The Battlemage Read online

  In a way, he was glad at the lack of demons nearby—for it made the occasional need to relieve themselves safer. Cress had taken on the role of minder for his mother, guiding her ahead of Sheldon to the bushes at regular intervals, after Tosk had scouted them for safety first. She told Fletcher that she had cared for her grandmother in the same way, when she had become too old to look after herself. He was immensely grateful; he knew he could not bring himself to take that on just yet.

  As the hours went by, Fletcher felt oddly drowsy, as if his body could not recognize the rhythms of this new world. He supposed they had spent more time in the ether than any human, elf or dwarf ever had.

  He was not the only one who was feeling the effects—Cress and Othello were snoozing, propping themselves up against each other in the center of the shell. Sylva sat below the Zaratan’s neck, her back to him. Her head was tilted forward, as if she was staring at her lap.

  Curious, Fletcher settled down beside her.

  “What are you reading?” Fletcher asked, seeing an open book resting on her calves. It was not unlike James Baker’s, with sketches of small, insectile demons in the margins.

  “That traitor Jeffrey’s journal,” Sylva spat, and Fletcher could almost feel the anger radiating from her like a furnace.

  “Sorry,” he said, not wanting to intrude.

  He began to get up, but Sylva caught his expression and grasped his wrist.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she whispered, her face softening. “For blaming you … when Sariel died. If you hadn’t acted, none of us would be alive right now.”

  She lowered her head and looked into his eyes. There was sincerity there and … something else.

  For a moment Fletcher’s mind flashed to the moment he had buried Sariel beneath the rubble of the pyramid, along with the enemy demons that were bearing down on them. He’d had no choice … had he?

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” Fletcher said, feeling a pang of guilt, despite her words. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost Ignatius.”

  He paused, searching for a subject to get her mind off Sariel. Sadly, his first thought was not much cheerier.

  “Still, I can’t help but think that all I’ve done is delay the inevitable,” he said. “We’re no closer to finding those yellow flowers than yesterday.”

  Fletcher half expected Sylva to grow more despondent, but to his surprise she broke into a grin.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, flipping forward a few pages and running her finger over the yellow paper. “Look.”

  There was a sketch of a flower there, with a delicate stem and large petals that curved around one another in the shape of a conch shell. Below it, Fletcher could read out a short passage, written in Jeffrey’s surprisingly neat handwriting.

  Experiment 786—The Three Sister Flowers

  Captain Jacoby’s search of the ether bore fruit—or should I say, plants—today. A trio of flowering plants, each appearing near identical but for the coloring of their petals—red, blue and yellow. Clearly, they are related to one another somehow.

  From what Jacoby tells us, the red flowers (genus: Medusa) tend to grow near the similarly colored sands of the deadlands—perhaps a camouflage mechanism of sorts.

  The blue flowers (genus: Stheno) grow near salt water, which is a shame, as other than the occasional small brackish marsh, the nearest salt water is a sea, some distance from Hominum’s part of the ether. I imagine he may have used a charging stone to keep the portal open long enough for his Chamrosh to travel there and back. Impressive.

  Finally, the yellow flowers (genus: Euryale). Apparently they only grow near lava. The batch he brought us was found in the crater of a nearby volcano. It is a good thing those are common near our part of the ether.

  Though our dissection of the plants yielded poor results, Captain Lovett has volunteered to consume them in order to determine if they have any medicinal properties. The chances of poisoning are far higher than any positive results, but I say we roll the dice. After all, what else is she good for?

  Fletcher clenched his fists as he read the final sentence. How had he judged Jeffrey so poorly? He had pitied the sickly servant boy, had even seen some of himself in him. But appearances could be deceiving. Jeffrey had been as heartless as the Forsyths were.

  “Don’t you see?” Sylva asked, interrupting his thoughts. “The flower we’re looking for grows near lava.”

  She was beaming from ear to ear, but Fletcher wasn’t hopeful.

