Dragonrank master bg-3 Read online

  Taziar shifted on the summit, craning his neck for a better view. Apparently, the Dragonranks move closer to

  the center as they advance in skill. It seems likely they use the gardens for practice and training sessions. The outermost quarters could house half a dozen glass-rank mages apiece. The more powerful sorcerers probably live alone. Taziar counted carefully. Assuming no more than three actually live in the castle, a maximum of seventy-two sorcerers could reside here at any given time, of which fifty-four would hold a glass or other low rank. Taziar considered. Not many, given the necessary maintenance and chores to keep a fortress like this one. That explains why they hire sentries for routine duties such as guarding the gate.

  The area within the walls seemed larger than Taziar's walk around the outer perimeter implied. Magic. It only makes sense. The realization turned his thoughts back to his own predicament. Even with the proper tools, few men could have scaled that wall. Had I not seen them placed and misplaced, the glass-rank sorcerers' spells would likely have killed or, at least, deterred me. He shook his injured hand. The pain had subsided while he studied the grounds. Now I'll need to dodge whatever sorcerous defenses lie inside the school as well as the magical and common soldiers which inhabit it. And I still have to find Astryd. Memories of his lover fueled Taziar's desire, and the enormity of his task only made him more determined. He examined the inner side of the wall for telltale shimmerings of magic but saw none. Quickly, he shinnied down it into the Dragonrank school grounds.

  Taziar descended onto the dirt path of a garden enclosed on the north by its accompanying building, by the outer wall to the west, and by whitewashed wooden fences on its other two sides. The walkway led to a gate in the opposite fence. It was crossed at several places by other paths which cut the garden into rectangular beds of soil. Several of the perpendicular routes led to the dormitory. Others dead-ended against the fence. A grotesque-appearing statue stood at the center of the garden, moss-covered and vaguely human in shape. A cluster of bushes graced the central edge of each of a dozen flower and vegetable beds.

  Taziar knew he could climb any of the garden's boundaries without difficulty, but a casual stroll through the shadowed edges of the pathways and out through the gate seemed far more inconspicuous. A romp through the soil beds or over a building or gate would surely draw suspicion from anyone who might catch a glimpse of him in the darkness. Otherwise, they might mistake him for a glass-rank mage out for a walk in the night air.

  This decided, Taziar started down the trail, prepared to hide at the first indication of unwanted company. He had taken only a couple of steps when something stung his forearm. He slapped at it automatically, cursing silently. A few paces later, a like pain stabbed through his opposite wrist. Ach! Taziar clamped his hand to the site. He had known insect stings before, and these felt remarkably similar. But why should bees fly at night or attack unprovoked? Taziar took a careful sidestep. The movement earned him another bite in the shoulder accompanied by the jangle of a bell.

  The noise startled Taziar. He sprang behind one of the bushes. Moments later, the rhythmic pounding of running footsteps sounded on the path, coming from the direction of the building. An adolescent voice squealed, "My ward! Master Ingharr, did you hear? Someone set off my ward!"

  Another voice reprimanded the first in a disdainful baritone. "Learn dignity, Kirbyr. I do not find an improperly placed spell praiseworthy or exciting. This would not be the first time your sloppy wards alarmed without cause."

  Taziar flattened to the ground, heart pounding, as the men approached. He considered sprinting for the southern fence but doubted he could make it over without being spotted or setting off more wards. He lay still, hoping the sorcerers would pass by him in the dark.

  Closer now, Kirbyr's voice trembled with repressed disappointment and anger. "Master, I-I set them right. I know I did. I swear I did. An intruder…"

  "Kirbyr." Ingharr spoke with scornful condescension. "Magic incorrectly cast costs life energy, just less. One day, just by chance, you will channel your powers properly, drain your soul force, and you will die. You will die, Kirbyr, of your own laziness."

  Taziar judged the Dragonrank mages now stood where he had triggered their ward. He was glad they continued to talk. His own breathing sounded far too loud.

  Kirbyr seemed close to tears. "Master, please. I cast them properly."

  "Very well." Ingharr adopted a teaching tone. "Let us say we have uncovered an intruder. What do you know about him already?"

