Secret of the Godforsaken

By Larry Kollar

After the Great Storm, Sura, Bailar, and Mik have two years of peace. As senior apprentices, they are now becoming true warrior-mages, the first in centuries. They still enjoy the favor of the folk, but time emboldens some of the opposing factions within House Chelor. After an assassination attempt, a trade mission to the Eastern city of Pyrlast provides a convenient pretext to leave the city for a while.

When their air-ship goes down in The Godforsaken, Termag's greatest desert, Bailar stumbles across a clue to a great secret. But uncovering the secret of The Godforsaken is not as important as escaping with their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Kollar
• Release date: Oct 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463190906

Larry Kollar

Larry Kollar lives in north Georgia, surrounded by kudzu, pines, and in-laws. He writes fantasy, science fiction, and horror, and now leads the #TuesdaySerial project for online serial fiction. You can find news and snippets of his strange fiction at http://www.larrykollar.com/ For Larry's even stranger reality, check out http://farmanor.blogspot.com/ Follow Larry on Twitter at FARfetched58.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Attempted Murder

He charged in, sword in his right hand, knife in his left. As he came on, he tossed the sword before him in a lazy loop and flipped the knife across to his right hand for a throw.

Or such was the plan. He fumbled the knife, dropping it. Still running, he tried to snatch it up, forgetting the sword. It came down hilt-first, banging his forearm then falling before him to snarl his feet. He went down, plowing soft sand, trying to keep his face out of the gritty spray.

That… was not as bad as it looked, Lord Mik, said Trainer-at-Arms Gaffin. Behind him, a pair of servant boys choked back laughter. The second instructor, Lord Fiel, stood grinning off to the side.

Eh, worse it could have been, Mik replied in Low Speech, spitting a few curses along with the sand. He brushed himself off as he clambered to his feet. Boots over hat I could have went, a few times. He gave a mock glare to the boys, who stifled snickers and pretended to look serious.

Indeed, Gaffin replied. But I tell you true, you almost had it. Or close enough. You’re over-thinking, is all. Your hands know what to do. Flip your sword, pass your knife, throw. I have seen you master each of those, even while running. You simply have to combine all three. Now try again.

Grumbling one of his aunt’s curses, Mik picked up the practice weapons and marched back to the other side of the sand pit. Facing him was a mannequin, holding a practice spear set against a charging opponent.

Hoy, young Lord, said Lord Fiel. Do ya concentrate with all your focus when you do one of your magic spells?

Nar, Mik replied. I just do it.

Of course, lad. That’s how you do this trick. You just do it. Same way you rode into battle against those raiders, couple of summers back.

Mik nodded and gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts. Find your center, he thought, and grew calm. This was an exercise he rarely used these days; as a senior apprentice beginning his fifth year, his mind was attuned to calling on the power that made magic work. He had only been formally training with weapons for two years. In much the same way as many magical exercises were repurposed combat spells, the mental exercises necessary for learning magic were useful for physical weapons as well.

With his practice sword and knife in hand once again, Mik took two deep breaths and charged. Again, he tossed the sword and passed the knife. This time, he caught the knife by the flat blade and threw. The sword came down, and he took it by the hilt. Swatting aside the spear, he caught the mannequin’s head with the backstroke, toppling it. With a growl, he thrust the sword through the thin leather of the mannequin’s torso, pinning it to the sand.

Most impressive, said Lord Fiel, looking like he meant it. Gaffin wore that approving smile Mik had seen a few times over the last two years, and the servant boys gaped. Had that been a real sword, your second strike would have been unneeded. You’d have taken half his head off before you skewered him.

Very good, Gaffin added. You missed with the knife throw, but that is often no matter. It was close enough that your opponent would have flinched, turning the spear away and giving you an opening. A skilled spearman is a formidable foe, but once you’re past his spearhead? He’s all but helpless.

Mik bowed, acknowledging the compliments from his trainers, and walked to the water table. He poured a tall cup of water, infused with half an orange, from a earthen jug wrapped in a wet towel to cool it. He gulped down the water, then wiped grit and sweat from his face. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to these coastal summers, he thought.

Ready to give it another go? Gaffin asked, as the servants righted the mannequin and arranged the spear.

Yar. This time, I won’t miss.

You know what to do, Bailar the Blue told his apprentices. Call Fire and Air, and let the Principle of Intent do the rest.

Seatholder Lady Sura of House Chelor and the North, Goblin-Slayer—Sura to her loved ones, for she tired of titles—stepped forward. She thrust an arm forward, palm out, and focused. Fire leapt from her hand and engulfed the pole before her. She gave her father and mentor a smile as flames clung to the pole, then picked up a bucket of water to douse the flames.

Top that, she whispered to Mik, her betrothed and fellow apprentice.

Not likely, the way you just soaked that wood, he replied with a grin. But I’ll make it steam. He faced the pole, extended his arm, and let fly his Fire. Like Sura’s spell, it wrapped around the pole. White steam puffed away, but Mik held the flames for a moment longer. When he relented, the pole continued to burn.

Right, I’ll give you that one, said Sura, as Mik carried his water bucket to the pole.

Mik’s Fire magic is usually stronger than yours, Bailar observed. But your Air magic is usually stronger than his. Since this spell combines both elements, I rather expected you two to be nearly equal.

I don’t think she poured all that much water on the pole, said Mik, returning with his empty bucket. And I held my Fire longer to get the water off. She’ll probably do better than me when we throw lightning.

Will I have to be a senior before I can do that? Bailar’s third and newest apprentice, Lini sam Vergal, had claimed a comfortable seat under a drooping shade tree. A book lay open in her lap, waiting to be read.

