The traitors spell an ep.., p.1
The Traitor's Spell: An epic fantasy adventure (The Magic Circle Book 3), page 1
By P.C. Darkcliff
The Magic Circle Series
The Wrathlord Invasion
The Wizard’s Blade
The Dragon’s Eye
The Traitor’s Spell
The Warrior’s Call
If you haven’t read the prequel novella to the Magic Circle Series, The Wrathlord Invasion, you can grab a FREE digital copy by signing up to my mailing list at: www.pcdarkcliff.com/subscribe
This book is dedicated to my parents.
I’m sorry for ripping that bedsheet while playing with my sword.
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Daring Scheme
Chapter Two: Over The Monsters’ Frontline
Chapter Three: Under The Battered Steel
Chapter Four: In Gorgoth’s Lair
Chapter Five: Dangerous Rite
Chapter Six: The Assault
Chapter Seven: The Fated Fireball
Chapter Eight: Baard’s Dilemma
Chapter Nine: Edgord
Chapter Ten: Something Drastic
Chapter Eleven: Two Deaths
Chapter Twelve: The Search
Chapter Thirteen: The Meeting
Chapter Fourteen: The Return
Chapter Fifteen: Greetings And Farewells
Chapter Sixteen: Falling Net
Chapter Seventeen: Dar Kahar
Chapter Eighteen: The Apprentice
Chapter Nineteen: Commotion In The Circle
Chapter Twenty: In A Trance
Chapter Twenty-One: Exorcism
Chapter Twenty-Two: Silver Magic
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Suspicion
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Lesson
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Shocking Discovery
Chapter Twenty-Six: Head of A Dying Man
Chapter Twenty-Seven: In The Cavern
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Another Suspicion
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Amulet
Chapter Thirty: In The Dungeon
Chapter Thirty-One: The Visit
Chapter Thirty-Two: Obstinate Guards
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Killing
Chapter Thirty-Four: Nerah’s Decision
Chapter Thirty-Five: In The Turret
Chapter Thirty-Six: Interrogation
Chapter Thirty-Seven: In Ambush
Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Ritual
Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Circle Closes
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Glossary
The story so far
(This refresher contains spoilers.)
At the end of last summer, Baard Thon was a simple logger who dreamed of a life of adventure but feared he might never get the chance to leave his village. Then his sweetheart, Diara Corwyn, fell into the claws of Wrathlord Zaagretaah, along with the crown princess and dozens of other girls, and Baard embarked on a quest to save them. Although he had befriended powerful mages along the way, only his blind sister, Elya, accompanied him into the realm of the Wrathlords—and she was killed by Zaagretaah.
Her tragic death gave Baard the Might and helped him find a magical sword, the only weapon that could kill a Wrathlord. Armed with the sword and accompanied by an army of Firelves, Baard returned to the Wrathlands and destroyed Zaagretaah, turning from a country bumpkin into the hero of the insular Realm of Thorstorm.
That did not end his trouble, though. The princess’s father invited Baard to the palace to reward him, but Baard refused because the king had mistreated Elya. The ruthless king imprisoned him for the insult, but Baard managed to escape, along with Ufi, a former jester who became his best friend.
The king died, Princess Cantria became a queen, and Baard managed to raise a dragon. And yet, the biggest danger was still to come. The realm’s remaining Wrathlords, Gorgoth and Aascotaah, ordered armies of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels to invade the human territories in retaliation for Zaagretaah’s death.
Due to treachery, the humans and Firelves lost the first battle. But as they managed to kill the Wrathlords’ main spy, the Middleman, they cautiously hope for an ultimate victory . . .
Chapter One:
Daring Scheme
A chilly wind blew from the Harshwind Mountains and whistled among the leather tents of the human and Firelven army. It ruffled Baard’s long, fair hair and made him feel as if icy fingers clawed at his beard. Walking beside him, Diara huddled in a coat, her thick, black braid hidden under a fur-trimmed hood. Snow crunched under their boots as they patrolled the encampment.
