Defender of Magic Read online

  “I’m friend and ally to Rehnquist,” he petitioned, frantic to avoid the same bone-splintering end that annihilated the goblins.

  The dragon snorted, sending streams of smoke from his wide set nostrils that blew past Lugh on either side. “Rehnquist is dead.” With that the dragon gave a mighty flap of his wings and lifted them into the sky.

  Chapter Six

  Jonathan bore the entangled Sidhe to the wide precipice outside of his cave high in the mountainside. Earlier, he’d tucked the Scribe’s truck on the far side of the ledge, out of the way. Once Jonathan felt the slight weight of the Sidhe rest on the ground, he released the net and transformed himself into his human-like appearance as he stepped down beside Lugh. His wings flapped once as they reduced in size.

  Jonathan knelt beside Lugh to rip the netting open, a task that didn’t challenge the dragon’s strength, but exceeded what the Sidhe could have done for himself. Willem scrambled from the truck where he’d waited and, no doubt, fretted. Before the Scribe could tackle Lugh, and worsen the knee wound, Jonathan snapped open his wings in a barricade.

  “The arrow didn’t go too deep, but it wouldn’t have needed to before it hit bone. No doubt there’ll be silver fragments. Brace yourself.” Jonathan dislodged the arrow with a swift yank. The Sidhe stifled his agonized scream into a throat-ripping growl. Admirably done. The dragon knew from experience that tearing out an arrowhead hurt magnitudes beyond the initial strike.

  As he’d done with wounded allies in battles past, Jonathan hoisted Lugh over his shoulder. The slight weight of the fine-boned fey was no great burden and the dragon hooked an arm behind Lugh’s thighs to keep him balanced. Jonathan carried the Sidhe inside his cave, with the Scribe rushing along behind them like an inexperienced squire who’d never seen his master injured.

  Once past the entryway and through the massive double doors a few feet into the cavern, Jonathan’s home no longer resembled a cave. The interior of his dwelling was a mansion. Plush carpets covered the floors. Beyond the wide foyer, which could have easily accommodated his full dragon shape even with his wings extended, the interior rooms were lavishly attired for his human-like form. He carried Lugh into a comfortable living room with deep-cushioned couches and recliners facing the wall-sized, flat screen television. The furnishings had been special ordered and collected in Sneem, as had some of the artwork and all of the electronics.

  After he deposited Lugh onto the couch, Jonathan retrieved bandages from his side cupboard. “I have pried many goblin arrows out of my own hide. This poultice will draw out the minerals from the arrowhead, including the silver. You should be healed completely in the morning.”

  “I thank you for your kindness and for the rescue.” Lugh said, and to Jonathan, the Sidhe’s words seemed at once both genuine and difficult to admit.

  The Scribe assisted Jonathan in cutting away the leg of Lugh’s trousers. He used the torn fabric to wipe the excess of blood before it found its way to staining his furniture. The puncture wound itself was only two inches wide, and though the arrow might have damaged ligaments, it appeared to have missed the major blood vessels. Jonathan treated the gash with the medicinal and enchanted cream he’d concocted for just such wounds and then wrapped Lugh’s knee with enough bandages to immobilize the joint while it healed.

  “I knew that if I could reach the dragon outpost that I could depend upon your aid,” Lugh winced as the cleansing salve in the poultice began its burning sting. The pain would steadily worsen until the foreign minerals were completely leached from the wound. The Scribe tried to fuss over the pillows to prop up the Sidhe’s leg as he reposed across the couch, but Lugh waved him away. “My condolences for Rehnquist’s passing. I take it that you are the new Champion? May I have the name by which you are commonly known? I owe you a debt, Dragon.”

  “You are indebted to me.” Jonathan’s murmur had the edge of a growl that made the Scribe’s already impossibly huge eyes bulge wider. “I’m Jonathan Wyndracer, Dragon Champion. Don’t mistake my interracial hospitality to imply that we have come to an accord, Sidhe. I have neither interest nor tolerance for the internal matters of fey politics, once and future king of the Seelie Court,” he quoted the Scribe’s description of Lugh. Jonathan poured himself a drink from the decanter and then gestured for Willem to serve himself and Lugh.

