Enflamed (Book 2) (21 page)

Kaijin tensed and frowned
slightly. “My master, Jarial, was an excellent teacher. I still have nothing
but the utmost respect for him, and I would appreciate it if you would not
speak about him in that manner.”

Omari halted and spun around,
wide-eyed and pale. “Jarial?
As in Jarial Glace?
He
was your
master
?”

“Yes. Do you know him?” Kaijin
drew up alongside him.

“
Know
him? What student
of the Citadel does not know a member of the Council of Nine! The members of that
council are the backbone of Ghaeldorund, overseers of the Citadel. Master Glace
was the fifth-tier master of the Council, specializing in illusion.”

“You two, don’t fall behind!”
Sigmund
called,
his gaze stern. He beckoned for them
to catch up.

Kaijin quickened his pace, as
did Omari. “Master Jarial mentioned that he was once part of the Citadel, but
he never told me much more than that. What was it like for you, studying under
him?”

Omari gazed up at the sky,
thinking. “He was very strict. He pushed us to our limits, but only to bring
out the best in all of us. He was admired by many, including me. He departed
from the Citadel not long after I entered my third year there. I was almost
seven years old at the time. His council seat was replaced by Master Faulk—who,
though not as strict, was a master that a student learned quickly not to
underestimate.”

“Master Jarial came to
Easthaven—my home—and sold books in the marketplace. That was where I first met
him.”

Omari grunted. “Well, confound
it all.
Never thought I would ever meet another one of his
students outside the Citadel like this.”
He made a sour face. “I guess
you cannot be
all
that bad.”

“Thanks ... I think.”

“But it sounds like he has
gotten soft in his years.”

“Hardly.
He’s taught me so much about magic. I owe him my
life.”

Omari pursed his lips. “He has
obviously not taught you enough.”

“Would you dare say that if he
were here?”

Omari fell silent and looked
away. “Of course not,” he grumbled.

Kaijin’s gaze hardened. “He’s
a good teacher. Unfortunately, following the events in Easthaven, we parted
ways. He said he would return to the Citadel to report to the Council about the
tragedy.”

Omari glanced ahead at the
rest of the group and then inched closer to Kaijin until their shoulders almost
brushed. He lowered his head and murmured, “So, were you there when it
happened?”

The question made Kaijin
scowl, and Omari’s closeness unnerved him. He took a small side step away. “Why
do you wish to know that?”

“Because I have heard a mix of
stories and want to know the truth of the matter.”

Kaijin hesitated.
Would he
really understand?
He felt Miele soothe him. He looked up at her fluttering
silhouette in the sky.
“He was one of Master Jarial’s students, so he can’t
be all that bad, right?”

“Kaijin?”
Omari intently stared at him.

Kaijin’s head snapped back to
him. “I, ah ...”

“So you
were
there.”
Omari’s eyes glittered with curiosity. “Tell me what
really
happened.
And spare me no details.”

Kaijin sighed. “It ... it
began with monsters—undead—invading Easthaven. A man—a renegade former student
of the Citadel, ironically—was behind it all. He was later killed, but the
monsters afflicted many residents and threw the city into utter chaos.”

Omari blinked. “The instigator
was a Citadel student? Who? Who was it? Tell me.”

Kaijin swallowed.
Xavorin.
The name continued to haunt him.
Once a beloved friend of Jarial’s, Xavorin had turned to the darker
arts of magic—to necromancy.
Kaijin had heard about him a few times from
Jarial. He’d only seen Xavorin a few times, and each time was more grisly than
the next until Xavorin had finally become just like the rest of his undead
servants.

Kaijin took a deep breath,
trying to dismiss the images from his mind. “Ah, I don’t remember.” He bit his
tongue. “Anyway, does it matter who he was? He’s dead, and that’s all that
matters, right?”

Omari peered at Kaijin and
grumbled, “Yes, well ... I guess you are right. All renegades must die.”

Kaijin had a bad taste in his
mouth and changed the subject. “So tell me about your homeland, Ankhram.”

