The Blackguard (Book 2)

The Blackguard

The Blue Dragon’s Geas

Volume Two

Cheryl Matthynssens

Copyright © 201
4 Cheryl Matthynssens

All rights reserved.

ISBN:
1497573319 

ISBN-13:
978-1497573314

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to
three of my best friends: Alex Hunt, Rebecca Hunt, and Russell Matthynssens. Alex was the one who encouraged me not to give up or give in to fear.  As my editor, he has pushed me.  We have fought, cried and danced together through the success of the first book Outcast, and through the writing of this sequel.  Rebecca, well she has put up with the two of us.  She has had to run interference many times so we both would come back to the table.  Thank you both so very much. Without either of you, this series would not exist anywhere but in the recesses of my mind.

The third person is Russell Matthynssens. He sits patiently as I read things to him. He gives ideas and feedback when I am stuck.  He doesn’t complain when the dishes are not done.  Living with a writer is a unique experience and those that do are very brave individuals.  After all, if they anger us, they die in our next book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge my beta readers that helped me so much with ideas, editing and general encouragement: C.L. Turner, Ben Harris, Matt Wirth, John Roach, Andrew Murray, and Alayna Barnett.

Prologue

The crack of the whip filled his ears, and fire lanced across his back. He arched in pain as much as his bindings would allow. His eyes focused on the flickering flame of the torch that lit the wine cellar. There were no windows, just three wavering torches that cast mocking shadows on the wall. A film of seawater and sweat stung his eyes and obscured his vision.

The mage focused on the flame again, trying to recall the reasons for his anger. His power was linked to his rage, and if he could stoke the fire of anger high enough, maybe he could find a way out. The crack of the whip sounded and his body arched. Someone moaned nearby, and it took a moment to realize that the sound had come from him. His entire back felt on fire as the crystal-barbed leather snapped again, leaving trails of welts and blood in its wake.

He forced his thoughts to the lies and betrayals. So many lies had fallen around him, from his own lips. Coming to Silverport was supposed to have been a good thing, a chance to grow into power. The whip cracked again, and the pain of the new strike across already-damaged skin brought a new level of agony. He screamed against the leather in his mouth.
 How had he come to be here? How had this happened? The darkness that threatened to claim him finally overpowered the pain of the whip, and he sank into the dark comfort of oblivion.

Chapter One

The slow, lumbering wagon and the scrabbling of korpen’s feet drowned out the usual sounds of the night, and the evening was still miserably warm, despite the fact that the sun had set behind the hills hours ago. The large beetle like beasts were content to plod down the road at a pace set for them. The beauty of the landscape was still visible, the dark rocks outlined in white shimmering moonlight.  The scent of korpen waste, dry sagebrush and the warm wind had long since melted into the background of Alador’s awareness. He sat on the wagon seat beside his father, Henrick, in silence. Alador had not uttered a word since the wagon had crawled out of Smallbrook; the fact that his father was there beside him was drowned within the symphony of words that crashed around in his mind: Alone. Abandoned. Unwanted.  The words seemed to throb in his mind with the same rhythm as the swelling in his face.

Alador was lost in his misery and feeling sorry for himself.  It wasn’t just the fact that he had been cast out
of his village for his crimes that upset him: he had also begun to realize just how much his choices regarding Trelmar had impacted everyone he cared about. He couldn’t help but wonder how Mesiande would take the news that Alador was now dead to her. His heart physically ached every time his mind touched upon the middlin he loved. She would blame herself, and there was nothing Alador could do to prevent it. She would think he abandoned her.

Alador started when his father finally spoke. “We will have to stop here,” Henrick said. Alador said nothing in response, and gave only the slightest of nods to show that he’d heard the mage.

Henrick turned the beasts towards a small grove of trees that sat nestled next to the river. Alador looked around and realized his father was right; the moon was dropping below the hilltop, and soon they’d have no light by which to travel. It had been dangerous enough even with the moon’s soft glow.  Of the many creatures that hunted in the night, most were large enough to bring down a man. Henrick turned the wagon sideways against the slight breeze to provide a windbreak before setting the brake. “I will set up camp. You picket the korpen and gather some firewood.” His father’s tone was one of authority: it was clear he expected no dissent from his son. Henrick stretched and hopped down.

Alador was still so wrapped up in himself that he didn’t have the energy to respond. He slid off the seat and slumped to the ground dejectedly, he felt ever bruise and strain from the fight that morning and from the manhandling of the crowd that had meant to hang him.

