Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3) (2 page)

The Warrior waited while the farmer leaned on a shovel and looked him over. Deciding that Bertus was all right, the man called the baying mastiff to heel, and motioned the Seeker to follow him to the house.

“Weapons outside,” the man cautioned as he leaned his shovel against the wall and opened the door. “Ma never held with them, I reckon we won’t, neither.”

 Bertus nodded, lifting the quiver-strap over his head and lowering his gear to the sanded wooden deck. There was only one person in the valley he had cause to distrust, Holten. He left behind everything but his coin pouch.

“Comp’ny!” the man shouted ahead as they walked through a formal room and down the hallway past several closed doors. “Set ‘nother place!”

The table, a monstrosity at least six feet wide and well over twenty feet long, was larger than any Bertus had seen outside the palace in Navlia. Half of the available space was taken up, and one of the women who were bustling about was just placing an extra plate on the end when he and his escort entered the room.

“Welcome,” she said over the murmurs of the others at his appearance in the room. She cast an appraising glance, and smiled. “You’re new.”

Familiarity tickled the back of the Seeker’s mind, the speech and features too similar to ignore. “You’re Alma.”

Too famished to explain, Bertus refused to answer questions until after the meal was over and he’d helped clear the table and clean up the kitchen. Most of the family returned to their outside duties, and the Seeker was left with Alma, one of the other women of the house, and another fellow that refused to wander far from Kevon’s sister’s side.

“Who are you, and how do you know Alma?” the other man demanded, as soon as they had taken seats in the living area after the meal.

“Martin, calm down,” Alma advised, smoothing her skirt and lifting her gaze to Bertus. “He’s going to tell us.”

“First of all,” the Seeker began, “I must know. When was the last time any of you saw Holten Magus?”

“Almost three years a…” Martin started. “Kevon! You know Kevon! Wait…” Martin bit his lip, thinking. “A Warrior. The last Warrior that came to this valley was before…”

“Yes,” Bertus admitted. “I’m a Seeker. Kevon sent me here, to find you, Alma. And your mother.”

Alma’s eyes dropped. Martin frowned. “Last winter…” he began.

“I’m sorry. I understand. As awful as it sounds, it makes things easier. We need to leave here, at once.”

“Now see here…” Martin stood and took a step toward Bertus. “You know nothing of what-”

“You may not know me, but I know you. You’re a better fisherman than I am, though not as good a cook.” Bertus turned to look at Alma. “She is the finest seamstress in the valley, perhaps even before her mother’s passing. Kevon rode out of here more than two years ago on his father’s mare. He needs you to trust him, to trust me. You must leave this place, to journey across the Realm, across the seas, to him. To safety.” Bertus stood and squared his shoulders toward Martin. “He is my best friend, and I will see this done as he asked.”

“I believe him,” Alma said, standing beside Martin and sliding her arm around his to clasp his hand. “We need to go.”

“Yes,” Martin agreed. “
We
do.”

“I have enough coin to buy just about anything we need, but we need horses more than anything right now.”
And a sword,
Bertus thought, longing for the weight of the ancient blade he’d grown so used to carrying at his side.

“Coin is not as precious here as it may be in the rest of the Realm,” Martin cautioned. “We have something better.”

“The whole farm?” the boy asked, eyes scrunched up in disbelief.

“Yes,” Martin sighed. “And all of the sheep. We only need three saddle horses, three saddles, a sack of oats, and all the food and water your father can spare. Quickly.”

“I’ll tell him,” the boy said, wheeling the borrowed horse around toward the road. “I’ll probably get a whipping though, for lying.”

Bertus flipped the boy a gold coin from his pouch.

The boy caught it, looked it over, and tossed it back. “That’d get me a whipping for stealing. No thanks, mister.”

The Seeker laughed as the youth galloped down the road to try and convince his family that they were trading into a new farm.

Martin had Bertus help saddle their plow-horse and load it up with supplies they already had on hand. Alma brought out changes of clothing and blankets, along with an assortment of knives from the kitchen. She handed Bertus a long, sheathed skinning knife, which he immediately affixed to his belt, giving a different kind of comfort than the simple iron band that he wore on his right hand.

They had gone through the house and packed away everything that was small enough to take, and useful or valuable enough to barter away later, when the boy returned with his father.

