Fire Mage (Firecaller Series Book 1) Page 6

  Nate’s whole body strained with the effort of appearing calm. He watched Argus as he strode ahead, trying to understand his reasons for the lie. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Argus. I’m the bastard son of a highborn mother who got herself pregnant to the wrong man. I’m even the grandson of a powerful member of the Mage Council. But I’m not the son of a royal prince.” He ran a few paces to keep up with the mercenary, who seemed to have almost completely recovered from his wound.

  The reminder of the power that Argus’s master wielded sent a chill of fear through Nate. The decision to avoid Argus’s master was a good one. He put one hand over his bag, where it lay against his side. At least he still had the lava salt; he wasn’t completely without resources.

  Argus stopped abruptly and turned back to face Nate, his eyes steady and unblinking. “Now that King Harad is dead you are next in line. My master says it has been seen in the Royal Flames. If he is to seize power, Prince Lothar must kill you,” he said. “If he does not, he will go to the coronation ceremony and burn to death in the Royal Flames. He is somehow controlling the Flames now, during the mourning months, but at the coronation, there is no magic in the world that can overcome the Royal Flames.”

  “This is insane. You must see that it cannot be true.” Nate ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Whatever else, I know my parents weren’t married.”

  Argus glared at Nate, taking a step toward him, and pointing at Nate’s chest with one thick finger. “I don’t know what stories you’ve been told, or why they were told to you, but I do know you are the next in line to the Flame Throne of Ignisia. For this to be true, your parents had to have been married, and your father had to have been Prince Raffeus. This is unexpected; it was not known that the prince married before his death, or that he had sired a son. Lothar certainly did not know it before he killed King Harad.”

  Nate took a step backward, shaking his head. “What? No. The king died in a hunting accident. Everyone knows that.” Who was this man to be making such accusations?

  Argus paused, his dark eyes boring into Nate’s. “Lothar has been planning this for many years. He is a skilled manipulator. Never underestimate what he can achieve.”

  “I’m not the person he thinks I am.” Desperation clawed at Nate’s insides. This was all a misunderstanding. It felt like he was inside a kaleidoscope that was being turned to show different patterns, none of them the right one, and he didn’t know how to get out of it.

  “Lothar must now kill you for his plans to rule Ignisia to succeed. He has killed before and will kill again.”

  “No. It’s not possible.”

  Argus just looked at Nate, his grim features tight, his dark eyes burning even darker. “He thought he had the throne; he had killed and schemed to get it. When he saw your face in the Flames, he went into a screaming rage. Now he must fix the problem before he sits on the throne in two months’ time. He is a desperate man.”

  “How could you possibly know all this?”

  “My master is a skilled mage with connections at every level.”

  Nate studied the big mercenary’s expression; Argus believed every word he was saying. He took a deep steadying breath. “I appreciate you saving me. I would be dead if you hadn’t. But you’re wrong about my father.”

  “Why do you think the Royal Hashishin were hunting you?”

  Nate paused, trying to devise an explanation for why he had been targeted by the elite royal soldiers. His mind was a blank. It made no sense. “My grandfather...?”

  “Your grandfather might be a powerful mage, but he does not have the power to send the Royal Hashishin to kill you. That is a right reserved exclusively for the king.” Argus paused. “Nor would he care if you were killed. There is no point threatening you or killing you in order to get at your grandfather, even if that were something the king-in-waiting desired.”

  The words were true. Nate knew they were true. But it still hurt to hear them spoken aloud. He cleared his throat. “Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly.

  Argus nodded and strode away down the path. Despite his size, he was graceful in his movements along the trail. Nate silently followed the mercenary, climbing over and around the large boulders that littered the path. His brain was trying to make sense of what Argus had told him. It contradicted everything he knew; everything his grandfather had ever told him growing up.

  Minutes later, as he turned a sharp corner in the path, he almost ran into a horse tied to a scraggly branch. The chestnut whinnied and tossed its head.