After a moment and a long sigh, he began the task of picketing the large six legged creatures. Korpen had to be picketed away from each other, or they’d tangle unmercifully around each other while they fed through the night. The beasts were far too interested in eating the grass at their feet to move, and Alador was forced to fetch some fruit to lure them so that he could tie them down with a strong rope and a stake. Alador stared at the apples in his hand and saw his sister, Sofie’s face, remembering how she would tease and hold them out of reach.  He shook himself from the memory and completed his task. Once they were picketed, the docile giant beetles set to munching on the grass around them.

By the time Alador had finished gathering the wood, his father had laid out bed rolls and had a small fire started with loose tinder that was close by. Alador was surprised by how efficiently his father had set up their camp, he’d already set out forks for cooking
, a rock ring for the fire, and even a filled water bucket. Alador set the armful of wood with a groan where his father could reach it and lowered himself slowly to the ground by the fire.

“Here!”
 Henrick handed him a small metal tin.  “Spread this where you hurt. It will dull the pain and make sure to use some on that face.  You look like some creature from tales to scare small ones.”  

Alador grimaced at his father but set about spreading the strange paste on bruises, swelling and places that just hurt.
 He gave a soft sigh of relief as the strange salve seemed to numb the pain.  He worked absently, his mind still on his miserable state. His father continued to let him mope, and Alador wasn’t going to complain about the silence.

Once the fire was blazing and a pot of water was set to heat, Henrick added some meat and vegetables. He pulled a pouch from his waist and added a pinch of herbs to the mixture, as well. Alador watched him work for a
while before the dancing fire captured his attention, mesmerizing him.

It was amazing how much a single day could change a man’s life.
  His temper had always gotten him into trouble, and his hatred of Trelmar had never been more prominent than it had been today. Alador could not deny that every fiber of his being had wanted to choke the life out of Trelmar, but even so, that had not been his intent. He’d only planned to beat Trelmar to a bloody pulp for his assault upon Mesiande.  He sighed with despair as he realized that his current circumstances were nothing but the result of his own choices. He had chosen a path that meant death for him. If Henrick had not been there, Alador would have been hanged.

A noise startled Alador from his vacant gaze into the flames and looked around, it has become dark.
 It was a cloudless night, and he could no longer see the moon, though its light still glimmered faintly behind the hills to the west. The summer heat had finally begun to fade, leaving the air comfortable again. The smell of his father’s soup made Alador’s mouth water. He realized he was actually hungry, he hadn’t eaten since that morning when he’d gotten up.  

“Wondered how long it would take for you to get there,” Henrick said, his tone held a gentle edge of understanding even though he winked at his son.
 He moved to the pot and ladled them each a large bowl.

Alador watched his father and took the offered bowl and spoon gratefully. “Get where?” he asked uncomfortably. He didn’t like that his father seemed to see inside him. He knew he’d have to guard what remaining secrets he had very closely.

“To the realization that you would be dead now if not for me. The realization that nothing you do is going to change what has happened,” Henrick answered, sitting back against a wagon wheel to eat his soup.

Alador sighed and took a couple bites. “I haven’t thanked you…I was so upset. I guess I do owe you some gratitude,” he admitted grudgingly.

“You are welcome. Are you done pouting?” Henrick asked between bites. The man ate like he was three times his size. “Because we have a lot to discuss.”

“For now.” Alador forced a small smile. Inside, he still mourned the loss of the one thing that mattered most: Mesiande. He couldn’t see why anything else mattered without her.

“Good. There are things you need to know. Let us start with the one that is most irritating,” Henrick answered after a couple more bites. “My brother, your uncle, is the Minister of the Mage Council of Silverport, and High Minister of all Lerdenia.” Henrick let that fact just lay there between them, watching his son.

Alador had still been dwelling on his losses, so it took him a moment to register exactly what his father had just said. “You mean, you’re…like the brother of a king?”
 Alador stared at his father in disbelief. He couldn’t remember his father ever mentioning anything about family before.

“Oh, let us not go that far. He is Minister.” Henrick’s words dripped with derision. “They are chosen by a council. He is not a king, though I imagine he likes to think he is. There is no royal blood in Lerdenia. It is by the power of one’s magic that rulers are chosen.” Henrick let go of his bowl with one hand and held the other out to Alador as if a magic ball lay within it.
 

“So he’s the most powerful?” Alador asked, still staring at his father. He was looking at the man in a new light.

“So he and others believe. If there are more powerful mages, they are not interested enough in politics and rule to show it,” Henrick replied.  