  “I mean, have you seen any volcanoes?” he asked, gesturing at the lifeless bayou surrounding them. “I know there are some near Hominum’s part of the ether, but we’re probably miles away from there and might not even be heading in the right direction.”

  “Well, send Athena out to have a look!” she said, exasperated. “We need a plan, Fletcher. Look around you. Do you really think sitting back and hoping for the best is the right thing to do? I know you’ve just found your mother, but you’re still our leader. So, lead.”

  Fletcher knew she spoke sense, but the thought of sending Athena to scout filled him with dread. He was scared of what he might see. An empty skyline, void of the telltale columns of volcanic smoke? A sea of green, with no end in sight? He didn’t want to know the answer. Not yet.

  He looked at Alice, and the gentle stroking of her hand across Athena’s back. His mother looked almost content. Why not stay on the shell, wait it out and let fate decide? He was tired of making decisions, rolling the dice. They were safe here.

  As if she could sense his doubt, Sylva laid her hand on his, her palm cool and smooth to the touch. He lifted his head and met her gaze.

  “You’ve got us this far,” she whispered. “Lysander’s too big … you’re the only one who can do this.” Her eyes were filled with hope, and he felt disgusted with himself, at his fear, his doubt.

  “I don’t want to risk it,” he said, hating himself with every word. “She might be seen. We should wait, at least until we’re farther away … we still have time. I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”

  Sylva lowered her gaze and pulled away from him, stashing the book inside her jacket.

  “Doing nothing is as much a choice as doing something, Fletcher,” she said. “It might be the greatest risk of all.”

  She stood up, swaying slightly as the shell tilted with each of Sheldon’s ponderous steps.

  “Think it over,” she said, walking away from him.

  To Fletcher’s surprise, she went to sit beside his mother. As he watched, she tugged an ivory-colored object from the coil of her braided hair, letting her tresses fall loose around her shoulders in a wave of white gold.

  It was a comb made from carved deer bone, and Sylva lifted it and gently pulled it through Alice’s hair. Fletcher’s heart leaped as a smile played across his mother’s lips, and she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying the sensation.

  Sylva did not seem to notice, instead teasing Alice’s hair with long, careful strokes until it hung straight down his mother’s back, free of the muck that had coated it, the dirty yellow soon a burnished flaxen sheet, peppered with white at the roots. Pocketing the comb, Sylva lifted her hands, and soon her nimble fingers were dancing back and forth, twisting and braiding it.

  “There,” Sylva said, tugging Alice’s hair one final time. It had been braided to fall in a thick plait down his mother’s back, and Fletcher smiled. Gone was the wild woman, leaving a frail, elegant beauty in her place.

  “Thank you,” Fletcher breathed, hurrying over to them. “She needed it. And the braid, it’s beautiful.”

  “Just something my mother taught me,” Sylva said, shrugging shyly.

  Fletcher smiled again.

  “I wish I’d had time to meet her after the council meeting,” Fletcher said.

  Sylva looked down at her hands.

  “She died when I was very young,” she said.

  Fletcher kicked himself. Of course. How had he never a
sked about her mother?

  He suddenly realized that he knew far less about Sylva than any other of his friends. Ever since they met, she had never spoken about her home and rarely mentioned her family. But when she had, it had always been about her father.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have known.”

  “No … I never talk about her,” Sylva said, her voice taut with pain.

  Fletcher said nothing. He didn’t want to press her. The silence stretched on, until Sylva finally spoke again.

  “Maybe I should,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “You would have liked her. She was brave, and loyal. But she trusted too much. She was poisoned and … we couldn’t save her.”

  She turned her head away and wiped a tear from her eye.

  “I … that’s awful, Sylva,” Fletcher said. It was all beginning to make sense. How hard it was for her to trust, to care about others. Her constant suspicion of his motives. It all came down to this.

