Trail Of The Torean (Book 2) Read online

  “Ron Collins is a spellbinding storyteller.”

  -David B. Coe/D.B. Jackson

  Author of the Thieftaker Chronicles

  The Saga of the God-Touched Mage includes:

  Glamour of the God-Touched

  Trail of the Torean

  Target of the Orders

  Gathering of the God-Touched

  Pawn of the Planewalker

  Changing of the Guard

  Lord of the Freeborn

  Lords of Existence

  Other Work by Ron Collins:

  Five Magics

  Picasso’s Cat and Other Stories

  See the PEBA on $25 a Day

  Chasing the Setting Sun

  Four Days in May

  Links to these and more of Ron's work

  Follow Ron at

  www.typosphere.com

  or his twitter feed: @roncollins13

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  Copyright Information

  Trail of the Torean

  Saga of the God-Touched Mage, Volume 2

  © 2014 Ron Collins

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Art by Rachel J. Carpenter

  © 2014 Ron Collins

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Images

  © Slavapolo | Dreamstime.com - Narrow Slot Between Two Rocks In Desert Canyon Photo

  © Maxim Evdokimov | Dreamstime.com

  © Marepilc | Dreamstime.com - The Rider Photo

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialog, and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Skyfox Publishing

  http://www.skyfoxpublishing.com

  For Tim, Mike, Jackie, and Ken. And of course, for Lisa.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Acknowledgements

  About Ron Collins

  How You Can Help

  Prologue

  It was time for the purge to begin.

  Finally.

  Zutrian Esta, High Superior of the Lectodinian order, stood alone in one of the many chambers built into the sheer cliffs of the Vapor Peaks. Rounded domes embedded in the ceiling glowed with magelight and gave the room a blue tone that was unnaturally crisp. The air smelled of lemon and strange spices. Beakers of tinted glass lined one wall. Ceramic pots filled with minerals, powders, and other catalysts filled shelving alongside another. A window facing north would have given him a startling view of the land below if the sun had yet risen above the morning’s horizon.

  He rubbed his fingers over his eyes.

  Zutrian was not as young as he once had been, and in the quiet of his laboratory, he had to admit that the work was taking its toll.

  There were thousands of details to running the order that nobody else would think of, not the least of which was massaging the egos of the hundreds of mages who each thought they were superior to the rest. There were always plans to review, or assignments to make, and it seemed like he was dealing with decisions over how and what and where to delegate with every minute he drew breath. He had needed, for example, to personally oversee the hiring of every mercenary who participated in the joint operation with the Koradictines, and he found that he had to review every transit log to ensure that all of the proper components were delivered to mages in the field as expected, rather than siphoned off for personal exploration or other such poppycock.

  It was all so very wearying.

  To this he added each day the scrying he performed to ensure his commands were being properly enacted.

  The work was never-ending, but necessary.

  His muscles ached and his bleary headaches were growing more numerous every day, but it would be worth it all to be finally rid of the Toreans.

  The freelance sorcerers had always been irritating, but they had also always been inconsequential—always, that is, until this winter when a few of the more audacious of their “membership” formed their new organization. The Freeborn, they called themselves as they squatted directly upon Lectodinian commerce. Even worse, this Torean group had actually taken the fight to the orders in the wilds of the central plains, and in a few smaller regions of the map, too.

  Losing mages had finally forced Zutrian’s hand.

  It had not been hard to convince Ettril Dor-Entfar, the Koradictine high superior, to join forces for the hunt. Perhaps the only thing he and Ettril actually agreed upon were the many benefits to ridding the plane of its Torean influence.

  News of their success had been arriving for weeks.

  News good enough that, despite his fatigue, Zutrian needed to speak to Ettril now. It was time to begin. Time to set the sweep into motion.

  So he stood in the center of a circle made of blackened brick, and he bent to the communication spell, placing the security components needed to keep the discussion private into their final positions. Conversations between the leaders of the two orders were, by definition, too sensitive to be open to the public’s ear. He then painted the circle with pigment made of bloodroot, and placed copper braziers of distilled water at each compass point.

  After he finished, Zutrian Esta stood between the circle and the open window. He chanted sorcery, set his gates, and reached for his link to Talin, the plane of magic.

  Energy flowed.

  He molded it with open hands, strolling around the circumference of the circle and forming lines of power before tipping each of the braziers to let water sluice inside the ring until its thin surface reflected the ceiling’s tiled fresco. Words of power brought an image of Ettril Dor-Entfar’s brown eyes to the water’s surface.

  The Koradictine’s gaze was framed by wrinkled flesh and a pair of wild eyebrows. His forehead was high, his nose flat and wide, and his gray beard unkempt. By now Zutrian knew it was typical for the Koradictine to ignore such personal hygiene, but it still made him uncomfortable.

