Grimm's Loss

By Kenneth McDonald

For generations, an uneasy peace has persisted between the mage-kingdom of Sacreth and its southern neighbor and rival, the Sokhal Empire. For Border Warden Eldwen Grimm, "peace" has been a relative term. Having spent his adult life protecting the people of Sacreth from danger, he wants nothing more than to enjoy a quiet future with his wife and daughter. But Grimm's new assignment will prove to be more than the sleepy posting he'd hoped for. It has been over a century since the border province of the Danalb left the declining Empire and became a part of Sacreth, but there are many in the region who continue to see the mages as occupiers, and others who would stir those old feelings to advance their own hidden agendas. Even as Grimm arrives at the frontier town of Bel Darinder with his wife, Mage Miranda Hael of the Order, and his young daughter Ashandra, dark magic and treacherous enemies gather that will threaten not only Grimm himself, but everyone and everything he holds dear.

“Grimm’s Loss” is the second book in a trilogy that covers both the adventures and misfortunes of a hero that wants little to do with magic yet who finds himself surrounded by it. The book is part of the Mages of Sacreth series ("The Labyrinth," "Of Spells and Demons," "Grimm's War"). It takes place approximately ten years after “Grimm’s War” and fifteen years before “The Labyrinth.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Apr 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301219087

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Grimm’s Loss

Book Two of the Grimm Trilogy, Part of the Mages of Sacreth Series

Kenneth McDonald

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Kenneth McDonald

Cover Credit: The cover illustration is taken from the painting Two Owls (1917) by Thomas Moran. The image is in the public domain.

* * * * *

Works by Kenneth McDonald

Wizard’s Shield

The Mages of Sacreth

The Labyrinth

Of Spells and Demons

Grimm’s War

Grimm’s Loss

The Godswar Trilogy

Paths of the Chosen

Choice of the Fallen

Fall of Creation

Daran’s Journey

Heart of a Hero

Soul of a Coward

Will of a Warrior

Courage of a Champion

* * * * *

Prologue

The place was called The Rudder’s Taint, and its days of glory were clearly long past. The tavern’s interior space extended over three tiers, with seating sufficient for at least two hundred persons, but only a fraction of the tables was occupied, with most of the patrons clustered around the oblong bar that jutted out from the back wall. The fighting pit on the lowest tier was empty, the bloodstains that marked its sides and bottom faded.

Lord Avmar Sollus stood in the doorway and took it all in as he shook the rain from his long coat. Underneath it he wore only plain dark clothes without adornment, but that disguise could not conceal the fact of what he was. A few of the patrons shot briefly curious looks in his direction, but they returned their attention to their drinks or companions as Sollus walked into the room. The Taint was a place where people knew to mind their own business, and nobody wanted the kind of trouble that associated with a man like this one.

Sollus started toward the bar, but paused and walked over to the upper tier, the soles of his expensive boots scraping on the worn wooden steps. Only a few of the lamps set in niches along the walls were lit, leaving most of the level in deep shadow. None of the dozen or so tables were occupied. Sollus scanned the booths, and was about to turn around when a light flickered in one of them, followed by a plume of smoke that rose into the air before billowing outward in a gray miasma.

The nobleman made his way to the booth, cursing as he accidentally clipped one of the chairs jutting out from the closest table. The lamp above the booth was dark, so all he could see of its occupant was a vague form draped in the concealing outline of a dark cloak. The stranger’s pipe flared again as he took another draught, holding the smoke a moment before he let another cloud trail up into the air.

This place is a sinkhole, Sollus said, as he slid into the opposite side of the booth. A pleasant selection for a meeting, Tarva.

The other man lowered his pipe. Perhaps you would have preferred to meet in your house in the Tellarev? Or maybe the Emperor’s dungeons would have been more to your liking.

Sollus took a quick look over his shoulder and extended his hands in protest. I only agreed to meet with you as a courtesy…

Calm yourself, my dear lord. The Taint is the perfect place for this conversation. Its decay is emblematic of the greater decay within the Empire, and in particular its current imperial line. If I didn’t know that you agreed with that sentiment, I would not have asked you to join me.

Sollus looked as though he wanted a drink, despite his earlier complaints about the place, but it was clear that the tavern’s few harried servers did not make it up this far. I am loyal, he began to protest.

Tarva cut him off with a simple dismissive flick of his hand. I understand you have been given a new assignment. An imperial commission, no less.

Sollus straightened in his chair. Yes. I am to command a punitive expedition against the barbarians of the Novren.

The Novren, Tarva said. He took another draught of smoke from his pipe, released it slowly. Great glory awaits you, no doubt.