Omari’s eyebrow slowly rose.
“Have you been eavesdropping on my conversations?”

“Of course
not.
Uh ... Nester mentioned it
earlier.” Kaijin nodded quickly. “Were your
parents
mages, as well?”

Omari shook his head.
“Just my father.
Not long after I was born, he traveled to
Ghaeldorund to do some research, but left the city only a few months later due
to a ‘conflict of interest’, as he put it. Upon returning to Ankhram a year
later, he revived the Harran—a mage’s circle started by my forefathers. He has
remained there ever since and sent me off to the Citadel when I turned four.”

Kaijin tilted his head.
“Strange. Why didn’t your father teach you magic, instead?”

Omari shrugged. “My father respects
the Council of Nine very highly. His wish is for me to become one of them one
day.”

“Wouldn’t that prove easier if
he were a member of the Council?”

“Yes, he is good at what he
does, but he is also a solitary man. And my being one of the Nine would bring a
greater honor to not only him, but to the entire Batsuyou line, as our
influence would then spread further.”

“Very
interesting.”

“The Batsuyou are of Ankhram
origin. We are a wealthy, highly esteemed family line of mages, seers, and
enchanters.”

“It’s amazing that you know so
much about your family line.”

Omari raised an eyebrow. “And
you do not, I assume?”

Kaijin stared at the ground.
“Well, my parents did not speak much of anything. All I know is that my mother
was from Ankhram.”

“Was she, now?”

“My parents and younger
brother were the only family I knew. They died during the attacks in
Easthaven.”

“I see,” Omari said flatly.

“I feel so alone, you know?
Like an outcast—like I’ve nothing else left.” He stopped himself, realizing
whom he was talking to and immediately anticipated insults.

Omari opened his mouth,
then
closed it, to Kaijin’s surprise and relief. Omari
exhaled through his nose. “There is nothing wrong with you, Kaijin. There is
just something wrong with the world.”

Kaijin considered Omari’s
words.

“Oy!
I think I found somethin’, I did!” Nester called. The
brownie stood atop a boulder and looked down into a valley that lay a lengthy
distance away from the crags. Wisps of smoke rose from a large camp.

“Do you think that might be
them?” Zarya asked.

Aidan sniffed the air and then
let out a low growl. “Gaston ...”

“We need a plan of action
before we attack,” Sigmund said.

Omari huffed. “And what do you
propose we do, Sigmund?” he asked coldly. “Simply walk up to them and ask them
nicely for the egg?”

Nester smirked. “Say, that’s
not a bad idea, mate!”

Omari rolled his eyes. “I was
being facetious, you fool.”

“But think about it!” Nester
gestured. “They won’t expect us! They’ll all be caught off guard and—”

“—
They
will either kill us, destroy the egg, or both.” Omari finished with a scowl.

“No,” Sigmund interjected. “We
need to be careful. We don’t know what we’re going up against.” He looked at
Nester. “How skilled are you at reconnaissance?”

“Me?
I’m as
subtle as a fly on th’ wall.
Are you askin’ me to scout
th
’ place out?”

Sigmund nodded. “We will be
close by while you do that.”

“Perhaps Kaijin and I can
assist, as well,” Omari said. He lightly elbowed Kaijin, and smirked.

Kaijin blinked and looked to
Omari, bewildered.
“Uh ... s
–
sure.”

Zarya’s brow furrowed. “What
are you two going to do?”

“We will assist in Nester’s
reconnaissance. Do not ask how. We have our ways, do we not, Kaijin?”

Kaijin looked between Omari
and Zarya and then nodded slowly.
Oh, I think I know where he’s going with this.

Sighing, Zarya regarded
Kaijin, Nester, and Omari. “All right, be careful, you three.” She approached
each of them, laying her hands over them and speaking a brief prayer. “
By
Celestra’s grace, may you all be protected from the
enemy.
”
Her hands emitted a white glow.