  “Greetings,” Zutrian said.

  “Good day, my friend. Early though it is.”

  “Our efforts have been successful,” Zutrian replied. This was no time to waste effort on simple lip flap. “Nearly every Torean mage of any power on the plane of Adruin is dead.”

  “Excellent,” the Koradictine mage said. The sound of hands rubbing together came through the link.

  Zutrian could not help but smile.

  This was the beginning of the end for the Torean House.

  The orders’ armies were staffed with thousands of well-paid mercenaries. The leaders of those armies—the Koradictine mage, Jormar, and his own Parathay—were god-touched mages, wizards whose powers had been augmented with those of the planewalkers they had each aligned with, powers that had been bought at no little expense. And, because Z
utrian had no intention of sharing ownership of Adruin with the Koradictines for any longer than necessary, he had incurred considerable additional expense. Of course, the time for Ettril to learn of this would come only after they had finished removing the last bits of Torean detritus from the plane.

  “Are your troops in the agreed-upon position?” he said.

  “Yes. Jormar’s army sits at the Badwall Canyons awaiting my word. Are your forces ready?”

  Zutrian nodded. “Whitestone will be ours as soon as I give Parathay the command.”

  “Excellent again,” Ettril said.

  Zutrian was growing to hate that word. “It’s time to complete the purge,” he replied. “Your army sweeps the north country. Mine takes the southern swath. When we are done, no Torean wizard of any power whatsoever will remain alive.”

  The Koradictine’s eyes shone in the distance. “Good riddance, I say.”

  Zutrian merely nodded.

  “I will pass the word to Jormar,” Ettril finally added.

  “And I to Parathay.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Until we speak again,” Zutrian said.

  The water in the circle boiled away, its vapor tainting the laboratory with its fetid stink of blood.

  Zutrian wrinkled his nose and bent to clean the braziers.

  When he was finished, he filled each with fresh water. The morning was growing late. Parathay needed to be given his new directions. After that, there were still plans to develop and options to consider.

  His neck ached as he stretched.

  It was going to be another long day.

  Chapter 1

  It was morning time in early spring. Garrick had travelled a day and a night on foot to come to this place. Now he stood on the southernmost hillside that looked down on the city of Caledena, feeling life force welling up inside him, and feeling the full weight of what it meant to be a man alone.

  Garrick had grown up in the streets. He had been used and trod over often enough that he once considered it a basic state of life. He thought he had been alone before. But this sensation was new to him. It was an encompassing fear of failure that ate at his confidence. He needed this job. He needed the money so he could free himself of the curse that Braxidane, the planewalker who claimed to be his new superior, had burdened him with. In many ways that fear was no different from the wild and terrifying magic he carried inside him. So, yes, he was alone now. Alistair, his mage superior for so many years, was no longer here to set any errors right, all of Alistair's other apprentices had been stolen away, and Braxidane was nowhere to be found.

  Not that Garrick wanted to speak with him.

  Yet, inside his fear was also a sense of righteousness, a feeling of certainty that was in no way made of logic or wisdom, but was a feeling of worthiness or a sense of accomplishment yet to come. He was here to do the job his superior would have done—if, that is, Alistair was still alive. And he could do it, too. Perhaps it was just the life force speaking for him now, but for the first time in his life Garrick felt like he could handle anything.

  His shirt fluttered in a crosswind that smelled of the grasslands behind him. His dirty blond hair blew against his cheek.

  Calendena sprawled in the haphazard fashion of an independent trading town. It taunted him, cackled at him as an old street woman might. Alistair had called this place a weed, and that seemed an apt comparison now that Garrick saw it for what it was. Caledena was born at the fork of a river and had grown from shallow roots to become this sprawling mess, this misshapen collection of buildings arranged as if they had been tossed like dice. Its dwellings were of mud brick and weather-faded wood. Its maze of streets and angled alleys were filled with farmers, merchants, and trappers who came from as far away as Farvane or the Badwall Canyons.

  And others came to Caledena, too—thieves and cutthroats, men and women who preyed upon those who weren’t inclined to look after themselves.

  Alistair had brought Garrick to Caledena before, and Garrick had felt its dangerous edge even then. But he had not seen the depths of the city as a youth, and that his earlier fears had been nothing more than the excitement that came of adventure.

  This was different.

  If he was ever going to be rid of Braxidane’s curse, he had to succeed here. He would do Alistair’s job, take the money, and go south to call upon the Torean mage known as Dontaria Pel-an, asking him to remove the dark magic that was so horrifying in its ability to give life, as well as take it.