Sollus’s expression hardened. You know as well as I that I am being punished.

Yes. Lord Gnaeus seems to have taken a dislike to you. How is his niece doing, by the way? Pity about the child.

Sollus growled something unintelligible.

So now you get to continue the Empire’s efforts to bring the guiding hand of civilization to the barbarians.

Sollus shifted in his seat. The Novrenar breed like rats and live like them. The best that can be said for them is that they have not been able to cause any serious trouble for decades. Emperor Demiratis did that much right, when he unleashed our legions against them.

A storied addition to the accounts of imperial glory, no doubt, Tarva said. A shame, that we lack such strong leadership today.

Did you invite me here just to talk about politics and history?

I invited you because I am interested in your story, my dear Sollus. And the fate that Gnaeus’s machinations have set for you. You have been given a command of a half-regiment, that is no small force, especially in these days of peace. The way he said the last word, it sounded like a curse.

Bah. Too few men to make a serious effort against the barbarians, yet too many to move with the necessary speed and efficiency. I will march my men across their hills for a few months, burn a few villages, suffer a few raids, and march back with half my glorious soldiers suffering from fluxes of the bowels or crotch rot, and a few dozen pickled heads to deliver to the Emperor.

No doubt he will take quite a good deal of pleasure in sticking them up on spears and parading them around the capital, Tarva noted.

No doubt.

Tarva smoked his pipe in silence. Sollus watched him, waiting for more, then finally placed his hands down on the table in front of him. What is it you want with me, wizard?

What if I told you there was a way both to rehabilitate your… reputation, and bring your name back into the ranks of the high lords of the Empire?

Sollus leaned back and sneered. My father told me that wizards all spoke with forked tongues, and were not to be trusted.

Did he, now?

Tarva did not shift, did not so much as twitch the pipe he held, but a sudden chill seemed to fill the room. Sollus, staring into the empty blackness within the mage’s cowl, shuddered. I did not come here… to play games, he said, the last words coming out almost as a squeal.

No games, I assure you, Tarva said. He took in another lungful of smoke, spewed it out. There is another way that you can find glory on your expedition into the Novren.

Sollus tried to recover his equanimity by throwing an arm up onto the back of the booth. I am all ears.

When you enter the hills, instead of taking your men east against the barbarians, continue north across the mountains, into the Danalb.

Sollus was too shocked to conceal his reaction, sinking back into his seat. What? You… He managed a weak chuckle. That is your plan? To provoke war with Sacreth? He looked over his shoulder, as if afraid that someone had crept up on them and overheard his comment. But they were alone, the din coming from the bar seemingly a vast distance away.

Tarva was again silent, though it appeared that he’d finished his pipe; he dumped the ashes out into the battered old brass receptacle and took out a cloth to clean it. Sollus watched the movements of the wizard’s hands for a few moments, then shifted again in his seat.

The Border Wardens keep a close eye on the passes, he finally said. And they have mages stationed along the mountain frontier as well.

The Sacrethans are not the only ones with skill at magic, Tarva said. Nor am I the only one of my fellows who is dissatisfied with the status quo.

But… war… that would be open defiance… I would earn the slowest of deaths for such an act.

Were the Imperial Seat occupied by more than a hollow shell, I would grant you that argument.

Lord Gnaeus would see it done, then. He has the Emperor’s ear.

And a few other orifices as well, if rumor is to be believed.

None of which is relevant to my fate.

Tarva shook his head slightly. These are times where bold action can yield great rewards. Neither Sacreth nor the Sokhal Empire want war.

Sollus’s expression sharpened. But you just said…

The commons want glory and a sense of belonging to something vital and noble, Tarva said. And as for the Danalb, its residents grow weary of the yoke of occupation and oppression.

Sollus snorted at that. We should know, given that it was part of the Empire for four centuries. But tell me, oh wise wizard, how my troops entering the Danalb would not be construed as an invasion?

Why, your soldiers will not be coming as invaders. In fact, they will be coming at the bidding of the Danalbians themselves.

What, Kion Javaris himself is going to invite me to cross the border with my soldiers, to help them throw off the Sacrethan shackles?

His tone had been dripping sarcasm, but as he regarded the silence that came from Tarva’s cowl his expression grew serious. Wait, you can’t mean… Javaris, the rumors that he’s a magic-user… are you telling me he’s one of yours?

Let’s just say that we have long taken an interest in the situation north of the mountains.

Sollus looked thoughtful. No wonder the Sacrethans haven’t been able to get their hands on him. He would certainly add legitimacy... but I think you are forgetting what happened the last time we battled with the Sacrethans and their mages, wizard.

