The Grey Mage

By Aidan Hennessy

Before he was the Archmage, he was the Exile...

Driven from his home and made a slave, Aelzandar flees his captors in an unknown land. As the natives turn against him and threaten his life, he is saved by a mysterious cadre who dwell in the Tower of the Magi.

Welcomed into this brethren, he is introduced to their enigmatic master, the Grey Mage Cassian. In this place, Aelzandar feels at peace for the first time in decades.

Aelzandar’s tranquil new life is short-lived when a discovery in the tower destroys this utopian society and drives a wedge through Aelzandar’s new comrades. Deserted by his students and friends, Cassian looks to Aelzandar for help, but what can one slave do against the power of the divine?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aidan Hennessy
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370944255

Aidan Hennessy

Aidan Hennessy lives in Canberra, Australia, with his wife, three children and two ginger cats. He spends his days fighting that most tenacious of foes, procrastination.

Book preview

The Grey Mage

Works by Aidan Hennessy

THE TALES OF AELZANDAR

The Grey Mage

THE AP’LYDIN CHRONICLES

The Heirs of Lydin

The Slaves of the Horned God (2017)

The Tears of the Divine (2019)

Published by Aidan Hennessy at Smashwords

Copyright © 2016 Aidan Hennessy

Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

All rights reserved.

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For those who were there at the beginning.

CONTENTS

Winter, Year 1490

Spring, Year 1491

Summer, Year 1491

About the Author

Southern Goriinchia

Winter, Year 1490 of the Second Epoch

I remember the pain.

My feet ached and blistered from running. My wrists chafed under iron manacles. My back was red and scarred from my overseers’ relentless scourging. Despite this, I pushed forward through the snow, each halting footstep sending a wave of agony through my shattered body.

Behind me, in the distance, I could hear the faint sounds of men shouting. My pursuers were still following. I stumbled forward, nearly losing my footing, but righted myself before I fell into the snow.

The bitter wind rattled through my lungs. Hunger tore at me. How long had it been since I had last eaten? I couldn’t remember. All I remembered was the darkness, my imprisonment, and how I would never let myself return to that. I steeled myself.

I must keep going.

On the horizon, I could see a collection of huts. I saw lingering trails of smoke wreathing the village. Smoke meant cooking fires, which in turn meant food. My stomach rumbled and, finding a new reserve of strength, I lumbered through the snow.

The village was quiet, but a few of its inhabitants were outside, tending to their duties. An old man with greying red hair was loading a cart with root vegetables. Oblivious to how I must have looked, I called out to him.

Help! My voice was hoarse and strained, due to the iniquities I had suffered.

He turned at the sound of my voice. His face paled and his eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of me. I realise now how I must have looked, like some barely reanimated corpse dragging itself through the mud and snow. In hindsight it was inevitable that the old man’s reaction would be one of fear.

He started to scream, despite my desperate entreaties, and disappeared from sight. A thought flickered through my mind.

Foolish Mal-halyth.

I immediately regretted it. That was my father talking, not me. Not anymore.

You are no son of mine. My father’s last words as we parted.

I shook my head. There were more pressing matters. Behind me a group of men had crested the hills. The slavers, no doubt, looking for their wayward property.

I stumbled forward but lost my footing, crumpling into the snow. My hand, bloodied and sore, closed over ice as I attempted to right myself. I could hear shouting behind me, growing louder as the men came closer. I stood, looking about frantically for an escape route before stumbling further into the village.

I froze in place when I saw what awaited me. More of the natives emerged, whether pre-warned by the old farmer or roused by the noise of the newcomers. Man, woman, child – all stared at me with the same look, that perverse mixture of fear and disgust.

Shee! exclaimed a freckled child, his voice little more than a strangled squeak. Shee! The cry was soon joined by the others. Adults and children alike lurched towards me, violent intent obvious in their eyes. I recoiled from their touch but realised too late that I had no avenue of escape.

I heard the cracking of a whip and the guttural tones of Qardleean. The villagers hesitated and some of them stepped back. Despite this reprieve I did not feel cheered, especially since my new rescuers were the same slavers who had been pursuing me for the past day.

Most of the villagers were eyeing the slavers with suspicion. Others began to talk to each other. The slavers too began to mutter in their own tongue. The lack of any mutual language did nothing to calm the situation. A villager tried to reach towards me, starting a scuffle with one of the slavers. The slaver produced a blade and within moments the villager was lying in a pool of his own blood.

Pandemonium erupted as the two groups came to blows, and in the confusion I did my best to flee. I didn’t make it far. An errant swipe from someone in the brawling mob sent me sprawling to the ground, landing awkwardly on my already shattered leg. A bolt of pain shot through me, and I screamed. I thought I felt a hand grabbing for me, dragging me back through the dirt and snow, but, whoever it was, they let go.

The sounds of fighting stopped. I looked up towards the crowd. Both the villagers and the slavers were looking warily upon a pair of newcomers. The two interlopers were of similar height, and possessed nearly identical facial features: freckled faces, and curly red hair. They could only be brothers. They watched the crowd below them with a wan sort of amusement, seemingly unconcerned that they were unarmed and outnumbered by the violent mob.

One of the slavers, still armed with a rough blade, pushed his way through the crowd. He shouted at the two men, who looked at each other, laughed and barely acknowledged the slaver's words. Enraged, the slaver charged at them, weapon held above his head. One of the two newcomers swung his hands towards the slaver and with a roaring rush of sound and heat, a torrent of flame erupted from his fingers, incinerating the slaver in an instant.

The Art. These humans knew the Art! How could barbarians such as these master a discipline suited only to the most brilliant of the Eldara? These men before me were obviously young – I knew enough about humans to know the short length of their lifespans – but they had learnt in a matter of years what would take a spellweaver decades!

The villagers were the first to flee, nearly trampling over each other as they did. The slavers seemed to hesitate for a moment. One of them moved towards me, pointing, but another of his fellows, clearly agitated, grabbed his arm and said something to him. After a brief but animated argument, they left me in the dirt, clearly more interested in saving their own lives than regaining their lost property. As the others left as quickly as they could, the newcomers came towards me. As they approached I noticed that they were practically identical in appearance. Not just brothers then. Twins, most likely. One of them knelt down next to me.

I know only some Elven, he said, using that tongue. His accent was thick, and the words barely distinguishable. He was obviously struggling with a limited vocabulary. What brought you here?

Slave, I said, through cracked lips, I’m an escaped slave. They wanted to take me back.

They have gone. But they will return soon enough. It would be best for you not to be here when they do.

I laughed. I don’t exactly have anywhere to go.

The two men looked at each other, saying a few words in a language I did not understand.

We are to take you to the tower, he said. Our master wishes to help you.

I did not know their master, but at this point my benefactor’s identity hardly mattered.

The kneeling man said to me. Can you stand?

Not without help, I said. The man nodded and they both bent down, gingerly helping me to my feet before slinging my arms over each of their shoulders.

What is your name, elf? one of them asked.

Aelzandar. My voice was little more than a whisper.

My name is Donal, said the man, And this is my brother Pedr. Rest easy now, you’re in safe hands.

I didn’t understand why these humans were treating me so kindly. Why are you helping me?

It is Cassian’s will, Aelzandar, said Donal, He spied upon your predicament from afar, and told us to save your life. He did not tell us more.

The name meant nothing to me. I do not know of this Cassian. Why would he save my life?

Pedr looked around nervously. We cannot remain here long. We should leave.

Agreed, said Donal, and he and Pedr took me from the village. My feet still ached, and every step I took seemed to start the pain anew. A tall mountain rose behind the village, its peak hidden by clouds.