Hours later, they were back on the road. But this time, the tapping and thudding of shoes was replaced with the gentle plodding of horses.
They were beasts loaned to the rebels, and Lunar found this preferable to purchasing the animals. If she and Michael were to die in battle, it would not do to have the horses without their owners. And, if they were able to attain the mage’s loyalty, he could hopefully cover transportation. Thus, the horses were provided and, like all Gratsinmornian beasts, trained to rush home when the time was right. At a signal of the dismounted rider, the horses would flee back to Covenhaven, and Lunar felt relief at the prospect. There would be, hopefully, no unnecessary deaths today.
Headman Laurence’s gratitude sprawled past free mounts. She had not spoken to him of the mage’s presence in the room, but he had still extended his appreciation to cover supplies for the journey ahead. Though Lunar didn’t know if she and Michael would survive the trip, Laurence had provided crusty bread and dried meat for their travels and would at least die with food in their bellies. And if they survived, that was all well and good.
Now, they travelled through thick shrubbery, the horses doing their best to tear through the undergrowth and breaking through the bushes as they rose. The rich scent of the forest lingered through the air as birds and animals let free their songs and sounds of hurried escape as the adventurers came crashing through. But the noise was plentiful, and Lunar was half a mind to believe a group of bandits would attack them along this path or even a group of thieves looking for a quick dollar. To her fortune and relief, there seemed to be none, and she wondered if it had something to do with the civil war she kept forgetting was raging. It had yet to reach this part of the Kingdom, and she had to remind herself that this was not a process of preparation but a process of retaliation.
“I’m half expecting a few bandits to come out of the shrubs,” Michael mumbled idly, echoing Lunar’s thoughts as he drew his sword to hack through several low-hanging branches and thick shrubbery threatening to knock him from his horse. She frowned at his practices but did not speak against them. “Doubt anyone can spare the soldiers to deal with them.”
“Maybe they’re joining the fight,” she murmured with no hint of conviction. It was a crazy idea, but she may as well voice it. “Maybe they got paid and started to side with someone.”
“Maybe pigs fly,” Michael groaned. “And maybe the mage won’t try to kill us.”
“Hey, one of those four ideas is possible!” she exclaimed in protest, and he fixed her with a baleful stare.
“Which one?”
“I’m not sure. But one of them has to be!”
Michael stifled a laugh at Lunar’s antics, though the blonde noticed his amusement and hid a smile. At least she could raise his spirits. After all, dreaming up problems usually made them come true, and she didn’t need to tire herself with a few meaningless patrolmen. If she had to fight the mage, she would do it with all the energy she could. Even as she rode, she gently nudged her bow, feeling the unstrung stick against her back with the bowstring loose around it. Then she nudged her hip, making sure every one of her twelve arrows was present in her quiver, and breathed a sigh. The only misfortune was that she was using her hunting bow, which, while fantastic for hunting game and powerful enough to break through the hide and flesh of raxten, was useless for puncturing armour. The mage may not wear any, but she wondered if his robes were thick enough to withstand the force of her projectile.
But it was too late to question her choices. They were drawing near, and she could tell by the sudden sensation of discomfort washing over her. It was discomfort first, and the dreadful, looming presence next, as the feeling of being watched fell upon her. Out of the blue and in a sheer wave of crippling fear, it suddenly felt as if she were being stared upon, her body screaming at her to act. Her mind echoed the command, her heart beating with fierce desperation as her stare whirled around the forest. She was quick to dismount, cautiously yet swiftly stringing her bow as Michael moved to sandwich her between their horses while her mount whinnied in protest. Both beasts stared at her as if she were mad, and she glared at them as she restrung the bow and remounted, still staring through the trees. Her hand cautiously plucked an arrow from her quiver, laying it on the string as she stared, looking for where the stares must have come.
Or, if it were who she thought it was, the single stare.
She could see nothing through the trees, but she knew the presence. It had to be the mage and the dark aura of magic shrouding him. He was powerful, and that power could not be denied nor hidden. Not from her, at least. Her body screamed at every anomaly surrounding her, never allowing her a brief reprieve from the worry surrounding change. It was infuriating, but at least drew her nerves taut and forced her into a state of readiness for the battle to come. She would need to be prepared if she was to fight the pale man. Her horse remained still beneath her, and she drew a breath as she listened to the forest.