We have forgotten nothing, Lord Sollus.

So you think that your puppet…

Tarva interrupted him with a raised finger. I prefer the term, ‘patriot.’

Sollus snorted again, though not quite as derisively as before. And you think the Danalbians would be so foolish to follow Javaris, so far as to support Sokhali soldiers on their lands?

Tarva finished cleaning his pipe and tucked it somewhere into his clothes. You would be amazed at what people will believe, if presented with the proper… inducement. All of those who remember the days of Sokhali control are dead, and people have notoriously short memories.

Sollus looked thoughtful. It could work, he finally said. It would turn on defeating the Sacrethan garrison quickly, and consolidating control before a response could be organized. But if you’re wrong, and the Sacrethans muster a full military counter…

Great rewards are never secured without great risk, my lord.

Sollus sat there, considering. Tarva’s patience seemed limitless, or at least he gave no indication that he was in a hurry. The silence stretched out, until finally the nobleman leaned forward, folding his arms on the table between them.

You have a more detailed plan, I assume.

Naturally. Though once I speak more, you will be committed.

Sollus waved a hand dismissively; he’d already made up his mind.

Tell me.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Eldwen Grimm leaned over and looked out the window of the coach. The countryside seemed almost to fly by, though the coach was not traveling all that fast, its drivers content to keep to their posted schedule. Grimm saw a neat farmhouse, an arrow’s flight back from the road, surrounded by worked fields.

The coach jolted slightly as he leaned back, and he adjusted his sword to keep the hilt from poking him in the side. The ride for the most part had been pretty gentle. Sacrethans called these coach-ways the mage roads, though he knew it was just quality engineering and hard work that kept them in such good condition. Just like the Order to take credit for something like that, he thought.

The baby started crying again, and his mother shifted him, offering an apologetic look to the other passengers. The coach was crowded, and even the foldout seats that flanked the door were occupied. There were two men and another woman, and a second child who belonged to the one with the infant, a boy of maybe eight or nine years that sat on one of the fold-downs. It could have been worse, Grimm thought; he could have been riding up top, subject to the full force of the grit raised by the coach’s team in his face.

Then again, he thought, as the child struck up a lively wail, there was something to be said for getting a scenic view.

The man opposite him stirred at the sound. He was twice Grimm’s age at least, though he hadn’t let his years take as much of his vitality as befell many in their later decades. By his clothes he was a prosperous trader or craftsman. He’d slept through most of the trip, but as he shifted Grimm noticed a small badge with a familiar icon marked into the silver pinned just below the collar of his coat.

The stranger noted Grimm’s attention and nodded. How long since you’ve been home, soldier?

Four months, he said.

Married?

Yes, sir.

Children?

Just one daughter. Just shy of his age, he said, indicating the boy. The thought of them and the upcoming reunion awakened a pang of longing in his chest.

By his expression, the old soldier knew exactly what he was feeling. How long until you go out again?

Two weeks.

The man nodded and stretched his back. He glanced out the window. Approaching Calisford?

Not long now, Grimm said.

Are you a Border Warden? the boy asked into the silence that followed.

Aye.

Is that sword spelled?

Caleb, don’t be rude! his mother interjected. I’m sorry, sir, she said.

It’s all right. Grimm leaned forward to lower his eyes to the boy’s level. Yes, yes it is, he said.

Can I see it?

Caleb!

Grimm raised a hand to reassure her. Everyone in the coach was watching him now, he saw. He grasped the sword, so that the boy could see it more clearly, but did not draw the steel. The scabbard was bound in strips of metal, and threads of silver and brass covered the material in an intricate scrollwork design that extended from the base to the tip. Swords are not toys, young Caleb, and spelled swords most of all. They never need sharpening, and should never be drawn unless they are needed to protect those we shield from evil.

Have you stabbed many men with it? Caleb asked.

The boy’s mother turned crimson, and pulled him to her. Grimm leaned back, ignoring both her apologies and the boy’s protests as his thoughts traveled back in time. He briefly met the old officer’s eyes; the man nodded in shared recognition.

Calisford! came the shout from above. The sound of the wheels on the road changed, the smooth rumble from the mage road transitioning into the rougher sound of cobblestones. Grimm glanced out the window then leaned over to pull the bell cord. The faint tinkle was just audible from within the coach, followed by the driver’s shouted commands as he slowed his team. When it came to a stop he made his way to the door, bending to avoid the low roof.

Good luck, Warden, the old veteran said.