  Farther along, Argus stood with another horse, a large grey stallion snorting and stepping around him. The animal sniffed at Argus’s hands for a treat, and Nate was surprised to see a sugar cube disappear between the horse’s lips.

  Nate put his hand up to the chestnut and let the quiet horse sniff his palm. It snorted, blowing onto his hand. He put his hand up to its neck and patted, scratching behind the ears and down the nose.

  “You’ll need these.” Argus threw a pair of leather trousers at Nate, and a thick leather jerkin to put over his shirt. Soldier’s clothes. “We need to be a little less obvious.” He glanced at Nate’s tattoo. “At least as far as we can.”

  Nate shrugged. He had been tattooed years ago, when he finished his mage training. He hadn’t been sure they would do it, right up until the end. He’d often thought it was the idea of having to tell his grandfather that he’d failed that made his teachers decide just to let him pass. Since then, the jagged raven tattoo that beat its way across half his face, over his head, and down his back had become as much a part of him as his eyes or his nose.

  But it wasn’t exactly subtle.

  He pulled off his rough trousers, and put on the soldier’s leather gear.

  Argus looked him over. “If it weren’t for your tattoo you could pass for a soldier.” He handed the chestnut horse’s reigns to Nate. “Get on. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  The mercenary didn’t move away to climb on his own horse; he stood waiting for Nate to swing into the saddle. His dark eyes watched Nate impassively. In that moment, Nate could see Argus knew he planned to disappear.

  He looked down at the reigns in his hand, then back at the mercenary, and felt guilty. He owed Argus his life. But he wouldn’t walk into a trap, just because a man saved his life. “Argus, I give you thanks for your assistance.” He paused. “But I’m not going to this master of yours.”

  Argus’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. Nate felt unease stir in his chest. He’d been so concerned about the wolvans and the lavaen that he hadn’t properly considered Argus. Here in front of him was a man who had taken out three Hashishin with barely a scratch. Then he’d gone out to face the wolvans on his own.

  “I’ll buy this horse from you,” babbled Nate. “I can give you some lava salt. I’ll just disappear for a while; hide out until the ashes cool. Lothar will never know.”

  The big man took a step closer, looming over Nate with his far greater height. “He will know. You are forgetting that he has access to the Royal Flames,” he said. “He will see your face and where you are, every time he asks.”

  Nate let out an impatient breath. “The Royal Flames? Look—”

  “We don’t have time. Even now, they hunt us.” Argus grabbed Nate’s arm, turned him around in a swift move that Nate didn’t even see. Even as he struggled as hard as he could, Argus tied his hands together behind his back. The rope was rough, and burned at his already broken skin. He pulled his hands against the bindings and kicked out with his legs, but he was no match for a trained mercenary.

  Argus threw a sack over his head, blocking out much of the light and making every breath Nate gasped smell like hay, manure, and something desperately rotten. He breathed in short, panicked breaths, and his head felt dizzy. Through his panic, he caught a whiff of something else. Underneath the other smells, something sinister curled its way up into Nate’s nose. He shuddered, knowing what it was, feeling its effect on his senses alre
ady.

  Baneberry root.

  A secret well kept among mages. The burlap sack was soaked in its juices, and it would prevent him from using any of his mage skills to escape. It would also knock him out.

  This new threat had Nate struggling again. The combined rotten smell and the baneberry root inside the sack made him gag. Bile rose in his throat. Even as he was choking, Argus pushed him to the ground, and tied his legs together. Then he lifted Nate, and dumped him onto the saddle.

  Nate’s chest hurt and he was sweating. He couldn’t think properly. Panic burst inside his head, and his vision clouded.

  And then there was nothing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tall, blackened trees loomed over Jena. She stood on the verge of the Forest of Ghosts, hesitating. There was a palpable air of doom around her, and it felt almost as if something was pushing her physically away. The forest was engulfed in a curling mist that masked whatever lay beyond its edges. Branches reached into the sky, skeletal fingers grasping toward something only they could see. At ground level, moss and small vine-like plants covered the trunks and roots, each racing for survival in the forest’s desolate landscape.