Bailer turned his attention to Lini. You can focus your Fire magic on anything flammable and set it afire, he said. "But junior apprentices should focus on defensive magic, if they focus on combat magic at all."

"But that looks like so much fun, Lini mock-whined. Can Mik help me with this exercise I’m reading about?"

I’ll help you, Sura replied, giving Lini an indulgent look. What is it you’re looking at?

• • •

This was a high-risk job. Anything that involved slipping into a Great House was high-risk. But that was why he took most of his high fee in advance. In the all-too-likely event he did not leave the House on his own, his mother and two brothers would survive without him.

The job started at sunrise. The blonde man inserted himself into a crew, spread across several wagons, delivering the day’s provender to the big-hats. This early in the morning, nobody greeted him with more than a grunt and a shrug. There would be time for well-mets and good-fellows once the work was done and he had proven himself no slacker.

The House was surrounded by a wall. Arrivals such as this went through the back entrance, a plain-looking gate on a nondescript street. Still, the gate was guarded, and there was some back-and-forth between the guards and the lead driver before they were allowed inside.

The back side of any House was as utilitarian as the front was ornate. The lead wagon wheeled around and backed up to the kitchen entrance. Soon, the crew was swarming the first wagon, hoisting crates and carrying them inside. Harried kitchen hands pointed each load to one table or another, and more hands began unpacking the crates as soon as their porters dropped them. The smell of breakfast cooking was a distraction, but the crew focused on their work. The sooner they finished, the sooner they could find their own breakfast.

At last, the final cart was nearly unloaded. This was the blonde man’s time to show his employer he knew his business. As another porter reached to lift the last two crates, he put a friendly hand on the man’s arm. Here, I’ll get these, he said, and hoisted the crates.

Just as they had for each load, an assistant peered inside the crates. Over there, he said, pointing across the vast kitchen. Put them on the cleared table by the wall.

Will do. He dropped the crates at the requested spot, and gave a quick look around. Nobody was watching. He slipped out the nearby door and into the servants' hallways.

Not too far down the corridor, a large figure stood waiting, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down to conceal his face. The figure looked him over and said, Lad, fetch me a fountain. The voice was obviously male.

Sir, they are locked in the basement.

I have the key.

The iron one?

This way, the man told him, leading him along. Their conversation had been pre-arranged, so two strangers would know they were meant to meet. They wound through dim servants' corridors, up a flight of stairs, and finally stopped at a niche in the wall.

Use this little knob to pull the panel open and closed. The man in the hat pulled, and the panel slid aside. He stayed in the corridor as the other entered. This chamber is unused. The door to the main hall is locked, so you need not fear intrusion. Slide this peg into the hole on your side to keep anyone from entering. I have left food and drink for you, sufficient for the day. Maps to your target and the servant’s entrance are in a drawer in the desk. Take your ease until it is time to act.

I will be ready, he replied.

The man in the corridor began to close the panel, but stopped short. Do not fail me, he said. I have invested too much in this already.

Success or death, he replied, but the other had already pulled the panel shut. Inside the chamber, there was no sign of where the wall was really a door, except for the small hole. The peg hung on a delicate chain; he slid it into place, wiggling it to make sure it was in completely.

The chamber itself was larger, and had furnishings far finer, than he was used to. Still, it looked fairly small by the standards of a Great House. Some Lordling would find it sufficient, no doubt—the furnishings were more suited for a male. A small table near the door had a basket and jug awaiting. Breakfast, he said, and crossed to the table. Wrapped in a napkin was a generous helping of bacon, a hard-boiled egg, and a sweet roll. The early hour and hard work had sharpened his appetite, and he made quick work of the meal. There was plenty more for later, so he closed the basket and checked out the rest of the chamber.

The desk stood by one of two windows, overhung with three oil lamps for use by night, but the morning light was sufficient once he opened the blinds. The maps were in the first drawer he opened, and he rummaged through the rest of the desk. Here he found a small box containing a flint and steel, some strips of paper, and a few wooden sticks. The interior smelled of oil, so it must be meant for a youngster to light the lamps when no servant was around to do the work. He pocketed the box; it could be useful later. If he survived this night.

A bookshelf between the windows held several titles, to his surprise. Books were rare among common folk; that a Great House could leave even a handful of titles gathering dust in an empty chamber said more about the wealth of this place than the most ornate furnishings. Most of them were dry treatises on protocol and the history of the House, but one title caught his eye. Collected Folk Tales of the Western Culture, with Commentary by M. Garth. Books and ships often had names as large as themselves. He could read, of course. In his profession, it was a survival skill. The next window had a comfortable chair nearby; he took the book and sat down to read. He found the commentary as interesting as the tales were familiar, and reading took him to lunch.

After lunch, he checked out the bed. The mattress was as comfortable as it looked, although the bedclothes themselves were plain. No matter. He shed his outer clothes and lay down to sleep the afternoon away.

When he awoke, the light through the windows suggested early evening. He was hungry again, and went back to the basket to see what was for supper. There was bread, several kinds of cheese, and a covered bowl with some kind of meaty sauce. Even servants in this House eat well, he thought, and set to.

With supper over, another need asserted itself. Surely they didn’t forget necessities, he told himself, and took another look around the chamber. Even a young noble would not be expected to walk down the hall to share a communal privy, of course. The privy was behind one of the only two doors he had not opened—the other being the main door.

But now, he found himself needing to spend a few more hours waiting for the right moment. He had read over half the book; most of the tales were familiar, but some were new to him and others differed in certain details. Making sure the blinds were closed, he lit an oil lamp above the chair and took up the book again.

Mik slumped over his own