  “Why would someone do such a thing?” Fletcher whispered.

  “It was my sister,” Sylva said, and her face turned hard once more. “She was older. Wanted to be chieftain, and knew that she was next in line. When they found hemlock in her room, we knew it was her. But we couldn’t prove it, so she was banished from our lands. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”

  Fletcher shook his head, horrified. Somehow, he had imagined elves to be above such evils.

  “So … why aren’t you chieftain then?” Fletcher asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “I wasn’t old enough, and am not even now. My father took her position. Our society passes chieftainship through the mother to the eldest daughter, or if there are none, the eldest son.”

  So that was why most of the Elven Chieftains had been female. It was a stark contrast to Hominum’s society.

  “Anyway, enough of that,” Sylva said, getting to her knees. “I’m glad you have a chance to know your own mother. She’s a sweetheart.”

  Sylva leaned forward and kissed the top of Alice’s head. And then something amazing happened. Alice lifted her hand and pressed it against Sylva’s cheek.

  “Mum?” Fletcher asked, his pulse quickening. “Can you hear me?”

  He leaned forward and peered into her eyes. For the briefest of moments, his mother met his gaze. Then her hand dropped to her lap and she gazed vacantly out at the thickening groves around them.

  Hope flooded Fletcher.

  Perhaps his mother could be saved. She needed normality, comfort and care. And he knew they wouldn’t find that out here, in this sullen wasteland. Sylva was right; he needed to act.

  “Athena,” Fletcher said, pulling the Gryphowl from his mother’s lap. She gave him a disgruntled yowl, but reluctantly unfurled her wings and looked at him expectantly.

  “How would you like to do some scouting?”

  CHAPTER

  6

  GREEN LEAVES BLURRED as Athena whipped through the canopy, searching for a tall tree to perch on. She didn’t want to breach into open air, at least not yet. Instead, she found a tall, pine-like conifer, with gnarled bark and sharp, pin-like leaves. It towered above the trees around it, and she landed with outstretched claws. Careful to avoid detection, she crawled up its trunk and inserted herself among the needles at the top.

  A few hundred feet back and even farther below, Fletcher and his team peered at Verity’s tablet, which Cress unashamedly confessed to having “borrowed” when the young noble was not looking.

  “I can’t see a thing,” Othello murmured, leaning closer to the tablet. “There are branches in the way.”

  Fletcher nudged Athena forward with a thought. Strangely, she did not seem afraid at all. Instead, he sensed exhilaration and knew she was in her element among the treetops. Gryphowls were solitary rovers by nature; never staying in one place for too long, so the unfamiliar territory did not intimidate her.

  Within the branches, Athena used her claws to push aside the green needles, then push her head through to survey the landscape around her. Using her flexible, owl-like neck, she slowly turned to give them a panoramic view of the skyline.

  “Bloody hell,” Cress breathed.

  Mountains stretched into the heavens ahead, rust red against the pale yellow of the dimming sky. They curved east, half encircling them in a sierra of jagged peaks, towering so high that the Beartooth Mountains were mere hills in comparison. To the west, a sparkling sea glimmered, with emerald-green shallows that slowly darkened into the dusky blue of fathomless depths.

  The skies were almost devoid of life, except for a few moving specks too far away to discern. A pall of clouds hung low, blocking the view directly above. A low-flying Ropen half a mile away was the only identifiable creature—a large, featherless hybrid of bat and bird, with wings of stretched membrane, a pelican-like beak full of teeth and an elongated crest on the back of its head.

  “We’re trapped,” Sylva stated, tracing her finger along the mountaintops. “Sea to the left, mountains straight ahead and to the right. We can’t get through and see what’s beyond. So we have to go back. Take our chances in the orcs’ part of the ether.”

  “Aye,” Othello agreed, shaking his head.