  The Scribe busied himself with the task, and the relationship between the two wasn’t lost upon Jonathan. Even before Lugh was wounded, the Scribe spoke of his pledge of loyalty to him. He’d heard of the Sidhe race’s legendary sense of entitlement. The subservience of less powerful fey races perpetuated the classism. If the fey did manage to survive the annihilation of the Mounds, he wondered if the ripple effects would disrupt this age-old sociological stratification. Jonathan continued, “I will have no part in your political ambitions.”

  “Ambition is the furthest concern from my heart, I assure you.” Lugh accepted the strong drink that the Scribe offered, and he imbibed a healthy swallow that surely would dull the pain considerably. Willem plopped himself cross-legged on the floor by the Sidhe, casting himself in the squire’s servant role. “My first and only concern is the survival of the fey. Not just the Sidhe. Not just the Seelie. All the fey.”

  “Even the goblins?” Jonathan cocked an eyebrow, amused that the famously eloquent Seelie should leave himself open on such a topic.

  “I don’t seek the eradication of their race, though I doubt anything could cause it even if I did. Controlling their rather robust and violent population is necessary to preserve life and freedom.” Lugh massaged his thigh as if absently, but Jonathan knew that silver burned the fey. Probably a scalding agony to have it imbedded in a joint. And to top it off, he knew that for the first few hours the poultice would be more painful than the wound it worked to cleanse. “Besides, they have no qualms in murdering me, so my sympathy for them is rather thin, to say the least.”

  Lugh continued, “Champion, I sympathize with your distaste of my lesser fey brethren, for truly, the wars between the Sidhe and the goblins never ceases, just waxes and wanes. Trust me that not all fey are so foul. Many fey peoples are kind, lovers of knowledge, craftsmen and artists, dedicated to family and nature. Truly good and worthy of protection.”

  “Brevity is a virtue. Make your point.”

  “The fey bound ourselves to the Mounds to sustain our magic and our lives. Recently, our home was crushed beneath the earth in a Collapse that massively dwindled our numbers. After the Collapse, the fey began to Fade. I have discovered a way to restore my people, to remake our realm. There are a number of artifacts that survive from the first realm of fey, and I have begun to gather them. With the magic imprinted upon them, and in the fashion of the ritual first used by the Sidhe All-Mother herself, a new realm can be created. This is my purpose and my only intent. I am alone in my endeavor, save a single Scribe, and there is no safer place to store the artifacts until we are ready to use them than in a dragon’s lair.

  “We are dying, Dragon Champion. I sought you out to save my kind, as there is no one else capable and trustworthy of the grave favor I must ask. Will you not aid us?”

  Jonathan chuckled, reclining farther back into his chair. He tossed back the remainder of his drink. The alcohol stoked his internal fire, heating the room until the shine of sweat dampened the Scribe’s face. “Then perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial solution. As you’ve noted, I have something of a goblin infestation. The nest in the eastern ridge caved in. Since then, the nest across the valley has been in a frenzy. Patrolling frequently and even attacking hikers.”

  “Goblin nests don’t typically cave in.” Lugh finished his drink and passed the glass to the Scribe to refill. “But if two nests were so close in proximity, and not warring, then likely one nest expanded to a new location. The loss of so many of their companions agitated the second nest. Once the rage possesses,
them it takes a substantial blood debt to placate them.” He relaxed more into the cushions, now that the bourbon dulled his pain. “I shall aid you in eliminating this nest. At the very least, in serving them a devastating blow that should quiet them while they recover their numbers.”

  “They nearly killed you once. Are you certain you want to risk facing them again?”

