the blast and its target, even as Balfour concentrated on deflecting it. It veered minutely from its deadly course and glanced off Cle’or.

Her shoulder and arm were outlined in red ethereal fire, taking the partial blow. The rest struck the wall deafeningly, only inches to Balfour’s right.

The mageborn eyed him darkly as he rose once more, but this time Balfour was without mercy, believing Cle’or dead. He gestured once more and the black-robed figure clutched his chest as his heart ceased to beat. He fell backward and faded out of existence.

The acolytes who had appeared in the doorway saw the vanishing and fled. An explosion from the next room echoed through the hall.

The priests’ deaths reverberated through their circle’s link. At the death of the first priest at the elfblood’s hands, they had hurriedly sundered their tie before taking the full brunt of his agony. But this second demise had come too soon after the first and caught them totally unprepared. Never had they seen a spell work so fast or thoroughly.

The High Priestess swayed elsewhere, images dancing in her mind. One priest felled, his heart crushed by the young elfblood’s ethereal grip; another dead moments after the explosion. The latter’s last glance showed to those bound to her circle that which should have been impossible; the man with his staff yet lived.

One moment the human was destined for death by their combined might and in the next, triumphant. In sympathetic reaction, one of her priests clutched his face, feeling the terrible burns their colleague had suffered as if they were his own. In shock, the High Priestess realized that she had grossly underestimated her opponents. In her recklessness she had not recognized that the man must have a strong tie of elvin blood and that his companion must be a mage as well, one who had somehow cleverly concealed the breadth of his gifts.

However, all was not lost. She shouted an order to release her beast. “My pet! Kill the human mage and bring me his staff!” The creature bounded toward the building as her dazed acolytes hastily moved out of its way.

“Focus!” she screamed at her priests, calling the circle back to its work.