A rustle came to her right.
She turned and drew her bow, hastily snapping it off in the general direction of the rustling. She fumbled for another as her projectile flew, but she couldn’t even grab another arrow by the time the first struck its target. But the impact was a sharp screech, and she paused as the arrow clattered uselessly to the ground, the shaft warped and broken as it struck the earth. She frowned, urging her horse toward the wall of moss and vines she had fired into, and reached out to try and part the greenery.
Her hand met cold stone.
The presence remained, but its source did not appear. Her hand gently traced the titanic structure, and she realised she was staring at a wall of mossy stone. It was camouflage, just like her cloak, and she rode her horse along the length of the rock face with a growing curiosity. The material was almost soft underneath her touch, perfectly smooth and seamless even at a glance. The sensation was even pleasant, the cool surface gently pulsing with a faint power she could not place. The latter, she realised, was probably the source of her unease. And, as if it realised she was wise to its tricks, the presence faded, and she frowned as she continued to explore the surface.
“This has got to be a door,” she whispered. “It can’t be natural.”
“Something or someone definitely put this here,” Michael agreed, sheathing his blade and running his hand along the surface. She watched his expression and mirrored his frown as he glared at the wall. His eyes narrowed as he traced the camouflaged surface, even daring to draw his sword and smash it against the stones. The strike only drew sparks from the wall, and he cursed at his moment of curiosity as he noted the potential damage to his blade.
While he turned to gaze down the edge, which had managed to hold despite the abuse, Lunar stepped toward the structure and searched the stones. She stood for many minutes, tracing the surface and even knocking on the material. Presumably and predictably, nothing but the raw echo of stone against bone rang out from the impact, and Lunar cursed at the faint ache that befell her knuckles. Her fruitless attempts were beginning to wear on her, and she wondered if this was even the domain of the man they were searching for. But as she began to doubt, she felt a dip in the stone.
“Hold on! I found something!”
Michael glanced over, and she gestured to the well with a raised eyebrow. He leant down, searching the divot with an expression of faint interest, and squinted to get a better look. A few minute symbols were carved into the stone, seemingly of a foreign language, and he traced the little dent with his finger. The carvings were difficult to discern, and he vigorously scrutinised each one before trying to poke at one.
The wall shuddered, and he leapt back from the structure. His cry of surprise, echoed by Lunar, was deafened only by the cacophonous grind of stone against earth as the structure broke free of its stasis. Dust and gravel showered from its upper lip, slowly receding beneath the earth as the sheer face unveiled a cavern’s gaping maw. There was nothing but darkness within the tunnel behind, not even a light to illuminate the hidden cave Lunar dared stare into.
Her breathing slowed, and she felt her heart constrict. Fear crawled through her body as she stared into the lightless cavern, and her hand gravitated toward another arrow as she gulped. The empty tunnel seemed to call out to her, beckoning her into the potentially infinite blackness within, and her resolve began to weaken by the moment. Only Michael’s raksteel hand, gently clasping her shoulder, brought her back to reality, and her fearful gaze turned to meet his.
He was scared too, and she could see that in his steely blue eyes. But she saw determination and a bias for action. She watched as he steeled his resolve, and gestured for her to follow as he began to stride into the impenetrable blackness of the cavern. She cast a wary gaze back at their horses, who were staring at the two disappearing ex-royals, before turning back to her duty. And she drew a determined breath, bracing herself as she marched after Michael with gritted teeth.
She would come out alive. Both of them would. They would find the mage, fight him if they had to, and continue their venture to find Earl Regmend and endorse his rebellion. She fit an arrow to the string and flexed the bow, praying the eleven projectiles would be enough as the tip-taps of their feet against the stone floor echoed through the cavern. Silence stretched on beyond the footsteps, and she felt her breathing quicken again as her throat constricted. She was afraid. Terrified, even. The longer she marched through her surroundings, the worse the doubts became. Even Michael, his heavy footfalls crashing into the stone and leaving marks on the ground, could not ease her terror.