The three of them bowed their
heads, accepting the priestess’s blessings. She stepped back.

“C’mon,” Nester beckoned
toward the camp. “Let’s get closer.” He led the way down to the valley, with
Kaijin and Omari following.

The fiery voice returned as
Kaijin walked, and its tone was savage.
“Show no mercy.”

XIX

Locating the egg within the
camp wasn’t too difficult for Omari, thanks to Percival’s keen nose. The weasel
searched each of the eleven tents, slinking stealthily amongst the packhorses
and men of the Legion. Omari monitored his familiar closely, entering the
weasel’s mind while he searched.

Omari spied two men leaving a
small tarpaulin tent.
“Try that one over there.”

Percival scampered over and
poked his head under the entrance flap. All Omari saw were two bedrolls, a
lantern, and some worn clothing thrown into one corner. A canteen perched on
one bedroll, while a sheathed longsword lay on the other. The egg’s scent was
not as strong in there, so Percival backed out of the tent and went to another.

“Confound it!”
Omari sighed, frustrated.
“Keep searching. Alert me
as soon as you find something. Be careful.”
He severed the link and allowed
Percival to explore on his own.

Returning to his own senses,
Omari nodded toward Zarya, Aidan, and Sigmund, who all stood watch nearby, then
looked at Kaijin beside him. The younger mage’s eyes were distant with
concentration.

Omari peeked around the large
boulder between them and the camp a short distance away. He saw faint,
child-sized footsteps appear in the rocky dirt as Nester stealthily approached
them. Omari narrowed his eyes and held his breath as he waited for Nester to
reach them.

Nearby shadows coalesced
around Nester as he slipped behind the rock and became visible. He acknowledged
Omari and Kaijin with a wide grin.

“What did you find?” Omari
asked.

“’Bout
a
’alf-dozen lingerin’ around.” Nester rubbed his nose. “I’m sure more’ll be
wakin’ up from their tents pretty soon. No sign of th’ egg, though.”

“Yes, Percival is still
searching.” Omari nudged Kaijin to gently break him from his trance. “Come,
Kaijin. Let Miele alone. We should inform the others of our findings.”

Kaijin’s gaze snapped into focus.
Startled, he shook his head and acknowledged Omari and Nester.

Nester pushed himself off the
rock and ran off toward the others. With a small tilt of his head, Omari
beckoned Kaijin to follow.

* * *

Gaston slammed his fist on the
table in the middle of his tent, knocking over pawns and markers and sloshing
ale from a tankard onto the tactical map. He glared scornfully at the two
lackeys standing before him—Thokas and Searil—who kept their heads bowed.
Beside Gaston, Raban took a quick step backward.

Gaston tensed his neck. “I’ve
thought things over since last night, and I’ve come to a conclusion. Your
stories do not make much bloody sense! You can steal from a Dragon, but you
cannot even fend off a small group of ruffians?”

Thokas and Searil remained
silent.

Raban sidled around the table
until he had his back against the tarpaulin wall and continued observing in
silence.

Gaston reached across the
table, grabbed Thokas by the collar and tugged him closer so that they met eye
to eye. “Just as easily as I’ve obtained you, Raban can discard you.” He
sneered at the orc, and then glared at Searil. “If either of you have brought
dishonor to the Legion, then it is my duty and my right to rectify the
problem.”

Thokas grunted and looked away
from Gaston. “We speak the truth, my liege.”

Gaston scowled and released
the orc with a firm shove. “How many times are we going to go over this,
Thokas? It is unacceptable. We are breaking camp soon, and I’ll leave your
corpses behind to rot if you do not give me a valid reason to spare you.”

Searil protested, “We were
outnumbered, at first. Reinforcements came as planned, sir, but they were
killed too quickly. A large half-Dragon tore through our group like ragdolls.
His friends finished off the rest.”

From the corner of his eye,
Gaston spied Raban smirk and cross his arms. Gaston’s scowl deepened—the druid
returned to his stone-faced expression—and his attention darted back to Searil.
“You did not tell me this last night, Searil. Go on.”

