Magic Astray (The Llandra Saga) (24 page)

The sounds of battle raged around him as he drew more and more power to channel into his effort. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck began to stand on end as he channeled more energy into the connection. His sorrow at Berry’s passing steadily grew into a white hot fury as he pushed against the conduit with all his will.

“You will close,” he growled out through gritted teeth. “I am Randall Miller, Archmage. You will do my bidding.”

As the power built, Randall wasn’t sure which would give out first: the Summoning Device or him. There was a great cracking sound as the statue of Aiden split from shoulder to hip. He stumbled forward as if he had been fighting against a heavy current that had suddenly ceased to exist, and the portal winked out of existence.

He tried to catch his balance, but exhaustion crashed into him like a giant hand pressing him into the earth. Darkness took him as he slammed face first into the grass.

Chapter 25

Randall woke slowly. It seemed as if every muscle in his body ached, and he moaned as he rolled over onto his side. He was hot, sweating, and weakly pushed the covers away from his face so that he could breathe.
Covers?

He cracked open his eyes. He was in a stone chamber of some sort. There was a lantern on a table to one side of the bed he was lying in, and the flame stabbed painfully at the back of his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut to block out the light.

“Where am I?” he croaked feebly.

“Come quick! He’s awake!” Nia’s voice was like nails against a chalkboard in his mind.

He heard footsteps rush into the room. He groaned in pain as a pair of hands levered him upright, and another pushed a mug against his lips. The water choked him as it went down, but it was cool and refreshing. He blinked his eyes open, trying to bring the room into focus.

Two women were tending to him, while Nia stood beside the bed, looking both worried and relieved at the same time. A long cut snaked along one side of her face, marring her beauty. She looked as if she wanted to leap onto the bed and hug him, but was afraid that doing so would break him. So instead, she stood beside bed making nervous, jittery gestures as the women fluffed his pillows and tried to make him more comfortable.

“What happened?” Randall asked. His memories of the last few moments of the battle were hazy, and he struggled to piece the events together.

“You closed the gateway,” she said. “And then you passed out.”

“But…how did I get here?” he asked.

“I think I can answer that,” a familiar voice answered from the doorway. “A little birdie told me that you were finally up and about.”

Randall shot upright at the sound of the voice, but white hot pain coursed through his body. Yelping, he collapsed back into the bed, clutching his sides.

“Master Erliand?” he squeaked between gritted teeth.

“Just Erliand. You no longer have to call me ‘master’. I believe you have earned that right,” the man chortled.

Randall opened his eyes again to look more closely at the man. It was Erliand. But half of his face was covered with a mass of puckered scar tissue, as was the hand that he raised in greeting.

“But, you were dead,” was all Randall could think to say.

“Practically was,” Erliand agreed. “But somehow I managed to hang on when by all rights I should have slipped away into the great beyond. I would have had an easier time of it if I’d had my talisman,” he said with a wry smile.

Randall sagged back into the pillows. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the Mage replied. “By the sounds of it, you had more need of it than I did.”

“How did I get here?” Randall asked, looking around.

“It’s a long story, but I’ll try to make it quick,” Erliand began. “We were fighting our way to the summoning site when the gateway opened completely. Boy, was that a surprise,” he smirked. “Rush of power like you can’t imagine. Or, I suppose you can.”

Randall nodded weakly as Erliand continued. “Anyway, that made it a lot easier for us, even as it meant we had more enemies to fight. I don’t believe I’ve ever had access to that much magic before in my life. We were doing a fine job of holding our own until you closed the whole thing down.”

He looked at Randall to make sure he was following before he continued. “So, there we were, a dozen Mages, fighting off the hordes, when suddenly, ‘pop’, we lost our ready access to magic, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.

“Several of us had fought our way toward your shield, because we could sense the Summoning Device inside. When the gateway closed, your shield dropped too, and we could see what you had done. Greatly diminished in power, we did the only sensible thing we could. We ran like hell, dragging you with us.”

“And Berry?” Randall asked, choking up.

“Two days ago, he was given a heroes burial,” Nia interjected. Her eyes glistened with barely restrained tears.

“She insisted,” Erliand explained. “Argued like hell to bring him along when we insisted she leave him.”

“When you’re ready, I can take you to see him,” she said softly.

Randall nodded, closing his eyes. Tears leaked from the corners, running down his face and soaking his pillow.

“Go away,” he said. “I just want to be alone. Go away, all of you.”

“Randall,” Erliand said with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “You’ve earned your time of mourning. You have given so much, and the gods know that I would rather do anything than ask you to give more. But we need you. There are still thousands of fae outside the walls of Ninove, and thousands more rampaging across the countryside,” he explained.

“We are at war.”

About the Author

Gregory L. Mahan was born in 1969 and grew up in Pasadena, Texas. Gregory taught himself to read at the age of four, and began reading anything he could get his hands on. In kindergarten, he was so dissatisfied with the small selection of “kids’ books” that he was allowed to choose from that he made a deal with his teacher: if he could read a more difficult book, and prove that he understood it, he would earn a note that would give him permission to read anything in the library. After submitting a book report on Beverly Cleary’s
The Mouse and the Motorcycle
, the note was his.

He soon discovered the works of Andre Norton and fell in love with the science fiction and fantasy genres. By the end of the school year, he had devoured all of her books that the library had to offer.

From an early age, Gregory knew that he wanted to be a writer. At the age of eight, he even asked for (and received!) a manual typewriter as a Christmas gift. Soon he was pounding out short stories for his friends and family to read. His dream of becoming an author persisted throughout high school, but then life got in the way, as it so often does. Still, throughout his life, he continued to write short stories and story fragments for himself and his circle of friends.

When he showed some of his old writing samples to his wife, Lucinda, she encouraged him to expand on and finish one story in particular—the story of Randall Miller. And so, after much hard work,
A Touch of Magic
was born.

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