Baard often glanced at the no man’s land, the vast plain that separated them from the frontline of the Wrathlords, Daemorcs, and Corpsentinels. It had been a fortnight since the last battle. Everyone feared the monsters would soon counterattack to further devastate his army.
The relentless wind tugged on the guy ropes and twitched the flaps as if it wanted to peek inside the tents. It stirred eddies of snow and fanned the dying embers of cooking fires, making them glow red. A few hours past its zenith, the late-winter sun struggled to burn through the mist that wallowed on the no-man’s land.
Baard cursed when the wind brought a faint groaning. Gravelackers, the rotting, staggering undead were coming. Although they had gorged themselves on the flesh of those who had died on the battlefield, the Gravelackers seemed to be hungry again. They circled the encampment, drawn by the smell of blood and pus that came from the infirmary, where hundreds of soldiers were still recovering from the battle.
Calmly like a weathered warrior, Diara reached for her sword belted over her coat. She was the only person Baard had brought to the frontline from his old life, and she was not the girl she had been back in their village. She still had those dark, cat-like eyes that had made him fall for her years ago, and the rosebud lips that made him think of kissing. Her eyes were now more knowing, though, her smile much more seldom. They both had undergone enough dangers for a lifetime. And reeled from the lost battle.
Drawing his magical sword Dragonfang, Baard hurried over the trampled snow toward a thicket from which the groaning came. Diara rushed behind him, and about fifteen soldiers outran them, their swords unsheathed, their conical steel caps glistening weakly in the winter sunshine. All those who had escaped the battle unscathed patrolled around the camp to prevent the Gravelackers from creeping into the infirmary . . . while keeping an eye on the no man’s land to make sure the towering Daemorcs and antlered Corpsentinels weren’t coming.
As he rushed after the soldiers, he spotted his friend, Ufi. He was coming at a fast trot from the other side, along with Al’Anark, the Firelven chieftain whose army had helped Baard conquer Zaagretaah.
“Let’s go get them, human pals!” Al’Anark shouted in his slightly nasal, yet pleasing voice, brandishing his magical Dhra’ackenhernd. His long, pointy ears twitched with excitement as they stuck from masses of tangled hair, which fell to his waist like golden ropes. His eyes shone with the lust of a hunter above his bulbous nose. He had lived for centuries, mostly turbulent ones, and no danger seemed to unbalance him.
“Let’s kick their rotting butts!” Ufi called. He wore a winter coat over a mail shirt while Al’Anark only wore a gray woolen tunic, and yet they seemed to be of the same species. Ufi also had unruly hair, although brown and shorter, and a perpetual grin on his lips and mischief in his eyes. And just like Al’Anark, he disdained danger as if he were immortal.
Baard was about to call back when about two dozen undead crashed from the thicket, bent, twisted, and shuffling, yet surprisingly fast. The horses that were picketed behind the nearest tents screamed in fear. The stench of rot made Baard gag. The undead got so close he could see the black circles under empty eyes. Some of them had only two holes instead of noses, and most gnashed protruding teeth under gnawed-away lips. Their ragged clothes were wet from melted snow and covered with dirt and dead leaves.
Al’Anark raised his right hand, the palm up, as if he wanted to shield his eyes from the weak sun. A large fireball blasted from the palm and barreled into the nearest Gravelacker, making it stagger and fall. Ufi whooped. The Firelf’s ears twitched as he blasted the monsters with a few more fireballs.
Then the soldiers reached the undead and started slashing at them with swords and battleaxes. The Gravelackers would not truly die until they burned to ashes, or until their heads were split or taken off. They growled and groaned as they tried to push through the wall of soldiers, driven toward the smell from the infirmary.
Someone screamed in pain; Baard’s Might told him a Gravelacker had clawed at a soldier with sharp fingernails and made him bleed. That meant trouble. The undead circled the soldier, groaning in frenzy, going berserk from the scent of fresh blood.