Searil shifted uncomfortably
and brushed an unseen speck of dirt from his red robes. “He was a man with a
body like armor. I saw him pick up two warriors at once and fling them as
though they were straw men. The scouts shot arrows at him, but they hardly
pierced his skin. He ...”

Gaston quirked his eyebrow at
Raban, then looked toward the rear corner of the tent, where a large sack lay.
“So, my opponent has returned for a rematch,” he murmured. He turned back to
Thokas and Searil. “Leave.”

Thokas grabbed his startled
companion and quickly left the tent.

Raban looked coolly at Gaston.
“I will dispose of them for you, sir.”

Gaston ignored his comment.
“The hard part of our job is complete, Raban. We will soon see a profit once we
reach Ergoth. Our brethren there will be pleased.”

“You are certain the egg will
survive the five-day trek through the Ankhram desert?”

Gaston glanced back at the
sack. “You would be amazed at the resilience of a Dragon’s egg. The shell alone
is almost as hard as adamantine. Whilst in my care, it will remain safe.”

Raban sniffed and turned away
from him, the hem of his black robes sweeping across the ground. “And what of
our young recruit? I do not think he is ready to embark on such a journey.”

Gaston brushed past the druid,
toward the exit. “He is eager, and he has seen more in these few days than most
recruits live to see in their lifetime. But I do like Carver. He is looking for
guidance—to be molded into a warrior.” He glanced over his shoulder and
smirked. “Stop worrying about the boy. Why don’t you go deal with those two
imbeciles, instead?”

Raban made a face, bowed, and
swept out of the tent.

Moments later, Gaston followed
him. As he passed through the tent flap, a crow swooped down from atop the
exterior roof of the tent, cawing mockingly at him as it flapped toward the
center of camp. Gaston could hear the bitter reluctance in the bird’s squawks.
You
will never achieve my success, Raban. That is why I lead.
He watched the
bird’s silhouette disappear in the camp.

* * *

Alone in his
tent, Carver secured the last loop of his studded leather cuirass and checked
himself.
It fit snugly, but he was
still able to move with ease.
I don’t look half bad in this.
He grinned.
It had only been a few days since he’d begun traveling with the Legion, and
Carver had already felt their camaraderie; they accepted him—a complete
stranger—as one of their own.
I could not ask for a better family than this.

Hearing his tent flap open, he
spun around. Gaston entered, his armor glinting from the sunlight outside. “Sir
Gaston!” Carver beamed. “What do you think?” He showed the man the front and
back of his armor.

Gaston observed him a moment,
then smiled. “It looks good on you, boy. But with every defense, there must
come
a good offense. I trust your training with Kelvin has
been fruitful?”

Carver nodded.
“Yes, sir.
He’s a good teacher and an even greater fighter.
Though not as good as you, sir.”

Gaston bowed. “You do me
honor. You’ll need to learn how to wield a true warrior’s weapons if you wish
to fight alongside me.”

A prickle of excitement ran
down Carver’s arms. “Oh, I do, sir! It would be such an honor to join you on
the battlefield!”

“I like your enthusiasm,
Carver. It will take you far. When we get to Ergoth in a few days, I will
introduce you to one of the trainers there. I will also see that you are
properly marked.”

Carver tilted his head to the
side and furrowed his brow. “‘Marked’, sir?”

“Indeed. Every member of the
Legion is marked—a constant reminder of their eternal servitude.” He turned his
head slightly, revealing a symbol burned into his skin on his neck. “Once you
are a Legionnaire, you are
always
a Legionnaire. Unless you bring
dishonor on the Legion in some way—but I trust that will not be the case, now,
will it?”

Carver shook his head quickly.
“Oh, no, sir!
Never!”

Gaston patted Carver’s
shoulder. “Good. Now pack up. We will be setting off in a few hours.”