Thanks. I’ll see you at Palrith Nor in ten years, maybe, he said to the boy, ruffling his hair. His mother’s disapproving look followed him out the door, and he had to stifle a laugh.

One of the men up top helped hand down his bag, and then the coach rattled on again, leaving him alone.

He was on the outskirts of town, where the lanes lined with houses began to give way to farms and eventually the larger ranches that covered the hills. His own family’s lands were out beyond one of those hills; he could have closed his eyes and pointed to the house where he’d grown up. Directly ahead of him, on the far side of the road, was a long, winding lane fronted by neat cottages on either side. Calisford lacked a wall, evidence of the peace that Sacreth had long enjoyed under the stewardship of the Order.

He took a deep breath, shouldered his bag, and started the last leg of his journey home.

The cottage was the last one on the lane, set back in a grove of ancient oaks that sheltered it with their boughs. It was bigger than it looked from the front, he knew, but what was visible from the lane looked… comfortable. The fence and the shed needed a new coat of whitewash, perhaps, and the garden looked as though it had not been tended in a little while, but the place otherwise looked the same as it had when he had left.

The gate creaked slightly as he navigated it, and he added greasing its hinges to the list of chores he would have to attend to during his all-too-brief leave.

He paused at the front door. Flowers roiled red and violet in the box by the window; they hadn’t been there when he left.

Telling himself he was being foolish, he touched his hand to the ward-marking upon the threshold, then opened the door.

The flowers might have been different, but the smells were the same, the familiar weft of home. He closed the door and put his bag down by the coat rack in the small foyer. He caught a hint of bread baking, and his mouth began to water. He’d taken a reflexive step down the hall toward the kitchen when a soft voice from the living room drew his attention back.

She was sitting in a puddle of light from the window near the hearth, next to the end of the old couch that they’d been meaning to have recovered. She was playing with a doll, singing something to herself. The sight of her enslaved Grimm’s heart stronger than any spell could ever have.

She looked up, caught his eye. Father! She sprang up and ran to him; he bent and caught her up, careful of the hilt of his sword. You’re back!

Yes, my little gremlin, he said.

Mother said you were coming, but tomorrow.

The roads were good, he said. He went into the room, marveling at how much bigger she seemed. It was that way every time, he mused.

You’re what, twelve, thirteen now? he teased.

Eight, and you know that, she said, touching his nose.

You’re too smart for your own good, he said, putting her down next to the couch. Where’s mother?

She’s in the workshop. No doubt she felt you trigger the ward, and will be here directly.

He smiled, thinking how fast children grew up. Ashandra had always been precocious, older than her years, different from the other children of the neighborhood in a way that went beyond the usual bias in a father’s eyes when it came to his children.

She looked suddenly eager. Oh, look, father, I want to show you something! she said.

He smiled, ready to be indulgent, but his expression slipped somewhat as she drew out something from a throng around her neck. It was a small clear stone, folded into a shell of thin silver plates shaped like the petals of a flower. She focused on it, her expression so evocative of her mother that he felt a sharp pang at it.

He could only watch her, unable to perceive what she could, what Miranda described as a whole other world superimposed on the one that he knew and understood. The gemstone flickered, a glow coming alive that steadied until it was as bright as a candle’s flame.

See, father? she said, holding it out toward him. He quickly schooled his expression, and smiled. That’s wonderful, sweetie.

I’m going to be a great mage someday, she said.

Grimm felt her presence in the room, even before he lifted his head and turned toward the arched doorway that connected to the dining room.

Miranda looked much as she had almost ten years ago, when he’d first met her on that ill-fated expedition to the Sacrethan outpost of Edelvar, within the Forever Wood. Her hairstyle was a bit different, cut shorter in the fashion that was just starting to take hold among professional women. Her skin bore a slight tint from the sun. She had always loved the outdoors, a legacy of an active childhood growing up in the wild country around Blue Lake. There might have been the faintest hint of wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, now that she was past thirty and into the years of middle life, but time had done nothing to tame the fire in her eyes or the devastating impact of her smile.

Hey there, she said.

Hey yourself.

I showed father my light spell, Ashandra said.

I saw. Dearest, go ask Maryem if she would please get a late lunch together. Your father will be hungry after his long trip.

I can wait until dinner, if it’s any trouble, Grimm said.

No trouble at all, Miranda said. Go on, honey, she said, not taking her eyes from Grimm.

As the girl ran off, Miranda and Grimm met in an embrace that deepened into a kiss. I didn’t expect you today, the place is a mess, she said, when they finally parted. I’m a mess, she added, tucking back a stray shoot of hair behind her ear.

The place is great, and you’re beautiful, he said. I was able to catch an earlier coach, and made the connection at Colward.