  Everything was in tones of grey, as if the colors had been drained out. Sounds, too, were muted, with no birdcalls or insect sounds. The whole effect was haunting and unreal. A dusting of cold air pushed at Jena, and a chill rolled down her spine.

  She had arrived. But she didn’t want to go in.

  Her whole body was covered in dust; bruises stood out high on her arms and legs, while scratches raked down her arms. Her feet had blisters on blisters, and her side throbbed where she had fallen down a roadside bank the day before. Her eyes were swollen and itchy. The bag on her back had worn into her shoulders, and in some places, the weak scarred skin was bleeding. She’d made healing salves when and where she could, but for the most part she’d just had to grit her teeth and continue.

  Worst of all, she ached from where Thornal’s raven had repeatedly flown into the skin on her side and then pulled itself free again. After the first time, it had insisted on attaching itself to her stomach and side, instead of her arm. She couldn’t entirely blame the raven for its preference; her arm wasn’t big enough for it to spread its wings. The creature had been living free for years now. Attaching itself to her body as a tattoo must have felt like being chained to the earth, while looking up, knowing that it could fly.

  The bird was now wheeling high overhead making the most of its freedom. It would have to come down and attach itself to her before she entered the forest. The raven seemed to know what she was thinking and uttered a single caw before circling down to land on her good shoulder. It ruffled its feathers and then cawed again, this time in a more demanding tone.

  Jena lifted her shirt to expose her waist. The raven took flight, wheeling back around, and flying straight for her stomach. She tensed for the sharp pain and then gasped when it burst bright and clear, as the raven hit her body.

  The raven flattened, and ripples of black spread out over Jena’s skin, before reforming into the flat drawing of the bird. The now-familiar tattoo spread across her stomach and halfway around her back. Deep blue-black in color, it was so detailed that she could make out the individual barbs on the feathers. Black eyes glinted up at her from a point just below her belly button and the wings spread in flight across the burned mottled skin on her side, creating bumps and swirls in just the right places.

  There were hints of it in the Book of Spells. She had spent time going through the book in her head, trying to find something that explained what was happening. It talked about a mage and his tattoo communicating; but there was nothing about a tattoo removing itself from its mage’s body, taking shape and then living on after its master died.

  There was certainly nothing about a tattoo being able to fasten itself to a new person. Her hand clenched around the pouch of ashes in her pocket.

  What had Thornal done?

  Every instinct she had was screaming for her to turn around and run, to leave this place, and never return. Entering the forest was madness, a leap of faith she shouldn’t take. But the ruffling feathers on her stomach seemed to be telling her to hurry up, and reminded her so much of Thornal, that she took a deep breath, and set her shoulders. She had to trust Thornal. He’d said she would be safe here.

  But Jena couldn’t help the shiver that roamed her body, or the goosebumps that rose on her good side. In an already harsh land, one that kept its people bound to difficult lives, this forest was renowned. Rumors told of death and destruction, pain and misery to all those who entered. It was called the Forest of Ghosts for a very good reason.

  Taking a step forward, Jena reached up and pushed aside an overhanging branch. She took another step, then another. It seemed as if the trees were leaning down to press in on her, to push her back. The thick mist covered her like a cloak she didn’t want to wear, and she lost any sense of daylight just moments away from the forest’s edge. Even the air around her seemed menacing, and she had to force herself to keep moving.

  A long silken strand feathered across her face, and she twitched her head against the ticklish sensation. Another long piece of silken thread landed on her arm. She stopped, using her other hand to push it away.

  Looking up, she saw that some of what she had taken to be mist was actually silken threads over the forest’s trees. She touched a dangling gossamer strand, and a tremor rolled its way up the delicate line. At the top of the strands, beautiful little silk worms spun and glittered in the dim light. She watched, fascinated, as new strands appeared almost immediately, where she’d destroyed the previous one.

