Dragonvein Book Four (12 page)

He raised his hands and concentrated. The turf over to their right began to stir as if caught on a stiff breeze. “
Ina Zailis Varta,
” he commanded.

A large portion of earth, leaves, and grass rose a few inches above the ground. Tiny sparks sizzled and popped within the mass, culminating in a bright flash and a loud crackling sound. Where the forest debris had once been, there was now a set of pants and a shirt.

The elf gave him a sideways glance. “Human magic is...peculiar. I have never seen it performed first-hand before. But now that I have…” Crossing over to the clothes, he examined them closely. “Very peculiar.”

After putting the garments on, it was immediately obvious that they were rather too large for his slim frame.

Martok extended his arms and spread his fingers. “
Varta Mol
.”

The clothes began to shrink. For a moment the elf was startled, but before he could do anything, the spell was complete. Both the pants and shirt now fitted him perfectly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Can all mages do this?”

Martok laughed. “No. Transmutation is far from easy. Most of them can create nothing more than small objects – trinkets and baubles. Only those with great skill can make complex items.”

“And what do you expect from me in return for your kindness?”

Martok could see that this was a genuine question, put to him without a hint of malice or judgment. “I seek nothing from you,” he replied.

Shelraya knitted his brow. “It was my understanding that humans always expect payment. Are you saying this is untrue?”

He considered the question for a moment. “No. It is true…for the most part. But as you have nothing I desire, there can be no payment.”

“I see. And should I possess something of value, would you
then
wish for payment?”

“That would depend. But I did not help you in the hope of receiving a reward.”

“I know. When you did your healing, a portion of your heart was revealed to me, as mine was to you. In particular, I saw your great dislike for those who prey on the helpless. So in a sense, perhaps you have already received payment.”

Martok chuckled. “That's one way of looking at it, I suppose.” He paused before adding: “However, now that I think about it more, there is perhaps one thing you could give to me.”

Shelraya's eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

“Your company for a while longer. If you would like, you can join me at my camp. It would be very interesting to learn more about you…and your people.”

The elf shook his head. “I cannot. The humans you chased away were only able to capture me because I was trying to protect my daughter. I
must
go to her.”

Martok gave an understanding nod. “Then don’t let me delay you any longer.”

With a brief raise of his hand as a parting gesture, Shelraya set off nimbly through the trees and brush. In almost no time at all he was completely gone from sight.

Martok found himself considering their encounter for some time before starting back to his camp. He had never imagined that he would get to speak with an elf, let alone save the life of one. And now that he had briefly touched Shelraya's spirit, everything he'd been told about elves was coming into question. They were not savage brutes who lusted for blood and relished the screams of their victims. Yes, they were certainly dangerous. But not aggressively so.

He had met several dwarves and usually found them to be guarded and deceitful. Their hatred of the elves was no secret, though he had attributed this to the long history of war between their races. He'd also assumed that the hatred was mutual. But perhaps not. He recalled the men saying that the dwarves were paying a bounty for an elf – dead or alive. Perhaps the elves were merely reacting to those who meant them harm.

As he set off back, he resolved to investigate the history of this further. There was clearly more to the past than he was aware.

He spotted a patch of wild strawberries and stopped to fill the pouch on his belt. These and the jerky he had brought with him would have to serve as his dinner. Though the hunt was ruined for now, he still had three more days in the forest to look forward to before returning home.

There was still daylight remaining by the time he arrived back at camp, so on a whim he made his way to a nearby river and spent an hour or so sitting on the bank while reading a book on magical theory. Having been written in the very early days of the mages, it was mostly rudimentary information. But it did give him insights into the nature of magical power at a time when it was believed to be a channeling of spiritual energy from ancestors. Only later was it discovered that, in truth, the power originated from the heart of Lumnia herself.

The hunt next day went reasonably well. Though the wild boar were elusive, he did manage to kill a young buck. Venison wasn’t Martok's favorite meat, but it was still far better than the fare at any manor.

As the sun waned, he leaned back on his elbows beside the fire and watched as a portion of his kill slowly roasted to perfection. He took a long breath and smiled with contentment. There were times when he wished he could stay in the forest forever. He loved his home, and since returning here from Kytain's care two years ago had made vast improvements not only to the house itself, but to the surrounding lands as well. He had increased his family’s holdings significantly – an accomplishment largely thanks to the tutelage of Kytain in the skills of negotiation and diplomacy.

His father had returned from the Dragon Haven the day before his sixteenth birthday. He recalled the distraught look on Kytain’s face upon receiving the news that Ralmar was back and desired his son to come home. By way of softening the blow, Martok had promised to visit his mentor often – a promise he duly kept by staying at the Prustoni estate in the summer and then returning to Dragonvein Manor just in time for the harvests and trade negotiations.

Martok was also pleased that Kytain and his father had become friends. Though not exceedingly close, their mutual love for him ensured a bond of which the other great houses were acutely aware. This went a long way in helping him to make a good number of highly advantageous deals. Kytain had continued to grow ever more influential, and by now had more than doubled his wealth. Though there were growing whispers that he had become too powerful, no one had the courage to openly say a single word against him.

A rustle in the nearby brush roused him from his musings.

“Peace, Martok Dragonvein,” came a strong male voice.

A moment later, Shelraya stepped out from the darkness. He had shed the clothes previously conjured for him and was now wearing tanned leather pants and a light cloth vest. A long blade hung from his belt.

Martok smiled a greeting. “I thought elves were stealthier than that,” he jested.