  “I can’t waste magic teleporting in and out. I’ll risk running into scouting parties every time I return from hunting for an artifact. Getting rid of the nest is necessary.” Lugh sat up, his feet planted firmly on the floor. “We’ll take the fight to the goblins tomorrow, if you’ll have it, Jonathan.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Do you trust him?” Willem embraced his knees to his chest and slouched against the wall like a youngling. From the simple wooden bench, he watched as Lugh inspected the equipment in the armory.

  “I trusted Rehnquist.” Lugh checked the length on a pair of greaves. The shin armor appeared to be dragon scale, very durable and flexible. The cured leather cuffs on either end would cover his ankles and the backsides of his knees. Though the goblin that shot him perished within the dragon’s maw, each nest of goblins favored certain attacks. Lugh tossed the greaves onto the bench beside the Scribe. “I desire an alliance with Jonathan and the protection of the dragons for you and the artifacts.”

  Willem contemplated one of Rhiannon’s combs and pouted almost as skillfully as a pixie. For such a learned Scribe, Willem could seem so very young sometimes. “What about a tribe of elves instead? Or dwarves? They are stout fighters.”

  Schooling his expression so the grin that tugged at his lips wouldn’t show overly much, Lugh reassured him, “You needn’t fret. Jonathan wouldn’t actually eat you.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to stay here, unarmed and looking like a snack.” Willem turned the comb over and then tapped it lightly on his knee.

  Lugh selected a sword from the wall display. Too heavy for the quick, close fighting he was anticipating. He exchanged it for a lighter one. Rolling his wrist, Lugh transcribed slicing circles in the air, first over his right side and then over his left. Good balance. Quick, sharp steel. He pivoted with the movements and though the bandages limited his mobility, he felt not a twinge of pain, thanks entirely to the ‘lubrication’ of the dragon’s liquor. He would have to inquire as to Jonathan’s source. Perhaps he could charm the dragon into procuring a few bottles for Lugh’s medicinal purposes. Not even the needling of the Fade troubled his fingertips at the moment. He sheathed the blade and set it aside on the bench.

  Willem thoughtfully traced the figure on the comb, his full attention fixed upon it as he inquired, “Is it true that the goblins nearly slew you today?”

  That brought a chuckle. “T’was hardly the first time fortune’s pardon spared my life.” Lugh bent close to the Scribe and rubbed the tip of his index finger over the younger fey’s forehead. “Have you not heard? Fretting causes wrinkles.”

  Willem made an amusing yip of annoyance as he batted away Lugh’s teasing.

  “Unless you’d rather bait the trap tomorrow with your scrawny rump.” Lugh made a playful attempt to pinch said rump, sending Willem darting out of reach.

  “I wasn’t volunteering! Go forth and do your Champion thing. I’ll hold down the fort. Mansion. Cave. Whatever this is.” Willem rubbed his bottom even though Lugh hadn’t even managed to catch it. “No more dragon bourbon for you.”

  Lugh chuckled, returning to peruse the selection of shields and feeling rather more like his old self than he had in quite some time.

  Chapter Eight

  Besides the greaves, Lugh forwent any armor. With a sword strapped to his hip, shield bound to his forearm, and spear in hand, he sprinted down the incline toward the cavern. Even yards away, the stench of festering animal waste and carrion assaulted him. Though instinct protested, he charged without hesitation into the black mouth of the goblins’ nest.

  Minimal daylight breached the cave at this hour. A weak glow from the bioluminescent growths on the rocks cast everything into a sickly green hue. Even as his stinging eyes adjusted to the darkness, the skulking movements in the shadows alerted him.

  As the first goblin raced up the tunnel Lugh slew it with a quick thrust to its gut. Jogging swiftly, Lugh located the first branch of the nest. This was his defense point. If he delved any deeper he compromised his escape route.

  He thumped his spear on his shield and bellowed a war cry that ricocheted between the stone walls. The answering screeches were an unearthly blend of a wounded cat and a deranged hawk. Dozens of the cries flowed and tumbled over each other as the warning blazed throughout the nest.