  Taziar remained immobile, wishing he had risked a run while he had the chance. Ingharr's nonchalance shocked him. No doubt, the sorcerer was in no hurry. He either felt certain of Kirbyr's ineptitude or he knew he was competent to handle anyone who dared to break into the Dragonrank school. So much so, he patiently used it as an opportunity to teach. That degree of arrogance usually arose from multiple successes, though Taziar knew that overconfidence could also become a weakness.

  Apparently pleased to abandon the subject of his incompetence, Kirbyr responded to Ingharr's question with enthusiasm. "I know only that he triggered my wards. And, master, he may escape if we don't do something."

  "Ah, my young fool. But you know much more." Ingharr shifted to stand on the pathway to the gate. "You know our intruder must be a thief and a foreigner.''

  The accuracy of Ingharr's guess surprised Taziar. He could now see the gray-robed outline of the elder Dragonrank mage. Ingharr had certainly chosen his position by design. His presence blocked Taziar's escape toward the garden gate. Even in the darkness, the sorcerer surely had a reasonably good view of the flower beds to either side of the pathway. Taziar's only logical means of evasion lay back the way he had come. But once he had climbed partway up the wall, he would become an easily visible target.

  Kirbyr seemed stumped by his mentor's logic. "How do you know he's a thief and a foreigner?"

  "Easy, Kirbyr." Ingharr's volume increased, and Taziar suspected the mage phrased his explanation as much to scare the potential intruder as to inform his student. "A sorcerer would never have blundered clumsily into a glass-rank apprentice's wards. A swordsman bent on murder would have tried to slay us by now. Theft is the only other rational motive. And only a foreigner could be stupid or ignorant enough to attempt to penetrate our school. The natives know what we did to the last thief we caught." He spoke even louder. "We used him for spell practice: fire, pain, mutilation. We seared out his eyes with lightning strikes. We burned his fingers to shriveled stumps. We tore his body and soul apart, piece by piece. He screamed for two days before he died… and three days after."

  Taziar shivered, certain Ingharr was baiting him, yet chilled by his evil tone and description. In choosing to remain still, he had chosen wrongly. Undoubtedly, Ingharr knew he lay within earshot. Taziar would have to slip away, quickly and silently, to retain any chance of surviving this encounter. His one advantage seemed to be Ingharr's insistence on turning this into a learning experience for Kirbyr. Trusting to his black clothing and hair to hide him and the sorcerers' conversation to mask his progress, Taziar inched back toward the outer wall.

  Kirbyr seemed discomforted by his master's narrative. He said nothing.

  Ingharr returned to his lesson with an abruptness which made his prior threat sound even more menacing. "Kirbyr, what shall we do with our foreign thief?"

  Kirbyr spoke tentatively. "Spell of slaying?"

  Taziar crept faster. As the wall loomed before him, he turned ninety degrees toward the white-washed fence. He hoped it was the type of maneuver Ingharr would not anticipate. If he could slip closer, a mad dash and climb over the southern fence would become Taziar's only chance to find Astryd or escape Kirbyr's garden. A barrage of "bee stings" made his journey even more uncomfortable, but luck or Kirbyr's lack of skill kept him from triggering another of the apprentice's audible alarms.

  Ingharr went pensive. "Slaying spell, you say? You're awfully free with my power, aren't you, Kirbyr? And would you have me cast it
at random or do you know the precise location of your imaginary thief?"

  "Oh." Kirbyr hesitated a moment. "First, a locating triangle."

  Taziar wriggled across the dirt. Moonlight polished the smooth white of the fence, still several body lengths away. Even in the shadow of the next building, Taziar knew his dark dress would work against him clambering, unseen, over the barrier.

  "Well thought out plan." The scathing sarcasm in Ingharr's voice was unmistakable. "By the time I'd finished, our thief would have whatever he wanted, and I'd have too little life energy left to cast your slaying spell. Think simple, Kirbyr. How about… this!" His voice rose on the last syllable.

  Taziar heard a click. A sudden flash shattered his vision. He rolled, stifling a startled scream. Jagged bands of light striped his retinas. He jammed his lids closed, not daring to move until his sight cleared.

  Slowly, Taziar opened his eyes. Brilliant, white magic lit a perfect square of the garden like the noonday, summer sun. Around Ingharr's sorceries, the world remained dark as pitch. Taziar noted, with relief, that he lay just beyond the edges of the spell.