And it only got worse as the cave’s mouth closed.
She whirled around and stared at the entrance, where the stone wall rose back to lock them in. She reached out with a cry, but it was futile, for the titanic structure smashed back into place with a great crunch and rumble, leaving her in the pitch-black cavern. And there, in the darkness, a laugh shattered the silence of the travellers, a cackle of twisted amusement tearing through the air and ringing through her mind. The maniacal cry of hilarity broke through her wavering resolve, and she drew a quick breath of fear as she whirled around, searching for the source as it echoed through her new prison. The laughter bounced off the walls, droning on and on and setting her nerves on edge as she drew her bow and prepared to fire in a desperate panic into the darkness beyond. But a target emerged as the cackling went on, and her eyes widened at the sight.
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Dozens of torches flared to life along the cave's long, dreary stone halls. The tunnel walls bore the light of the flickering, dancing flames, which flared with an unnatural vigour. Countless shelves lined the tunnel, bearing books of many languages and titles, none she recognised in her fleeting glance. Her focus, along with the glare of fire, was honed upon the solitary figure within the center of the cavern.
Standing within the center of the cavern, illuminated by the dancing flames and standing with his arms wide in a mocking gesture of welcome, was the Mad Mage. His namesake was true in his wide smile, threatening to split his face in half as his lips curled to reveal rows of perfect white teeth. Just a few too many teeth, bared in his mirthless mask of delight, mirrored in his terrible stare. His eyes, the green alight with energy and the black devoid of life, turned and focused upon her, and Lunar felt her heart drop. She pulled the arrow back further, drawing her bow up as she felt fear course through her blood. Sweat broke on her brow while the hiss of raksteel against gundar signalled that Michael had drawn his blade as the two former royals stared down the rebel.
His laughter came to an abrupt halt as he fixed them both with an unnerving smile, his eyes cold and lifeless as he stared at them both. His cloak continued to flow, majestic and terrifying as it billowed beneath his swift motion. There was no result from his grand gesture as the pale man’s thin lips finally moved, his voice a haunting echo that chilled Lunar’s bones.
“Greetings, dear friends!” he cackled before he extended his hand to the skies. “And goodbye!”
The roof of the cavern collapsed upon Michael. While the rest remained, the earth and stone directly above the knight tumbled toward the raksteel soldier, who cried out in horror and leapt to the side. His wide eyes watched as the earth and stone smashed into the ground, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the floor before he hauled himself back to his feet to parry a conjured broadsword. A titanic iron weapon was forged in a gesture and fell upon Michael’s blade with great fury. The broadsword was severed as the raksteel weapon slashed through the blade, the dislodged piece shattering against the knight’s shoulder. Michael smirked as he prepared a swift advance, yet the mage’s outstretched hand sent him flying as the pieces of the conjured weapon vanished.
By the time the mage had turned to Lunar, she had fired two arrows in his direction, the first narrowly missing his jaw and the other halted with a raised palm. Lunar’s heart dropped once more, and she watched as the arrow duplicated until a half dozen projectiles were turned and hurled back at her, and she dove to avoid the attack. But even as she retreated from the attack, more projectiles appeared at the cloaked man’s back, and stones and arrows of various sorts and crude designs were hurled in her direction. Some flew around her as she prepared herself, some flew at her in attacks she was forced to sidestep, and one particular projectile hurled end over end at the princess.
A black stave adorned with a dark, curved blade was flying at her. A sophisticated war scythe, its blade designed to cleave through swords and puncture armour, was thrown in her direction. It was far superior to her bow, which she tossed aside as she watched the weapon draw near. Time seemed to slow as the weapon flew, a spinning wheel of lethal potential, and she prepared herself to spring. Each rotation brought the terrible weapon closer, but she saw potential in the polearm. She had heard of her ancestors battling with such a weapon, the polearm a vital piece of Gratsinmornian history and one she could utilise. Longswords took time to learn, and she did not have the build for a heavy longbow. But the scythe, with momentum and technique, was a potential boon in this battle and those to follow.