  Fletcher gritted his teeth, his heart was pumping with disappointment. They had lost fifteen hours since their arrival—and their way back was through desolate swamps and Sobek-infested waters. Not to mention that Sheldon was needed to get through the water: He hadn’t once deviated from his course, even when the way had been snarled with fallen tree branches.

  “Sheldon,” Fletcher said, thinking aloud. “He hasn’t turned once.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sylva asked, prying a clump of lichen from the shell and hurling it angrily into the trees.

  “Sheldon’s heading straight for those mountains,” Fletcher said, standing up and looking at the Zaratan’s direction. As if he recognized his name, Sheldon swung his ponderous head at them and blinked slowly, before returning to his lumbering across the soggy land.

  “So what?” Sylva said, though her eyes had brightened.

  “He’s heading somewhere, and he’s not built for climbing. There must be a way through. Guys, what do you remember about Zaratans? Are they good at navigating?” Fletcher asked.

  He had never really thought his demonology lessons would be important, or at least, not the lessons about obscure demons such as the one they rode now.

  “They can grow pretty big, maybe three or four times Sheldon’s size,” Cress said. “But I think that’s only the really ancient ones. Sheldon’s probably in his prime.”

  “They migrate annually,” Othello said, scratching at his beard, “congregating to breed and lay their eggs—though where wasn’t specified.”

  “When?” Fletcher asked. “When do they do it?”

  “Wintertime,” Othello said, a half smile slowly spreading across his face. “Like … right now.”

  “So unless he’s never made this journey before, he probably knows exactly where he’s going.” Fletcher grinned, and it suddenly felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. “If we stay on him long enough, he’ll take us through the mountains.”

  “You horny devil, you,” Cress said, slapping Sheldon’s shell. “You’re off to find a missus, aren’t you?”

  Fletcher burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh, and the others joined in, until their sides hurt and Fletcher was struggling for breath. Even Ignatius seemed to be happier, barking and spinning around. Athena rejoined them and settled back in Alice’s lap. For a time, at least, they were happy.

  But soon the light began to fade and their happiness with it. Their stomachs rumbled, and their flasks sloshed half-empty. Despite the apparent lifelessness of their surroundings, strange noises echoed through the treetops and nocturnal creatures prowled close by. They had left the swamplands now, and the trees were becoming so congested that Sheldon struggled to pass between them.

  Tosk was on night watch, but with every sn
ap and rustle Fletcher found himself sitting up and gazing into the gloom. He saw nothing but shadow upon shadows. Still, Tosk seemed unperturbed, even when he heard a low snarling from what felt like a few yards away.

  A moment later, in the dim darkness, a blue glow appeared, the chill light matching the icy fear that took hold of him.

  “Guys, wake up,” Fletcher whispered, shaking the others.

  “You thought I was sleeping?” Othello said, turning over and rubbing his spine. “It’s bloody impossible, with this pineapple of a shell and that racket—”

  “Quiet!” Fletcher hissed, clamping his hand over Othello’s mouth.

  Sylva was silent, but rolled into a low crouch, her falx half-drawn from its scabbard on her back.

  “Wyrdlight—over there,” Fletcher whispered, pointing out at the glow. It was growing stronger by the second, and Fletcher could see dark shapes skittering past them—tiny demons escaping the unnatural light.

  Fletcher heard the creak of wood and metal as Cress slowly cranked her crossbow; his heart hammered in his chest as he peered into the gloom.

  “Shamans?” Sylva hissed.

  The first speck appeared, glowing an electric blue in the darkness. Soon others followed. They were small, perhaps smaller than a normal wyrdlight, but brighter and more numerous, with hundreds of them spread out in a line across the forest as far as the eye could see. Stranger still, their movement seemed purposeful and coordinated.

  Then they saw it. Figures, following behind the swarm of lights, walking with the slow pace of sleepwalkers.

  “They’re combing the forest for us,” Cress gasped, edging away as the halo of light turned Sheldon’s shell a dull blue. “We should climb into the trees!”