“What’s all this nonsense?” the man demanded, jumping down from his horse to glare at Martin and Bertus.

“The offer is good, but I don’t see what we asked for,” Bertus snapped.

“The boy was…”

“Telling the truth? Yes.”

“I’ll have to…”

“This delay was not part of the bargain,” Bertus scratched his arm, drawing the man’s attention to his sword-brand. “I have the authority to seize anything I may require, in the name of Prince Alacrit. I had hoped to avoid doing that.”

The boy, who had already dismounted and was helping Alma finish packing, turned his head to conceal a smile.

“I’m sorry, many pardons,” the man stammered. “I accept, I’ll prepare…”

Bertus’s icy gaze followed the man as he fumbled with the reins and climbed unsteadily back into the saddle. “Hurry,” the Seeker hissed.

Hours later, Bertus directed Martin and Alma off the track near the beginning of the high mountain pass that led out of the North Valley. “That’s far enough for today,” he announced. “It’s best to start out easy, get used to the road.”

“We’d not make the top of the pass before nightfall, at any rate,” Alma agreed. “Besides, the ‘Dancing Sheep’ is less than a day’s ride from here.”

“Kevon made it sound like no one…”

“Things have changed since Kevon was here last,” Martin said, swinging down from his horse and stepping over to help Alma dismount. “I went halfway to Eastport already this year to get a new ram for our flock.”

Alma cupped Martin’s face in her hands. “We made it through last winter. We’ll make it through this.” She laughed. “Whatever this is.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Bertus led the horses a short distance away and began caring for them as the others lit a campfire and started preparing supper.

“You never really mentioned what this is all about,” Martin commented, brushing stray breadcrumbs from his tunic as he finished his meal. “We’ve taken this all on faith. I think it’s time we knew what was happening.”

“Normally, I would wait for Kevon to tell you himself,” Bertus began. “I can’t keep this from you that long, though. Kevon is no longer in Kærtis, or even on Purlon.”

“Where?” Alma squeezed Martin’s hand tighter, and leaned in closer to the fire, squinting across the flames to Bertus.

“Across the sea, fleeing from Holten Magus and the authorities in Eastport.” After waiting for the initial shock to fade from his companions’ faces, he continued. “Kevon has defied the Warrior’s Guild, and has no doubt angered whatever Councils the Magi have to maintain order among their ranks. In addi-”

“Wait.” Martin interrupted. “How can Kevon even be accused of defying the Warrior’s Guild?”

“He currently holds the rank of Adept, and is skilled enough to advance to Blademaster, if they would only let him attempt it.” Bertus chuckled. “He helped train me, even after he revealed himself as a Mage.”

“Is that why Holten Magus was pursuing Kevon? Why neither of them have returned?” Martin stood and began pacing about.

“With any luck, Holten Magus perished in the realm of flames he fled to when he could not defeat us.”

Martin’s hand moved to the knife at his belt. “How dare you speak of…”

“You did not know of his plans, just as Kevon did not, at first,” the Seeker explained, motioning for Martin to calm himself. “Here, you likely heard nothing of the orcs and demons that we faced over the last two years, or the true monsters behind them. Your Holten Magus was foremost among them.”

“I heard rumors about creatures that attacked under cover of darkness, but saw and heard nothing on my journey,” Martin admitted. “I assumed they were just children’s stories.”

“It was no story that bit my friend in half. The nightmares we hid from at night were as real as the two of you. It still unnerves me to greet the dark without torches or castle walls.”

“I’m sorry I doubted,” Martin crouched by the fire again beside Alma. “But none of this explains how Kevon has gotten so far in the Warrior’s Guild without being able to use a sword.”

“That’s the thing everyone is so upset about,” Bertus laughed. “He has been using swords. And magic. Not at the same time, really. It’s complicated. And there’s this,” he flashed the ring on his right hand before waving it off. “It’s a long story, and we’ll have time to talk about it more on the way back to Navlia.”

Chapter 4

Flakes of ash drifted down onto Kevon’s shoulders, and he brushed at them, managing only to streak his tunic with more of the greasy grey soot. He reined his horse in, and turned back to wait for the others.

By the time Alanna pulled alongside him on her mare, he was nearly through rinsing out the cloth he’d been using to cover his mouth and nose. The covering was snugly back in place when Mirsa and the dwarves rolled up in the wagon.