So Lunar crouched, and when she believed the time was right, she hurled herself at the base of the staff. Her hands were outstretched for the weapon, even as it swung overhead and threatened to drive into her leg. But she took the opportunity, her fingers curling around the weapon and seizing it for her own before it could disappear against the ground.
And her mad endeavour came to a successful end. She rolled to recover as her grip spread across the polearm, her eyes wide as she stared incredulously at her new weapon, shocked that she had pulled off the maneuver. The weapon felt familiar in a way, its heft similar to the few scythes she had been permitted to wield in the castle, and she glared up at the mage with her new polearm. It was light, and it caught the light as she effortlessly brought it forward, miming a slash as she advanced toward the mage.
He was not amused and retaliated with several clumsy longswords. A wave sent them flying toward her, and she hurried to step aside, feverishly clutching her scythe with a white-knuckled grip. The weapon was powerful, and she could feel a faint magic pulsing from the weapon, but she had already begun regretting the decision. It was too powerful, and she had no business holding a polearm like this. It was capable, but she could only stare in fear as another volley of weapons was conjured, the formation lethal. She could not escape in time, and she helplessly watched, frozen in fear, as the blades descended.
Her body moved of its own accord. Her hands and the scythe communicated as one, leaving her in the dark as she acted without a thought. As if she were just a vessel, the black blade of the scythe caught the light of the cavern as it spun in a pinwheel of mayhem. A familiar technique, but one she never believed she could execute at all, let alone successfully, as the clumsy longswords approached. Her eyes widened as she watched her hands move in swift, effortless gestures, and she felt, then heard, the impact of each sword bashing into her mobile barrier before being unceremoniously thrown to the ground, the blades cleaved and shattered as they fell harmlessly against the stone. More than half a dozen hilts were left without their blades, the others left damaged, dented, and notched as they flew away.
The torrent of weapons stopped, and only then did she find herself in control of her body again. She cursed the sudden surprise but breathed her thanks, for it had saved her life, before staring down the perplexed mage. His hands lowered momentarily as their gazes met, a twinge of curiosity in his green-and-black stare, before he gestured to her again, and she was thrown into the corner of the cavern. She smashed against the wall with a cry, feeling her grip on the scythe weaken as she slumped before the stone closed around her, locking her away as she groaned.
The mage’s scream soon filled the air, however, as Michael recovered and flung himself with a cry at the distracted caster, burying his sword into the man’s shoulder. The pale man staggered back, his mouth agape in a shout of pain, as Michael withdrew his blade and slashed down upon his collarbone, only for the blade to stop cold against the mage’s figure and send a jarring impact through his arm. Michael nearly dropped his sword, and he hurried to pull his blade back before the mage lifted from the ground and smashed into him; the white gloves of the caster wound around Michael’s throat and lifted him into the air. Michael bucked and pounded his fists against the mage’s hands, kicking desperately to free himself from the pale man’s murderous grasp as life began to drain from his body. His struggles grew weaker, and his kicks grew slower as the edges of his vision darkened. The mage was slim, but his iron grip was unyielding, and Michael could not hold himself for much longer. So he gave a final, desperate attempt.
The mage roared out as Michael slipped from his grasp, the knight’s skin turning to fabric, allowing him to slide effortlessly from the black-clad man’s gloves. The heap of cotton hit the ground, crumpling against the stone, and swiftly reformed into the raksteel knight as the mage descended with a fury, gloves alight with a potent magic that Michael had no intention of challenging. As the man descended, the knight threw a right hook and smashed his fist into the approaching mage’s jaw, sending the caster flying to the side.
The crack of bone erupted from the strike, and the caster was thrown unceremoniously into the ground. Blood spewed from the magician’s mouth, his hands grasping his jaw and cheek as he felt the shattered bone beneath his pale skin. He desperately attempted to rise to his knees, though the shock of the wound crippled him, and Michael began a swift advance, his blade still feverishly clutched as he aimed to end the man. All thoughts of the rebellion were forgotten, and Michael’s rage overcame him. All he saw was red, and a determination filled his body to kill the madman who had thrown both him and Lunar around like ragdolls, and he flung himself toward the weakened caster.