“It is not wise to startle a mage,” he replied.

“No, I suppose not. But I am pleased you decided to take me up on my invitation.”

The elf’s face was dire as he knelt across from Martok. “I have not. I have come to repay my debt.”

Martok waved a dismissive hand. “That is unnecessary. I told you before. There is nothing you have that I want.”

“I regret to say that you are mistaken. I have information.”

The tone of the elf’s voice told him that something was very wrong. “What is it?” he asked.

“Your house will soon be under attack.”

He stiffened. “Attack? By whom?”

“That, I do not know. When I spoke with my kin of our encounter, they told me they had come across a group of five humans three days ago in the woods several miles north of your home. They overheard them speaking of the assault. I know no more than this. My people moved on so not to be discovered.”

“And you are sure of this?” Martok asked. It was a pointless question. The look in Shelraya’s eyes already told him the answer.

“My kin would not be mistaken in what they heard,” he said, rising back up. “And now, I believe my debt is paid.”

Even as Martok was scrambling to his feet, the elf had already vanished into the night. In a mad flurry, he gathered up his belongings and doused the fire. Who would dare attack Dragonvein Manor? Surely no one would be so bold…or so foolish.

Even with magic aiding him, it would be late into the morning before he could reach his home. His father was a powerful mage and could match anyone in Lumnia save for a counted few. But five… Fear threatened to rob Martok of his wits at the thought of what might be happening. Or worse, what might have already happened.

Only with a tremendous effort was he able to stifle his emotions. He needed his mind to be sharp. And if anything had befallen his father, that's when he would let loose his wrath. Until then, he was as a cold stone…just as Kytain had taught him.

The ground began to swirl at his feet as he loosed his magic. The trees he passed quickly became nothing but a blur as he propelled himself with blinding speed toward home.

* * * * *

By the time he drew close, fatigue was seeping into his limbs from the extreme exertion of maintaining the traveling spell for hour after hour. But he was strong, and far from spent.

              The outer buildings of the manor prevented him from seeing the ground floor of his house, though the tall spires and upper walls were clearly visible. At first glance, everything appeared to be fine. Perhaps the elf had been mistaken? This hope had barely formed when an ear-splitting crack, followed by a pillar of flame shooting skyward from the far side of the main gate, dashed it completely.

Again he renewed the spell, and in less than a minute was at the corner of the wall. Here, he paused for a moment. His old instincts would have had him charging blindly on, but these days Kytain’s tutelage had taught him the value of caution. A headlong assault may initially surprise an enemy, but unless you know their strength in advance, it can also end in your defeat. Never strike without looking unless there is no other choice was wise advice.

He peered around the corner into the courtyard just in time to see a flash of green light streaking toward a group of five men positioned one-hundred yards away from the gatehouse. All were clad in blue robes with gold sashes tied at the waist. The attack had come from just beyond his line of sight, but he did not need to see to know who had launched it. His father.

The light was driven harmlessly into the ground by the mage standing in the center of the group. Martok recognized him instantly. Desmond Bronstar. The others he knew as well. Mostly they were from minor mage houses known to be aligned with the Bronstar family.  

The ease with which his father’s spell had been deflected set his panic racing. That meant he was already severely weakened. Desmond would be no match whatsoever for him on equal terms. And as for the others, they were far from being counted among the great mages.

As all five formed a line and spread their arms for a unified assault, Martok acted.

“
Sinsa Mai
,” he roared. “
Turbinis Felhaal
.” His voice echoed loudly, as if coming from within a great chamber.

Before the mages could turn to face him, a cyclone of fire and earth exploded into life directly above Desmond’s head. With only a split second to spare, he was just able to jump clear and deflect the spell sufficiently to avoid being consumed.

Undiminished, the veering tempest swung toward the mage to Desmond’s right. With terrified eyes bulging from his head and mouth agape, the young man did his best to cast some protection around himself, even though for someone of his limited abilities he must have known it was a futile exercise. Martok’s magic was far too strong. As his dying screams tore through the air, Martok switched his attention to the attacker nearest to the gatehouse, while simultaneously pursuing another with the cyclone.

“
Moro Lomjasa…Initsia
.”

A sphere of blue light encased the panic-stricken mage. Like his already destroyed comrade, he frantically cast spells in order to save himself, and met with the same total lack of success. Grinning viciously, Martok closed his fist. There was a sizzle and dull thump as the sphere closed in on itself and vanished. The mage was left standing there as motionless as stone. He remained like this for a moment and just had time to see the cyclone of flames claim another screaming victim before a colossal rupture from within had him erupting in a mess of blood and organs.

By now, Desmond and the other remaining mage had come together and were jointly immersed in trying everything they knew to disperse the still threatening cyclone. In fact, they had succeeded in weakening it to a degree. Not that it mattered to Martok. He simply allowed it to dissipate completely.

Perhaps imagining a victory in this, Desmond glared at Martok with hate filled eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, lizard. I never liked the idea of destroying your house while you were away. I wanted you to witness the fall of your wretched family first hand. But Sylas…he has a soft heart. And for some odd reason, he loves you. Even more than he does his own brother.” He snorted contemptuously. “I can’t imagine why.”

The revelation that his uncle was somehow involved in this outrage struck devastatingly home. Of course, it could be a lie, Martok considered. An attempt at distraction. But something deep inside was already telling him that it wasn't. But he would deal with it soon enough. First of all, he intended to see that Desmond paid dearly for his actions.