“We can’t continue in this,” Kevon cautioned. “We need to find shelter, and hope for the wind to shift again in our favor.”

For the first time since the plume began nearly three days ago, the falling ash now completely obscured the erupting peak to the east.

“It should discourage unwanted followers, at least,” Alanna remarked, brushing soot from her mouth covering.

“The folk of Malcaea are not likely to be deterred by this,” Mirsa countered. “Our horses are barely slowed by the ash, as we sit and suffer.”

Kylgren-Wode snuffled through his thick mustache. “Reminds me of the smithing district in the Hold.”

“We’ll push ahead,” Kevon decided. “Stay close to the wagon.”

Alanna rode to the other side of the wagon, and Kevon began his spell.

A dome of Air and Movement coalesced over the group, moving along with them, stopping the falling ash, but obscuring their view.

“Gah!” Kevon exclaimed, shifting his concentration to churn the settling ash away from the front of the dome. After a minute of adjustments, the dome was shortened and flattened, dropping down to just above his eye level, allowing the ash to swirl from the edges of the barrier down to the ground, but sparing the horses and his companions from breathing it in.

“Better,” he decided. “Let’s move while this holds, and hope we find something else before much longer.”

The abandoned forge was not sealed completely against the falling ash, but did not require the constant attention of the Magi to maintain, as the spell had. Kevon sat near the open end of the structure until well after dark, rising occasionally to patrol around the building. Only when the falling ash slowed and the crescent moon poked through the clouds did he wake Kylgren-Wode to take over the watch.

The Warsmith settled into the corner between where Alanna had spread her bedroll, and where Rhysabeth-Dane sprawled across Mirsa’s sleeping form, snoring faintly. He gazed out at the countryside, blanketed in dull gray ash, lit by the slowly brightening moon. The still night air hung hot and dry against his skin, and Kevon smeared streaks of ash across his forehead wiping at the thin film of perspiration. He drained the last few tepid mouthfuls from one of his water skins, and drifted off to sleep.

The ground beneath Kevon’s bedding shifted as he slumbered, loosely packed earth near his shoulder dipping while the compact earth under his head remained firmly in place. He awoke with a sore neck from the unusual sleeping position, his shoulder and arm dug down below him, his neck resting flat on the bedroll on the lip of the depression.

“What in the world…” Kevon threw back the blanket and rubbed at his neck. “Stupid…”

His punch at the dirt in the bottom of the dip resounded with hollowed tones. “Eh?”

Disappointment turned to curiosity, and he pushed dirt to the edges of the hole, uncovering a wooden surface.

“What’s that?” Mirsa asked, stirring from her blankets.

“I’m looking…” Kevon peeled his bedroll from its place, and began scooping handfuls of dirt from the depression, and piling them in the empty corner. “A box?” He reached the edges, and scraped enough from below the top that he could grasp the short sides with his fingertips and wriggle it a bit. “I’ve almost… There!”

The box slid free, the considerable weight inside it shifting with a dull clunk. Kevon strained, sliding his fingers from the sides of the box to the bottom, finding a better grip. He hefted the container up to the side of the hole he’d dug, and pushed it away from the edge.

“Someone’s coming back fer this,” Kylgren-Wode said, peeking over Kevon’s shoulder as he opened the box, revealing hammers, tongs, half a dozen iron bars, and various iron and steel scraps.

“Yes,” Kevon frowned, looking to the still, cold forge across the open room. “I don’t imagine anyone would just leave this here…” He closed the box, and stood, moving to the open end of the building.

“We’re low on horseshoes and nails, there won’t be a better chance to resupply than now.” Kevon glared through the ash-filled sky to the East, where the outline of the volcano, and its thick plume still blocked most of the morning sun.

“There’s coal in the bin outside,” he told Alanna. “A pair of upturned barrels out back,” he pointed to Kylgren-Wode. “Could we manage to fill them with water somehow?” he asked Mirsa.

“Do ye think we should let the Mage come in fer lunch?” Kylgren-Wode asked, pausing the bellows before speaking.

“Ten spare shoes and a pouch full of nails,” Kevon fished the glowing arc from the coals and used a punch to tap out the final two nail holes on the shoe. “I’m ready for lunch.” He dipped the finished shoe in the nearby water barrel, swirled it around until it stopped sizzling, and set it and the tongs atop the anvil.