Highmage's Plight (Highmage’s Plight Series Book 1) (12 page)

From the cellar doorway, the innkeeper cautiously peered and hushed those behind him who had sought refuge in the now invaded inn.

At the sight of the beast loping past, he blanched, then noticed a temple acolyte slumped unconscious on the floor, at least he hoped he was only unconscious as he shut the door tight.

The beast did not pause as it bounded toward the stairway to the second floor. A wounded acolyte was midway down the stairs and saw the beast too late. He was casually swatted aside as it raced past. The acolyte struggled back to his feet, thankful to be alive and limped away as fast as he could, desperate to escape knowing what the beast's entry boded.

Smoke wafted from the ruins of the suite’s entry; where the doorway had stood only a great jagged hole remained. The beast slowed to sniff the air. Its eyes glowed with red fire as it padded forward and entered the room.

Only one piece of furniture lay unscathed by the damage: the bed. Upon it lay a young woman who was barely conscious, and beside her another woman watched warily, sword upraised. The man, his true prey, stood next to the bed, turning away from the stricken woman.

The man instantly became the sole focus of the beast’s attention.

The staff!
its mistress’s voice urged in its mind.
I must have the staff! Bring it to me!

The man frowned almost as if he could hear the unspoken words. He faced it squarely, holding the glowing staff. The beast took another step closer and white light flared around it repelling it. It charged back, undaunted.

The defensive field George had erected flared once more and the dark beast cried out in pain as it was flung backward. It shook itself as it rose and started to pace the dazzling perimeter while periodically glancing at them.

With startling swiftness it again charged and struck his force field. White fire silhouetted the animal as it willed itself beyond the pain. To George’s horror, he realized that the beast would soon penetrate the shield. He had to act quickly.

“Se’and, hold me!” he shouted.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed, gripping the now brightly blazing staff in his hands then slumped unconscious. Se’and dropped her short sword to the bed in her haste to grab him up.

The barrier flared suddenly so bright that the walls of the room seemed almost transparent, unable to contain the light. Shrieking in indescribable agony, the beast lost its chosen shape, abruptly transitioning into a dark bird of the same proportions. In vain it tried to fly above the barrier entrapping it to dive upon its victims from above.

The bird’s searing pain backlashed through the High Priestess’ circle, choking off the chants they used to maintain focus and add their power to her creature’s. They cried out in stinging agony.

George, his mind free of his physical body, so deeply enrapport with his staff, found himself able to “glimpse” the elvin woman who served to focus the creature’s thoughts. He could hear her mutter, “Fools!”

He felt her pour every ounce of her will into strengthening the creature's attack. The bird’s wings beat stronger, raising it gradually higher toward the ceiling within his flaring defensive field of energy.

‘Yes! Higher still!’ the Priestess shrilled, seeing through her creature’s eyes. ‘Kill the humans and bring me the staff!’

The strain of the rapport was taking its toll; George’s respiration became ragged. He knew he could not keep this up much longer. There was only one thing he could do. He dropped the barrier and the bird abruptly flew over them.

Fri’il, awakening more fully, reacted to the great bird preparing to attack them hastily grabbing the fallen weapon beside her. Se’and threw herself across their lord’s vulnerable body, even as the staff he held rigidly in his grasp fired a blast of light.

With but a single squawk the bird fell helplessly to the floor with a terrible thud. Its body shivered as George groaned. Se’and shook him, “Je’orj! Please wake up!”

His eyes opened faintly. She gasped, seeing not human eyes, but those of a bird.

George found himself elsewhere, his staff glowing wanly in his hands. He looked about carefully and concluded he was standing in a spell-enwrapped web. Thick strands clung to everything around him. This was not at all what he had expected. At this moment, he should have been one with the shape changing creature’s every thought, not disassociated from it.

He could sense the were-bird’s convulsions. Curious, he pushed past the nearest strands that blocked his path. His progress was slowed as the web drew tighter before him until finally he reached a solidly woven wall of strands. Using his staff as a torch, he peered more closely and discovered there were faintly glowing elvin runes. The characters shimmered with the were’s life energy and will.

George swung the staff high over his head then struck the entwined strands with all his might. The were-bird went rigid with shock and George paled as the world around him quaked and a scream of rage echoed around him. He smiled grimly, knowing he had succeeded. The runes here no longer functioned as intended. The were was no longer without free will.

Exhaustedly, George closed his eyes and hoped he had not been away from his physical body for too long.
 

Cle’or gasped in pain on the floor beside Balfour. He knelt and closed his eyes in concentration as Me’oh stood over them defensively. Reaching out with his senses, he probed the deep burns on Cle’or’s shoulder and upper arm. She was in excruciating pain. He dealt with that first, deeply concentrating. She moaned with relief as her pain abruptly eased.

Accessing the injury further, he focused on redirected the flow of blood then repaired the damage to her blood vessels. The healing process was slow; he dared not hurry. Since apprenticing to George, his training had relied on Staff’s knowledge and ability to augment his talent. Precious minutes passed. The burns slowly faded and the flesh became whole once more. Balfour leaned back against the wall and sighed, clearly exhausted.

Cle’or blinked her eyes wearily and glanced at her former injury, seeing pink skin where the burn should have been a raw wound.

“The others. We must go to them.”

Me’oh glanced at Balfour, “Are you strong enough to bring her, m’lord?”

“Give me a moment,” he muttered as he mentally reached out to George and his staff, but found himself blocked. He struggled to help Cle’or to her feet, knowing something was desperately wrong in the next room. Me’oh cautiously led the way.
 

George awoke, feeling half frozen. He realized that he was lying upon the bed, buried beneath layers of blankets. He was not alone. Two bodies clung about him, sharing their warmth.