  "And this!" screamed Ingharr.

  Taziar dove behind a bush as light exploded around him, illuminating a second square beside the first. But this one included Taziar, his arms drawn tightly before him. The spells had come too fast, leaving him no time to think. He had chosen this bush because it stood closest. But it was small. A larger man would have found it no protection at all. Even Taziar was uncertain whether it hid him completely from the sorcerers.

  Taziar held his breath as a minute crawled mercilessly past. A breeze ruffled the branches, and tiny leaves tickled his face. He knew the end would come fast, and he resented the fact that he would meet it crouched and cringing behind a bush. But he also realized movement of any sort would seal his fate. He had no choice but to wait and hope Ingharr could not see him.

  Ingharr's voice boomed through the silence. "Are you satisfied?"

  The magical lights winked out, plunging Taziar back into darkness. He paused, allowing his eyes to readjust.

  "But, master. I was so certain." Kirbyr sounded sullen. "Maybe he sneaked away while we talked. We waited an awfully long time before…"

  "Silence!" Anger colored Ingharr's reply. "I can tolerate an apprentice sorcerer who makes mistakes. But an apprentice sorcerer who makes mistakes and refuses to admit them becomes a danger to me and to himself. Admit it, Kirbyr. You misplaced your wards."

  There was no response.

  Taziar crawled toward the fence which formed the southernmost border of the garden. The mages' voices grew fainter as they walked toward the dormitory building. Taziar smiled in relief.

  "Say it, Kirbyr!" Ingharr screamed.

  Taziar could not make out the words to Kirbyr's incoherent grumble, but it seemed to satisfy Ingharr. As the Cullinsbergen stood and broke into a hunched run, the elder Dragonrank mage spoke.

  "Kirbyr, an inferior enemy should be played. No one 'sneaked away while we talked.' My keen sight and hearing would have detected…" His words faded into the distance.

  Mardain's mercy, I made it! Taziar grinned in triumph, only three strides from the fence. Suddenly, he struck something unyielding. Light slammed into his eyes, etching red streaks in his vision. His sight of the barrier vanished in a whooshing ball of flame. Fire seared his left arm and set his shirt ablaze. Screaming, Taziar reeled backward. Heat waves shimmered the air before him, bright green and unlike anything he had seen before. He hit the ground with bruising force, and the world plunged into oblivion.

  Taziar awoke to pain and darkness. His arm and side still felt on fire. His head ached. By the position of the moon, he realized he had fallen unconscious only a few moments ago. Groggily, his mind registered the sound of approaching footsteps, and he sat up as two gray robed figures came up to him.

  "Who are you, boy?" the taller one demanded.

  Taziar recognized the voice as Ingharr's. He winced, cradling his injured arm to stall for time. Apparently, the Dragonrank mage had mistaken Taziar's slightness for immaturity, and Taziar sought a means to capitalize on Ingharr's error. Dizzy with pain, he mimicked the higher-pitched, frightened voice of a child in his best Norwegian accent. "I-I-I. I'm a glass-rank. J-just arrived tonight, master. Please. Don't-don't hurt me any more." He cringed.

  "Dragonrank?" Ingharr's voice conveyed bitter disbelief. His eyes crinkled, and he glanced about the garden as if to trace Taziar's route. "Where did you come from?"

  Taziar raised his right arm and pointed a shaking finger toward the gate in the eastern fence. The trembling was no act. The burns and his fall had sapped Taziar's strength.

  Kirbyr piped up excitedly. "See, master. Someone did trip my ward."

  Ingharr waved his apprentice silent. "Did you set off Kirbyr's spell?"

  Suspecting it would be safer to lie as little as possible, Taziar nodded, studying his wounds. The fire had melted huge holes in his sleeve and side. The flesh beneath appeared bright red and had already begun to blister.

  Ingharr persisted. "Then you heard us talking."

  Taziar met Ingharr's stare with widened, blue eyes. "Yes, sir."

  "That's 'yes, master.' And why didn't you speak up then?"

  Taziar let wild anger seep into his voice. "You scared all hell from me,'s… master. You were going to burn my eyes out and use slaying spells and everything."

  Kirbyr added. "And tear his body and soul apart."

  "Silence!" Ingharr raised a warning hand toward his apprentice.