  He did not know what would happen to him after this power had been removed.

  Braxidane’s magic was probably all that kept him from dwelling on the ugly memories of nights when he had stolen lives from Dorfort and, of course, from Sjesko. And it was certainly the surging life forces of his victims that kept him from needing food or sleep as he traveled, and that kept him warm despite the chill of the morning.

  What would happen when this crutch was removed?

  He would deal with the answer to that question when the time came.

  Actions and consequences, he thought, spitting as he recalled the words rolling from the planewalker’s lips.

  Garrick would show Braxidane actions and consequences.

  If removing the curse killed him, so be it. He had already destroyed too many people with this magic of his. He deserved it. He just hoped he was there to see Braxidane's face when it happened.

  But that was for a future time.

  Now Garrick's blood pumped as he gazed upon the city. It was time to be a real mage, he thought as he strode down the hill. Time to find real work.

  He entered Caledena, and continued toward the manor of Hersha Padiglio, Viceroy of the city. As he walked, Garrick sensed the raw placeness of the town in a deeper fashion than he could remember feeling—he smelled the streets and the fresh sheen of slippery mud that covered them. The shops were full of clamor that echoed with distant harmonics He tasted baking bread, felt the rasp of leather as a tanner made harnesses for horse teams and plow mules. A blacksmith’s fire burned from somewhere below Garrick’s sternum.

  And the people, they moved in ways that seemed so close to him, as if, for example, he could reach out and touch the woman sweeping the porch of her dress shop, even though she was all the way across a wheel-rutted street of that same muddy dirt.

  He felt fatigue from two mercenaries serving as Caledena’s guard as they rested against a fence post.

  A man slept in the gutter against the wall of a gambling house, an empty clay jug beside him. Garrick felt the sharpness of the baseboard pressed against the small of the man’s back.

  An old woman stepped from her dwelling to rinse a ceramic bowl. She cast a suspicious gaze at Garrick, drained darkened water into the street, then turned and left him alone.

  “Fresh apples?”

  The nearby voice startled him.

  It was a weather-beaten man sitting on a doorstep. He wore a stained hat with a wide brim. His face was dried by the sun and peppered with whiskers that grew at all angles. A frayed blanket lay trussed-up beside him, a bucket of fruit next to it. The apples were from the eastern regions. They were hard and had obviously been picked well before having come ripe.

  Garrick nearly lurched forward as Sjesko’s energy rose to pool like rainwater in his fingertips. This magic was so different from the structured sorcery Alistair had taught him. It was a simple, free sorcery that flowed as a thing of itself. It wanted to help this man. It wanted to fill his hollow existence.

  “Two copper each,” the man said, though his eyes told Garrick he knew the apples would never sell for that price.

  “I’ll take one,” he said, reaching into his knapsack to drag out coins.

  The man fumbled, but still managed to lift the bucket.

  Garrick reached inside, and as he made his selection he let life force seep into the rest. The power of Sjesko’s life force flowed with barely a thought. When he was finished, each fruit was large and ripe.

  The man would sle
ep indoors tonight.

  Garrick bit into the fruit as he walked away. He looked at the apple, and used his sleeve to clean sweet juice that ran from his chin. He wasn’t actually hungry, but it tasted fresh and made him feel good.

  If, at that moment, he had raised his gaze to look across the open market, Garrick would have seen two mages in flowing robes pounding a notice into the wooden message post that stood at an intersection of several winding alleyways. If he had seen the two men, he might have read that notice, and if he had read that notice, he would have seen:

  Wanted: Information pertaining to the whereabouts of Torean wizards.

  Payment rendered.

  And if he had seen the notice, and the directions that described how to gather this bounty, he may have thought about things in a different fashion. He might have done things differently.

  But instead of raising his gaze, Garrick simply chewed his apple and disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter 2

  The viceroy’s residence loomed over the city. It was built on a rising knoll at the northern edge of town, six stories tall, and made of stone, which—given the ramshackle nature of the buildings around it—gave the manor an air of permanence and power despite the fact that its shutters were perpetually locked, and the cracks in its ivy-covered walls had been repaired many times over.

  A guard wearing plates of tarnished brown armor blocked Garrick’s path, his breath reeking of stale cigar.

  “The viceroy don’t see to no business till later,” The guard said.

  Garrick stood his ground. “Just tell him Alistair’s representative is here.”

  The man regarded him with nothing short of disbelief.

  “You’s a mage?”

  “At your service.”

  “You’s still a kid.”

  Garrick, remembering how Alistair reacted to such slights, made himself stand taller. “If you’re asking for my credentials I’ll be happy to make you very uncomfortable. I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the town.”