  Within seconds, a wave of goblins streamed up the right-hand passage toward him. Lugh slashed the first two with the metal spearhead. More followed. That was the dominance of the goblins— the mass of their overwhelming horde and their incomprehension of fear. Lugh sliced through goblins for at least five minutes, with reinforcements clamoring over corpses to fling themselves at him in an unending charge.

  Arrows and bolas whipped toward Lugh infrequently. He ducked or blocked them with his shield. Backing toward the entryway, he screamed to stir them into an answering frenzy. Their number surged around the tip of his spear faster than he could dispatch them. A net whipped toward him. Lugh ducked, jamming his spear into the netting. The weave tangled into a ball around the spearhead. The goblins yanked on the trailing ropes and jerked the spear from his grasp.

  Lugh drew the sword in its stead. He backed up faster now, as the cavern clogged with goblins rushing him. Each blow brought down two or three, but half a dozen filled the gap. Lugh jogged in reverse, never giving them his back. The goblins scurried around the edges of the walls, seeking to surround him.

  As he retreated from the cave, Lugh roared another outcry. The goblins returned with their own venomous screams. With that, Lugh spun and ran flat out.

  He need not glance back. Their fury clamored on his heels. If he stumbled they would swarm him. Many skilled Sidhe warriors fell before the goblin hordes in wars past. Good fighters, powerful wielders of magic, overwhelmed, butchered before they ceased to breathe.

  Loose stones troubled the narrow path leading into the hills, enough to confound even graceful fey balance. His long legs pumped with all the speed he could summon. Lingering twinges in his healing knee sharpened with exertion. The path curved with the roll of the hill, mounting into an ever steeper incline. The goblins’ screams mingled with vicious laughter. He soon discovered why.

  Lugh skidded to a halt as the path terminated abruptly in a precipice that reached out over the abyss. Loose rocks freefell toward the jagged stones below. He spun around before the goblins could slam into him and knock him from the edge. Using his shield he blocked the beasts that lunged for him. Each slice of the sword severed through flesh, but not rapidly enough to halt the onslaught. With no sign of the dragon, Lugh shouted, “Jonathan!”

  The concussion of the massive wings beating behind him pressed at his back. Lugh dropped to one knee and ducked as the dragon fire roared in a stream just above his head. It flowed over the mass of goblins in a molten current, charring living flesh and bone. The dragon cloaked the path in a blanket of flames, destroying every exposed goblin. His scarlet scales gleamed in the sunlight like blood-smeared snakeskin.

  As the dragon chased the fleeing survivors back into the nest Lugh recovered his footing. He pursued, skirting dead bodies swiftly disintegrating into ash.

  At the end of the path, the dragon stuck his snout into the cavern entrance and blew fire until it backwashed into licking tongues of flame that fanned over Jonathan harmlessly. The tangled paths within would prevent the flames from scorching too deeply into the belly of the nest. Though likely not destroying every last goblin, they’d certainly devastated the nest for at least one genera
tion.

  Jonathan withdrew his head from the cavern. His enormous dragon eyes swept over Lugh. “You’re unharmed?”

  “Unharmed,” Lugh concurred.

  “Good. In another decade you can help me cull the vermin again.”

  Lugh snorted at the very notion just before Jonathan scooped him up in his talons and transported him back to the outpost.

  Chapter Nine

  The dragon’s outpost possessed a comprehensive stash of supplies, including clothing in most conceivable sizes. Though Lugh didn’t indulge in his curiosity as to the purpose of such a trove, he was truly grateful for the clothing allotted to himself and the Scribe. The denim of the jeans was a durable fabric for the hiking he anticipated. The jacket was denim, too, warm and thick, good for the chill of the night. The sleeveless shirt he wore underneath didn’t constrict his shoulders when he wanted freedom of movement. His pack, with its few essentials, was already propped by the door. “I’m heading east, following the Dublin lead.”