“Does that mean you hold a special rank, since you’re his brother?” Alador asked leaning forward with interest

“Again, not how it works. Are people wary because we are related? Yes. After all, the learnings of one brother might also be within the other. But each mage must earn his own tier placement in Lerdenia, and each tier only allows a certain number of mages, so one must be bested before another can move up to take his place.” Henrick wrinkled his nose as he spoke. He scooted over to refill his bowl.

“And you are a fifth-tier mage…does that mean you removed people to make it there?” Alador eyed his father warily. “I mean, do you kill them or duel them or what?”

“That depends on the mage being displaced, and the mage doing the displacing.” Henrick offered the ladle to Alador, who shook his head. Henrick shrugged in response and returned to his spot against the wheel.

“Have you killed mages to get to your tier, father?” Alador asked slowly.

Henrick stared into his bowl for a moment, as if seeing something unappealing. “Yes,” he finally answered. He continued to eat like there wasn’t an issue with his answer.

Alador took some time to digest that bit of information. His bowl was only half-empty, but he’d
suddenly lost his appetite. He stared at his father instead, trying to fit the image of this casual, gossiping enchanter to the man who would kill for a higher place in the tiers. It was difficult to compare the two. But then, as Alador thought about the way his father had spoken to Velkar when he had claimed Alador for Lerdenia, perhaps he could.

“If every mage must earn their own place in the tiers, but family relations don’t matter for placement, why is your brother important to my place?” Alador finally asked changing the subject.

This stilled Henrick’s eating and he stirred his soup for a long moment. “I wonder...can I trust you? I mean, really trust you?” he murmured, apparently speaking more to himself than to Alador. He looked up at his son, studying him intently.

Alador felt as if Henrick was seeing through to his very soul, and squirmed uncomfortably. He spoke to break the tension of silence that built between them. “Of course. I mean, you’re my father…You saved my life. I...why do you need to trust me?” Alador suddenly asked suspiciously.

“Your uncle, Luthian, tried to buy a very large bloodstone. It was clear. It seems the trader gave up the name of the miner who sold it.” Henrick watched his son with those piercing, soul-watching eyes.

Alador swallowed. “Me?” he asked, his words barely audible over the fire.

“You. Fortunately for you, I have mentioned the son I visit, so Luthian recognized the name and sent for me. Alador, he means to use you. I will have to deliver you to him, or lose the position I have fought for in Silverport. He will treat you like family, but you must be aware and cautious. If he can’t have the magic of that stone, he will have the person that does.” Henrick leaned forward. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

The wind gusted, and Alador shivered as the fire flared up in ominous response. He set his bowl on the ground and ran a hand through his hair, lowering his
voice as if in fear that another might be listening in. “You’re saying I can’t trust my uncle,” Alador answered softly.  “Why would he want me? I can boil water and see well enough to shoot. Not exactly sure how that’s impressive.” 

“That is what you’ve learned to do on your own, Alador, with no training and with no guidance. If the stone was harvested when you drew it from the ground, I doubt you have even begun to discover the limits of your power and what you can do.” Henrick also set his bowl aside. “Listen to me, son. He will control you or he will kill you. You must let him think that you bow to his every whim until you learn your full skills. Take what he will teach you, but do not hesitate to seek me out. No one will think anything of a son seeking out his father, even if he is in the Blackguard.”

Alador stared at his father. What kind of life was he entering, that he had to worry about his own uncle? “Who else can I trust?” he asked. He stared at his father, concern written clearly across his face.

“No one,” Henrick answered as he stared across the fire at Alador. “There is no one in Silverport you can trust.” His voice was soft and held an edge of past betrayal, his eyes showed that pain in the fire’s reflections.

Alador frowned at this thought. In the village, he could trust almost everyone. Sure, there were small feuds and jealousy, or the occasional bully. But in a fight against a common enemy, that bully would fight alongside everyone else. To live in a world where everyone was suspect and where you had to keep your back to the wall was a concept Alador was not familiar with…or eager to experience.

They were both quiet for a time, the river, the crackling fire and the crickets made a relaxing melody. “What is the Blackguard?” He finally asked.

“Good question.” Henrick pulled a pipe from his belt pouch and loaded it as he spoke, while Alador placed another small branch into the fire. “Your dear uncle and most beloved minister, Luthian, is forming an elite army of battle mages. You will begin your training in this army, the same as all half-Daezun that enter Silverport. What you make of yourself from that point will be up to you.”

“Half-Daezun…are all the Blackguard made up of half-Daezun?” Alador was surprised there was a place for half-breeds at all.