The mage’s hand rose, palm extended, before he formed a fist, and a powerful explosion sent Michael careening from his kneeling form. Michael cried out, both in shock and rage, as he had come so close to victory, yet so far as the sheer force of the attack threw his weapon from his hand. Not that it would have done him much good, as Michael’s head smashed against the cavern wall, the crack of stone and grinding screech of metal on earth ringing through his ears as he gasped beneath the impact.
Moments after he rose, the mage began wildly conjuring various projectiles, from weapons to arrows, and throwing them at the knight. Michael gawked in horror before desperately rising, aiming to duck and weave around the assault. The weapons, cast with reckless abandon, smashed into the cavern’s barriers, cracks spiderwebbing as the impact shattered the projectiles. However, as a few struck the knight, he paused as the raksteel held firm against the impacts. Even as a huge rock flew across the cavern, it only staggered the former royal guard, and Michael dared to smile as he realised none of the conjured weapons could penetrate his flesh.
It was a mistake. The mage noted Michael’s arrogance and attacked. Colourless energy flooded from his sleeves and around the mage’s hands, whirling in nearly invisible droves around his fingers as they curled around his fists. There was no time to react from the confident knight, as the mage streaked across the cavern and, with a foreign battlecry, smashed his fists into the knight’s stomach, and Michael was sent flying back once more, crashing into stone with a grunt of pain as the power of the punch flooded through his body.
But even as he landed, the pain only grew worse. The impact had punched through his raksteel hide, smashing into the bones behind and breaking them as if they were wood. Blood oozed from his steel lips, a gasp breaking free as he fell to all fours and sucked in a deep breath of agony. Pain clouded his vision, his body shaking as he struggled to rise, before a titanic stone, surrounded in the same energy that had destroyed him moments ago, flew at his face, and Michael had no time to scream as the attack knocked him unconscious.
The mage, his laughter long silenced by the ferocity of the battle, lowered his hands and hacked out a clot of blood. He grimaced, glaring at the stain as it joined the fragments of weapons and pieces of broken stones littering the cavern floor. The steel weapons had been destroyed, the stone projectiles detonated, and the walls of his home damaged by the two insufferable intruders. His jaw and cheek still screamed in agony despite his swift reconstruction of the bone, and he raised a white glove to his pale face as he advanced. The Kingdom’s ilk had caused him grief, plenty at that, and the mage would see that he paid dearly for it.
But doubt nagged at the mage as he advanced toward Michael. The haze of bloodlust and the fog of battle cleared as he strode, preparing to end the knight, whose falikansi—body-changing magic—had wreaked tremendous havoc upon him. These two had rested within Covenhaven, revealing their presence only to fight the guards that had troubled the pleasant little town. A princess and a knight—let alone a falikansi, at that— had no business in such a poor settlement, lest to cause trouble. But it had not been by the mage’s hand that the sergeant had been slaughtered. Nor was it by the mage’s hand that the targeted smith had received such fine weapons, which could have only come from Gratsinmornian soldiers. The few vestiges of reason and sanity battled with the mage’s facade of madness, and he struggled to make sense of his thoughts.
Until a voice broke from behind him, and he whirled around to stare at the princess, who had freed herself from prison. Her scythe, a fine weapon mistakenly conjured to end her, lay to the side, likely the way she had cut herself free of the trap, as the cage bore several crude marks that suggested her vicious bid to break free. She was burdened by many wounds and by anger even he could recognise, but her eyes were filled with a desperate plea, and he just stared at her as she spoke in a frail voice.
“We were never here to fight,” she coughed, and the mage frowned, his hand daring to lower as his voice, far more reasonable in the aftermath than Lunar might have guessed, echoed through the cavern. A soft, sibilant hiss, twinged with an accent and deep for his slim figure.
“You have broached the walls of my home and come with weapons in hand. What business do you have here except to fight?” he demanded, his face contorted in confusion, and his eyebrow arched at the response.
“To ask you for help,” she pleaded. “To end this madness. To bring a new age to Gratsinmorn. To ask you to join our rebellion and find Earl Regmend of Kairon District to support his attack against the King.”