  Taziar bit back a smile. He seemed to have found an ally. At worst, Kirbyr's childish exuberance might distract Ingharr. Night muted the sorcerers' features to blurs, but Kirbyr's blond ringlets and pearly skin were easily visible. Though he held no rankstone in evidence, a telltale lump distended his hip pocket. A sword swung at his opposite side. Ingharr appeared darker. He carried a dragonstaff with a garnet clutched in its claw.

  "You don't look or talk like any Northerner I've ever met," Ingharr challenged.

  Taziar pursed his lips. He knew Dragonrank mages were a Norwegian phenomenon. South of the Kattegat, only a few seasoned travelers had even heard of sorcerers, and most believed them only as mothers' stories. But Ingharr's swarthy features encouraged Taziar to defend his claim. "I was born and raised in Cullinsberg." He spoke the truth, but saw no way around the lie which followed. "My father was a Viking. A guilty conscience returned him to my mother last year, and he recognized the Dragonmark on me."

  Ingharr hesitated. He had to notice Taziar's story, though unlikely, demonstrated knowledge of the Dragonrank school few outsiders could have. "Show me the mark."

  Taziar held out his right arm, displaying his doctored scar. When Ingharr reached for a closer look, Taziar clamped his hand to his burn. "I hurt," he pouted.

  Kirbyr chimed in helpfully. "You triggered Master Ingharr's ward." He gestured toward his mentor. "A strong one, too."

  The immediate danger past, Taziar stumbled to his feet, silently cursing wasted time. He still needed to find Astryd and escape before daylight. "I have to go now. Mistress Astryd may get mad if I'm late."

  "Wait." Ingharr stepped between Taziar and the path to the gate. "Your rankstone. I want to see it."

  Taziar's chest tightened. Sidestepping the garnet-rank mage, he stalled, adopting a childlike bravado. "No! You threatened me. You called me 'thief and 'foreigner.' You hurt me, and you made me late for my mistress. I was told to protect my rankstone. Leave me alone."

  Ingharr's tone turned menacing. "Show me your rankstone. Now, boy! Or I'll give you a sample of real pain." He signaled Kirbyr with a brisk sweep of his fingers.

  Taziar tensed to run, aware he had no further tricks. He considered drawing his sword and rushing the sorcerer, but he doubted his mediocre skill with weapons would serve against a garnet-rank Dragonmage, especially in his weakened state.

  Kirbyr caught Taziar's shoulder. The glass-rank mage's sword sheath slapped the Cullinsbergen's thigh. "My m
aster wants to see your rankstone."

  Kirbyr's nearness gave Taziar an idea. And so he shall. With subtlety gained from years of practice on the streets, he flicked his hand into Kirbyr's hip pocket. Seizing the apprentice's rankstone, he deftly flipped it into a fold of his black britches. The maneuver took less than a second, and Tazier held Ingharr's gaze throughout it. Chin jutting, he displayed Kirbyr's gem-cut glass stone as his own.

  Kirbyr's grip loosened. Ingharr took the glass from Taziar and studied it at arm's length, then immediately before his face. He spoke harsh, wordless noises, and the rankstone glowed a brilliant, opaque yellow.

  Taziar held his breath, hoping the spell would not reveal the owner of the stone.

  Ingharr seemed satisfied. "It's a rankstone. Apparently, you've stored most of your life force in it which explains why I can't see your aura." He offered the stone to Taziar. "What's your name, boy?"

  Taziar accepted the glass piece and placed it in his pocket. The first Scandinavian name to come to his mind belonged to a barbarian prince in Sweden. "Manebjorn. Please, master. I have to go. I've obviously wandered into the wrong garden. Where can I find Mistress Astryd?"

  "There." Ingharr pointed toward the center of the school grounds. "Leave here through the gate. Follow the road straight. Turn right after the second building, and you'll find the entrance to Astryd's garden on your left."

  "Thank you." Taziar trotted down the pathway. The rapid motion jogged pain through his side, but he wanted to leave the garden before Ingharr found more errors in his story.

  "Manebjorn, stop!"

  Reluctantly, Taziar turned.

  Ingharr came up beside him. "Don't move, young fool.

  You nearly ran into another of my wards. Didn't the arch-master teach you how to avoid them?"