The other soldiers shouted as they tried to save their comrade. Baard, Diara, Ufi, and Al’Anark rushed forth to help them. Baard grabbed a female Gravelacker by her thin, long, hair, pulled her aside, and swung Dragonfang at her rotting neck. As she dropped, Baard dragged away another one to behead him. The throng swayed as the Gravelackers managed to topple the wounded soldier; everyone shouted while hacking at them or pulling them off. It was a gruesome task, but the undead did nothing to defend themselves, for they were blind with bloodlust.
As they lay still in the gory snow, Baard’s eyes flicked around for Diara. She stood over a headless Gravelacker, blood dripping from her sword. Although
The wounded soldier had a few scratches and bite wounds but was conscious and tried to stand. “Those rotters,” he groaned, visibly in shock, his lips tremulous under a droopy mustache. “What did they do to me?” Two soldiers helped him up and led him to the infirmary.
Then Diara exclaimed, “Over there!”
Baard cursed as he looked the way she pointed. Another dozen or so of the living dead were coming. He hefted his black sword, ready for another fight, when an enormous shadow glided over the groaning, staggering horde. Dhra’ack was already nearly full-grown, a magnificent dragon with webbed wings that seemed to embrace the whole sky, massive feet with long claws, and a long, spiked tail. Steam rose from his black scales. Smoke billowed from his nostrils as he overflew the Gravelackers. Swinging his tail and turning around, he opened his massive, toothy mouth and belched a long stream of roaring fire.
The Gravelackers groaned as the fire poured onto them like steaming lava. They fell to the snowy ground, flames shooting from their rotting bodies amidst volleys of sparks and puffs of reeking dark smoke. They did not try to rise. Dhra’ack’s supernatural fire would soon turn them into ashes.
Good job, little one! Baard thought, receiving a satisfied grunt as an answer. He could communicate with the dragon with his mind, and he had called Dhra’ack “little one” since the time he had hatched and was only as big as a cat. Dhra’ack still saw Baard as his parent . . . although he could squish Baard like a pancake if he stepped on him.
Dhra’ack glided over the encampment, roaring, tilting his horned head, and peering down to make sure everyone was watching. The soldiers cheered and waved, and he flicked his tail and flew back toward the Harshwind Mountains with a gleeful screech. Baard sensed the dragon was hungry, again. Since he would not eat Gravelackers, he was going to hunt mountain goats.
As Baard and Diara cleaned their blades in the snow and sheathed their swords, Ufi and Al’Anark walked to them. “We got them good, didn’t we?” Ufi exclaimed with his usual childlike enthusiasm. Then he scratched his head. “Hey, isn’t it time to face another smelly monster?”
Baard chuckled, for he guessed Ufi meant the drunken General Bulizzar. “It is, my friend.”
A council of war had been called for that afternoon to discuss when the monsters might attack and what the humans and Firelves could do to defend themselves. Spies had reported a strange lack of activity on the enemy frontline. The monsters also seemed to have suffered heavy casualties and needed to recover. They could also be waiting for the new moon: the monsters could see in complete darkness while the humans could not, which would give them an edge. The new moon would be here in less than a week.
Al’Anark sighed. “All right. Let’s go to the putrid war council.”
Diara said, “I will walk with you there, and then I’ll go help out in the infirmary.” She had never been invited to the council, although Baard felt that she should, for she was—apart from him—the only human in the realm who had seen a Wrathlord die. But then, being in Bulizzar’s tent was hardly a treat.
They walked down an aisle between tents toward the heart of the encampment, listening to Ufi’s happy whistling over the shrilling of the wind. Baard looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody pursued them. The magical dragon-fire had already consumed the Gravelackers, and the wind scattered the ashes. The soldiers spread out on the lookout for new hordes.
As they reached the infirmary, High Mage Sethric emerged from the enormous tent, along with his adoptive daughter, Mardok. Their sleeves were rolled up, their hands raw from disinfecting wounds and changing bandages in the cold tent. They seemed unsurprised to see Baard and his companions, for they had surely predicted their arrival. Both the gray-haired, bushy-bearded Sethric and the gaunt, dark-eyed Mardok had taught Baard many spells. Their Mights far surpassed his.