After Gaston left, Carver
heard raised voices outside his tent. His curiosity piqued, he quietly trailed
Gaston’s footsteps, keeping out of the warrior’s sight.

Gaston walked toward the
center of camp, where a group of spectators stood in a small circle around the
ashy remains of a campfire. Inside the circle was Raban, along with Thokas and
Searil.

Carver hid behind a tent and
watched in silence.

“The price of failure is
death,” Raban croaked.

Searil gasped. “What? But ...
we retrieved the egg as instructed.”

“Too many of our brethren
died. You could not perform a simple task without bleeding our forces with
casualties. Our numbers have been reduced to fourteen because of your
incompetence!” Raban glowered. “The Dragon was not even around! There is no
excuse for this.”

“Please, spare us, sir,”
Thokas pled. “We did not foresee—”

“Silence!”
Raban raised his hand in front of his face and curled
his fingers into a tight fist, which began to glow with an eerie green light.

Thokas and Searil whimpered
and attempted to flee, but they halted as Gaston entered the circle of
spectators.

“We will survive, with or
without you two.” Gaston unsheathed a dirk from his belt, and glided to Searil
in a single step, looming over him like a shadow of Death. He cast a brief
glance at Raban. “Restrain them.”

Smirking, Raban unleashed his
spell. Green light surged from his hand to hit the ground around Thokas and
Searil’s feet. The dirt crumbled, and several thorny green vines broke through.
They wrapped around the frightened men’s ankles and held them in place.

Thokas and Searil struggled
and grunted, but their weak attempts at escaping the vines’ hold proved futile.

“I should kill you both,”
Gaston sneered, his eyes glittering. “But I think I will offer you to our
Ankhram brethren, instead. I am rather fond of their methods of punishment.
However, your failure dishonors the mark of the Legion. Therefore ...” He
seized Searil first and tore off the right sleeve of his robe, revealing the
brand on the man’s shoulder. With the tip of his dirk, Gaston carved the brand
out of Searil’s skin.

A terrifying cry echoed
throughout the camp. Searil paled, clutching the wound, and looked wide-eyed at
Gaston.

Gaston tossed the severed skin
to the ground and stomped it into the dirt. He nodded to Raban, and the druid waved
the vines away from Searil’s ankles. Gaston shoved Searil aside and moved on to
Thokas.

The orc struggled against the
vines’ firm hold, but grunted as he was still held firm and bleeding from the
thorns. “P—please, sir. I beg you ...”

Gaston’s expression remained
stony. He kneed Thokas in the groin. The orc dropped to his knees with a howl.
Gaston gave Raban another nod, to dismiss the entanglement spell.

He grabbed a tuft of Thokas’s
scraggly hair and yanked his head to one side. As he had done with Searil,
Gaston carved the brand from Thokas’s neck and shoved him into the dirt, where
the orc
lay
gasping and bleeding.

Gaston wiped his bloody blade
on Searil’s robes, sheathed it, and then spun around and faced the ring of
pale-faced onlookers. “Honor is not won through selfishly sacrificing others.”
His voice boomed, and he pointed at those who watched. “You would do well to
remember that, all of you.”

Carver gasped and ducked his
head behind the tent to avoid Gaston’s gaze.
I sure hope I don’t get on his
bad side
.

Something furry brushed
against his leg. He jumped from his hiding spot with a yelp. A weasel was
slinking away toward a tent. Carver exhaled and relaxed.
Ha! He must be
looking for breakfast.

* * *

Gaston faced the rest of his
men. “Let this be a warning—to
all
of you.” Gaston glanced at Raban—who
answered with look of contempt—then turned to leave. “Now, let us break camp.”

He took a step and felt a
sharp pain in his lower back. Several of his comrades gasped.

Rattled, Gaston reached back
for the source of the pain. He grabbed the hilt of a small throwing knife
lodged in a gap in his cuirass and tugged, grunting. When he yanked the blade
out and examined it, it was covered with blood—
his
blood.

* * *

Raban’s eyes
widened in astonishment.
“We are
under attack!”