Noticing he was awake first, Fri’il clung tighter and exclaimed, “Thank the Lords!”

Se’and breathed a sigh of relief. Tears in her eyes, she leaned closer, kissed him, then shouted, “Don’t do that again! We thought you were dead!”

Fri’il turned her head and looked over her shoulder, “Master Balfour, it’s working!”

“Can’t a person get any bloody sleep around here?” he replied blearily, propped up in a chair Me’oh brought from another room.

“Do try to be quiet, all of you,” Me’oh said as she rose from her post by the remains of the doorway. “Cle’or needs to rest and that bed, doubtless, cannot take much more strain.”

George glanced past Se’and and noticed the prone form beside her, then lay back and muttered through numbed lips, “Report.”

‘Your respiration is increasing to normal levels, heart rate is still weak, but improving. Monitoring functions were temporarily suspended due to the depth of our rapport. Passive conscious memory indicates that Balfour authorized current emergency revival methods. No long term damage indicated.’

“Status of our new friend here?” he asked the computer.

‘Unconscious. A state I am maintaining through the link we forged. Balfour has been checking it as well at intervals. He concludes that there is no danger of the creature awakening. All outside links to the will of its former master have been severed; although, it is still bound by enchantment.’

Fri’il rose and poured a glass of water, then urged him to take a few sips. It soothed his parched lips. She had to hold it for him ever so gently. He lay his head back exhaustedly, wishing he could untangle himself from his two caretakers as Fri’il set the glass aside and snuggled close. Yet her thoughts were dark. She had trouble understanding this man that she had been bonded to by Se’and’s brother, Vyss, who had originally been intended to be her husband.

They effectively held him pinned between them and there was nothing he could do about it.

Through his rapport, Staff commented, ‘These are not particularly unpleasant sensations.’

George sighed, wishing that when he had fallen into this world he had not been clutching the computer staff quite so hard.

‘I heard that.’

Yet beyond his vengeful humor, his condition frightened him more than he dared to consider. George had never imagined the reality of going so deeply into rapport that the computer would have been unable to monitor his physical condition, superseded by his total absorption with other matters. He cleared his throat and asked what had happened.

Se’and uncharacteristically buried her face against him, sharing Fri’il’s concerned look as he weakly muttered to himself in two timbres as if two people were talking to one another. Fri’il glanced at Balfour as he knelt to examine George.

The elfblood smiled, “No need to worry. I know both of them well enough to know everything is alright when Staff needles him like that.”

Fri’il glanced at the wanly glowing staff, her lord still terribly cold to the touch. She wondered if she had chosen wisely. She could not forget the moment he had pulled her backward, preventing her attempt to protect him from the dark mage's sorcery.

Perhaps
, she wondered,
I would have been better off choosing to bond the elfblood.
 

It was darkest night when Cle’or awoke in surprise. She vaguely saw Fri’il rise from the bed off to her right. The young woman glanced back at her deeply sleeping lord, then put on her livery, checked her weapons and crossed the room.

Faint light lit the hall, where Me’oh stood on guard. The older woman turned as Cle’or rose and in startled realization touched her upper arm. Her bodice had been burned away at the shoulder and her skin felt incredibly tender but no more.

Me’oh whispered, “Sister, rest, all is well.”

Yet she rose nonetheless, too quickly and her head pounded, her headache slowly abating.

Me’oh came over to her. “Have you scouted the building?”

“No, I’ve dared not leave all of you alone like this. Yet I’ve heard no sound of movement in the inn, either. I think us safe enough.”

Cle’or looked about and saw her weapons. She knelt, donned her livery and strapped her weapons about her. She unsheathed a dagger and pushed past Me’oh, who moved to delay her. However, the older woman recognized the look in Cle’or’s eyes and knew it would be no use.

“You need rest!” Balfour rasped as he stirred, then hurried over to them.

Cle’or glared back at him and touched her shoulder, “Why did you heal me so?”

He frowned, not understanding.

Exasperated, she stated, “I am a House Champion. I’ve earned many scars, yet healing me like this? You dishonor me!”

Angrily, Balfour responded, “You could have lost use of that arm, then what kind of champion would you have been?”

“One who bore an honorable disfigurement earned in trying to protect her ungrateful lord’s life!” He was left speechless, and she brushed past him and out of the room.

Fri’il moved out of her way and glanced at Me’oh, who whispered to Balfour, “Should there be a next time, leave her a scar.”

Cle’or warily explored the hallway. The only sign of their attackers had been a burned piece of dark fabric, not unlike that worn by the mage that had attacked them. She went cautiously down the stairs.

The inn seemed abandoned. She glanced out one of the windows and noticed that there was no sound of dogs or evidence that anyone had come to investigate what had happened. That bespoke either a powerful spell, fear, or perhaps both. She headed toward the kitchen. Pots and pans were strewn upon the floor. She paused to take a much-needed deep breath, momentarily feeling dizzy, and noted the cellar door. She crept closer and tried the knob. Finding it locked, she eased her dagger blade between the jam and unbarred the door.

The faint light of the kitchen revealed bleary-eyed frightened faces. She recognized one and smiled, “Innkeeper, our rooms are in need of some airing out.”

He stared up at her as if she were an apparition and fainted.
 

The innkeeper hesitantly came up the stairs with Cle’or, holding a lantern. The portly man looked at the damage and destruction with growing horror. “My inn, my poor inn,” he muttered. “How will I pay for all this?”

Balfour met him as he surveyed the room. “Was anyone with you hurt?”

“Hurt? No, no, when the first acolytes appeared, the guests and my staff fled with me to the only safe place I could think of. There, in the cellar.”