Just like Diara, Sethric visibly wore the strain of the past months. He was not a young man, and his eyes looked smaller and more tired and his forehead more crumpled than when Baard had first met him. He was still a formidable mage and swordsman, though, and Baard trained with him every day, both sparring and magic, wondering whether he would ever learn everything Sethric knew.
Mardok greeted them with a shy smile. Nobody could call her pretty, for her nose was too wide and manly, her lips always chapped as if she were running a fever, and her limbs gaunt like sticks. Baard had never met a braver, smarter, and more dependable girl, though. Apart from Diara, of course.
“It is good to see you again, my dear friends,” Sethric said in his mild, pleasant voice, although he had seen them at lunch, only a few hours ago. “I believe the general is expecting us.” Everybody made a grimace.
Diara said, “Mardok and I will wait for you here, won’t we Mardok?”
Mardok nodded, and Baard thought how unfair it was that they would not be admitted to the council.
Mardok seemed to have read his mind. “I think changing bedpans is more pleasant than dealing with Bulizzar, Baard.”
They chuckled, and Diara said, “I think you are right, Mardok.”
Baard kissed Diara, smiled at Mardok, and followed Sethric, Al’Anark, and Ufi to Bulizzar’s large tent. The general was seated at the head of a long camp table, a few aides on each side and a bottle of plum brandy in front of him. The bottle was half-empty; the bloodshot eyes staring from the general’s podgy, crimson face told Baard where the other half had gone. The general and hard liquor were like conjoined twins.
Mother Wamortane, the burly leader of the warrior nuns—or sisters-at-arms—was already there. She sat as far from Bulizzar as she could, a scowl on her tattooed face, her massive arms crossed over her chest. She wore only a short, black tunic. Her skin glistened with the fat she had smeared on it against the cold. The four slanting lines tattooed across her face, crimson and thicker than a thumb, made her look as if she had been attacked by a wild beast. She was fierce and harsh, a giant of a woman whose height was accentuated by an auburn topknot. Baard somewhat liked her, though, for she kept the horrid drunk Bulizzar in check.
The general scowled when Baard and his friends took their seats. He had as much love for them as they had for him. His scowl deepened when he noticed Ufi, who had never entered his tent before.
“What in the Wrathlands is this?” Bulizzar snapped. “Is it not enough to have a muddy-footed peasant, a dirty Firelf, and a tattooed freak on the council? Now we will have a fool, too?”
Baard and Al’Anark only shrugged off the insults, for they were used to them. But the tattooed freak Wamortane, shot up, clenching her hands into fearsome fists. Her topknot bobbed furiously as she moved to teach the general some manners.
Sethric stood and barred her way. “There, there, dear Mother Wamortane, don’t let that mean drunk annoy you.” He had said it loudly enough for everyone to hear. It was the first time he had spoken against the general, and it surprised Baard and calmed the warrior nun.
“One more insult, repellent man, and I will make you swallow your teeth!” she snapped at the general over Sethric’s head. But she unclenched her hands and sat back down.
Bulizzar ignored her and snapped at Ufi. “Get out of here, fool!”
Ufi only snickered and leaned back on his chair. “I might be a fool, but at least royal jesters are licensed fools, general,” he said, giving Bulizzar a pointed look. “In any case, while some people stay fools their whole lives, I’m not a jester anymore. Now I am the squire of Baard Thon, our hero!”
Bulizzar scoffed at the last word. “And what is a putrid squire doing in my tent?”
Ufi winked and bowed. “It appears the putrid squire might be your only chance to win the war, uncle.”
The general only gawked as if wondering whether he had understood.
Sethric said, “I think we should tell the general and our dear Mother Wamortane the latest news. You see, we have killed the Middleman and—”
“That’s hardly news anymore,” Bulizzar retorted.
It had already been two days since they had tricked and killed the Middleman, the spy and servant of Wrathlord Gorgoth. And since some of the queen’s guards had taken part in the ruse, it had not been news for quite some time. However, there was something nobody outside Baard’s immediate circle could possibly know.