Well, we’re glad to have you home, she said. How’s the arm?

It’s fine, just a little lingering stiffness. The arrow went right through the muscle.

Hmm, she said. She pulled away from him, her expression shifting subtly as she examined the arm, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the slight scar there.

Do you want me to disrobe, doctor? he asked.

She smiled. We will get to that, she said. Hmm, it seems that your Healer did a competent enough job. You have plenty of scars as it is. A troubled look briefly crossed her face, a flash of memory that both of them shared. He took her hand in his. Ashandra looks to be doing well, he said.

Yes. She’s at the top of her class, hardly surprising. Her teacher believes that she might be able to skip a grade next year.

Is that wise? I mean, socially, I know she’s always had trouble making friends with children her own age…

"Ashandra was born old, dearest. She will be fine."

He frowned, thinking back to the amulet she’d shown him and the magic she’d demonstrated. It was a minor spell, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel troubled at what it represented.

Miranda’s expression showed that she’d read his thoughts precisely. It’s a very minor working, she told him. She obviously has talent, but it will be years yet until we need to consider options for more formal training.

Are you sure it’s safe for her to be doing that now? he asked.

Do you think I would let my daughter do anything I believed to be dangerous, even slightly?

No, of course not. I’m sorry. I trust your judgment completely, it’s just…

She leaned into him again. I know. Come on, I know you’ll want a hot wash, clean clothes, and something to eat.

There was hot water already steaming in the basin in their bedroom, telling him she’d had Maryem ready it as soon as she’d detected his arrival via the door ward. He cleaned himself up, washing the dust of the road off his face and arms, toweling off his sweaty body before putting on a clean tunic from the neat stack in the armoire. It always felt strange, the first time changing into civilian clothes after returning home. He started to buckle on his sword belt out of reflex, but deliberately unfastened it and slung it over one of the corner posts at the foot of their bed.

The meal was ready by the time he made it back to the kitchen. Maryem nodded in curt greeting; that would be the best he would get from her, he knew. It was part of the ritual of returning home. Maryem was more than just a servant, and so Grimm had to put up with her quiet disapproval each time he returned from a long posting. As he came in the older woman added a plate of fresh-cut fruit to the arrangement of bread, honey-butter, and cheese laid out on the table in the nook. Ashandra and Miranda were already sitting there, the afternoon sunlight forming bright lines across the polished wooden surface. His daughter was writing in a journal book, her pen making compact, neat lines upon the parchment.

Where’s your apprentice? he asked Miranda, taking the end chair and reaching for the food. He’d only had a little bread and cold meat that morning, and the first bite awakened his hunger.

He’s in town today, Ashandra said, without looking up from her book.

Hmmph, Grimm said over a mouthful of food. Miranda’s look told him not to venture down that avenue, so he turned to his daughter. So, gremlin, what’s that you’re writing? School work?

I am keeping a journal of the major events in my life, she said seriously.

He kept his own smile hidden. I see, he said. He nodded in thanks as Maryem brought him a mug of chilled ale. You not each too much, spoil your dinner, she said. Her thick Faran accent remained despite more than four decades living in Sacreth; Grimm believed it to be an affectation that she deliberately cultivated.

Maryem, I will always have room for your cooking, he said.

Fancy talker, after you away so long, she said, but he thought he caught the hint of a smile as she turned back to her stove.

Ashandra, Miranda said, why don’t you tell your father about the story contest at school?

The conversation was light, focused on recent events in their lives, the house and the town, their friends and neighbors. Ashandra went on about her prize-winning story, which had featured the misadventures of a family of raccoons who had taken up residence in the neighborhood. For Grimm, who could still remember vividly nights sleeping in the mud, the exhaustion of long patrols, the sharp pain of the arrow entering his arm, the simple act of talking with his family was like a balm. They talked about the need to paint the fence and a dozen other minor chores that needed to be done, about the plans for spring planting in the garden, and about the other myriad details that filled an average life.

When they had finished off the food and caught up on those stories, Miranda accompanied Grimm out back, to the covered patio surrounded by trellises that were just starting to come back alive with growth. He brought his mug, freshly refilled, with him. How are things with the Council? Grimm asked, when they were alone again.

Well enough, she said. It’s been a quiet session.

You know, if you ever felt like you needed to spend a session in Sacreth, I would understand…

She placed her hand over his. I know. We’re happy here.

Grimm nodded, but he couldn’t completely assuage his guilt whenever the topic of her career arose. He knew that her decision to settle down with him, to start a family, had almost certainly cost her a seat on the Mage Council