  More threads were drifting down onto her arms, sticky but light to the touch, and she rubbed at the soft intrusion. But instead of falling away, the strands clung tighter, and they were joined by a dazzling array of new strands that were attaching themselves to her body, forcing her arms to her side. Jena looked around wildly, trying to see what was happening. Surely, it wasn’t the silk worms? The tiny delicate creatures didn’t seem capable of such a thing.

  At her sides, the strands tightened, forcing her into action.

  She opened one hand, and cast a small white flame. Setting it against the semitransparent threads dangling around her, she burned away the worst of the strands attaching themselves to her body.

  It worked for a moment.

  Then the delicate strings seemed to double in numbers. At first, she couldn’t understand how they were growing so fast, and then she saw it. Hundreds of tiny silkworms were crawling over her legs, weaving their sticky strands and throwing them around her body.

  A guttural noise emerged from her throat, and she turned. She had to get out the way she had come. If she could just get to the light, then she could deal with the worms.

  But as she turned, all Jena could see were burned and blackened trees surrounding her in every direction; they leaned down with their twisted limbs, attempting to suffocate her. She spun around in a panicked circle, and the mists curled around her. She couldn’t see the way out, even though she’d only come a few steps into the forest.

  As the silkworm strands gathered around her body, closing her arms against her side, and holding her legs together, she fell to her knees. She kept using the fire in her palm, but they were too fast. Tears squeezed their way past her closed eyes. She was tired and sore. Thornal had been wrong. The promised sanctuary had turned against her.

  The sharp peck on her stomach made her blink. She looked down at her waist. The raven. She gave herself a mental shake. This place was getting to her, even inside her head. She had never been a quitter before.

  Frowning, she realized there was only one way out of this. Thornal had given her the ability to fight back using mage spells. There must be a better spell to help than the fire in her palm.

  No sooner did she think it, than a spell for calling animals popped into her head.

  Silkworms would be affected by it, she was sure, and it seemed simple enough.
She muttered the spell under her breath, focusing on opening herself to the minds of the small creatures.

  A humming noise entered her head, then a tune.

  It was the music of the worms, their working song. She hummed in time with it, discovering that instead of thousands of individual minds surrounding her, there was only one larger collective silkworm mind.

  They might be tiny creatures, but they had a strong, clear hive mind, set on doing what they did best: creating the beautiful silken strands that were their masterpieces.

  Through the tune, Jena sent the silkworm mind warm thoughts about both their beautiful creations and how much she appreciated their efforts. A feeling of warmth and satisfaction flowed back to her.

  They understood.

  Trying to control the elation that was flowing through her, she took a deep breath and asked them to weave their strands elsewhere. Almost afraid to look, she peered down at the tightening strands through half-clenched eyes.

  The response was a quickening of the tune playing in her mind. The strands started to expand, growing even faster than before. Her breathing became panicked and short. Her spell had somehow backfired. Then she felt an odd sensation moving over her body. To the faster beat of their tune, the silkworms were crawling away from her onto nearby trees and plants. The extra strands they’d made had been to create their path away.

  Her shoulders sagged in relief.

  She managed to grab the Hashishin knife at her waist, and used it to free first one hand, then her arm, and then her whole body of the silken strands. She kept humming the silkworm song, sending thoughts of apology to the hive mind, but they didn’t seem to mind that she was destroying their hard work.

  Finally, she was free. Wiping the last few strands from her arms, Jena looked around. She’d lost all sense of direction in her panic; the forest was the same on all sides.

  A desperate need to move pushed up within her, and with no other way to find the proper direction, she closed her eyes and turned in a circle on the spot. She stopped at a random moment. When she opened her eyes and looked in the direction she was facing, it seemed the same as every other part of the forest: smoky, dark, and inhospitable.