The Defenders: Tales of the Aura Weavers, #3

By LizAnn Carson

Defending What Matters

At seventeen, John, an apprentice mage, finds himself alone in the Midland following a narrow escape from the spell-riddled hills. Equipped only with the skills he has acquired from his farming background and his mage training, he sets out for the Motherhouse, the training facility for the Midland's mages – Weavers, they are called – and a possible route home to Borgonne, on the other side of the hills.

Hugh, a Weaver belonging to the Healers' Guild, also has business at the Motherhouse. From his base in the remote central Midland, he has witnessed firsthand the increasing lawlessness in the countryside. Furthermore, he has a way to end it – if he can just get anyone to listen.

Things do not go as planned.

Threats – and redemptions – come in all shapes and sizes. At the Motherhouse, amid magic, old rivalries, friendship and love, John and Hugh face an enemy neither had anticipated, but which threatens all they hold dear.

~

Tales of the Aura Weavers continues the story begun in the Aura Weavers trilogy, where many of the people and customs are introduced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Carson
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738093823

Book preview

The Defenders

––––––––

Tales of

The Aura Weavers,

Book 3

LizAnn Carson

The Defenders

(Tales of the Aura Weavers, Book 3)

© 2023 Elizabeth Carson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover photos used under license from

Deposit Photos

Thanks to MadJik for Paint.net’s Page Curl plugin, which was used for the cover.

Also by LizAnn Carson

Romances

Seducing Adam

Amanda (Calter Creek Romances, book 1)

Pat (Calter Creek Romances, book 2)

Mel (Calter Creek Romances, book 3)

Mary (Calter Creek Romances, book 4)

Novellas

The Day of the Wedding

Once upon an Attic

Red

Speculative Fiction

The Healer (Aura Weavers, book 1)

The Bard (Aura Weavers, book 2)

The Scribe (Aura Weavers, book 3)

The Medic (Tales of the Aura Weavers, book 1)

The Road Builders (Tales of the Aura Weavers, book 2)

Poetry (as Elizabeth Carson)

Goddess of the Edges

Transitions

Contents

Also by LizAnn Carson

John Prelude

The Midland

Dog

First Stop on the Road

In the Hamlet

John’s Solstice

Mae

Fellow Refugee

Mind control

Mae and John on the Road

Hugh Prelude

Stanstead

Hugh Arrives

Work Crew

After the Council Meeting

John and Mae Arrive

The Cleansing

The Girl in the Forest

Mae in the Morning

Battle Ready

The Battle

The Hero of the Day

The Motherhouse

On the Road Again

A Difference of Opinion

Arrival at the Motherhouse

The Grilling

All a Young Man Needs, Part 1

A New Way of Practicing

John’s Guild

Mae Has Reason to Depart

A Healer’s Duty

Hugh Is a Fool

Welcome Home?

All a Young Man Needs, Part 2

Dorcas Consults

Hugh Considers His Options

At the Village

Mari’s Destiny

A Scribe in Training

True Threat

Trouble

Lockdown

The First Break

The Scribes Prepare

The Search

Recovery

Gathering Information

Taking on the Creatures

Aftermath

Epilogue

To my critique group: Ladies, once again you have helped me shepherd a book to its conclusion. I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks!

And a special thanks to my friend and fellow writer, Sylvie Grayson, author of the Last War series. Sylvie’s thoroughness at spotting errors and suggesting improvements always results in a better book.

John Prelude

John Farmer sat alone in the small cabin on the western outskirts of Upper Wem, a hamlet buried deep in the spell-riddled hills, and drew the Aura around him like a cloak. It was a trick mastered in his early apprentice days, when he had desperately sought its reassurance. The planetary Aura was a familiar energy, had been since childhood, and tonight he needed every bit of support he could muster.

He was forced to confront two facts, head on.

First, he had been separated from his sister Neve and their companions for a reason. Given the appearance of the nubile Tess at his cabin, smelling of flowers, bearing spiced nuts and water, he had a pretty good idea about that reason. Isolated as it was, Upper Wem suffered from a declining population and a shortage of children. John was seventeen, at the height of his child-breeding powers.

Or so he’d been told. John’s personal knowledge of child-breeding was limited to some delightful, if inconclusive, exploration with one of the local girls behind a hedgerow not far from his family’s farm. His fellow apprentices, Conor and Reed, found this hilarious, he a country boy and so inexperienced.

But at least he didn’t have Conor’s stooped shoulders and pasty complexion, an occupational hazard of training to be a mage. Apprentices spent hours indoors, slaving over Gauvain's assignments. But for a couple of days every other nine-day he was allowed to go home, where he helped Neve and his parents in the fields or orchard. Nothing like farm labor to build muscle.

Gauvain, his master, the man whose lineage as a mage John would enter one day, was the reason for his presence in Upper Wem, if not for his current predicament. When Gauvain struck out to intercept Neve, who had taken to the hills – literally – with an artifact he desperately wanted to get his hands on, he had seen John as an asset and brought him along. Now, here they were, far from any known sign of civilization, and John was trapped.

He sensed the hamlet’s spells around him. The others, Neve and even Gauvain, couldn’t do that. He’d tried telling Gauvain about it, but the master was blind in some ways; anything outside his own abilities was beneath notice. Tonight, it felt as if the spells were living things, poking and clawing at his mind. The villagers didn’t intend to let him go.

He felt no chemistry at all for Tess, although she must have had instructions to make herself desirable to him. But something wasn’t right, and Neve believed the girl existed inside a glamor spell of some kind, making her more alluring than she really was.

Faced with these facts, he was forced to recognize that he was now a prisoner, albeit a cosseted one. They planned to keep him here, mate him – he shuddered – with Tess, and he’d become a prime stud, churning out offspring to bolster the flagging population.

And living on poorly seasoned lentils. That alone gave him cause to flee.

Which led directly to the second thing he knew for sure. He had to get out. Tonight. Before the spells became impossible to fight.

Neve, Gauvain, and their traveling companions, were cooped up in Neve’s cabin at the opposite end of the village. He’d sent her a message over the Aura, which she had responded to, so he knew she and their companions were okay. They’d be under guard, though, as he was. Since their abortive attempt to escape, the hamlet had to be on the alert. Which meant reuniting with Neve and her companions was out of the question. And that led to a tough conclusion – he wasn’t returning to Borgonne. The only accessible trail led in exactly the wrong direction.

The Midland, then?

No one knew much about the Midland, beyond that it lay on the other side of the hills and was less developed than Borgonne. They trained their mages, except they didn’t call them mages, at a place called the Motherhouse. The Aura wasn’t as strong there, a fact Gauvain, who had visited the Midland several times, was inordinately proud of. He considered them dabblers in Auric mysteries, whereas he, Gauvain, was the real deal.

Forget Gauvain. He isn’t going to be any help to you this time.

John took stock. He had his pack, which through some oversight hadn’t been searched, so he had a spare tunic and trail rations for a few days. He added Tess’s ground nuts to the bag of provisions and tipped the water into his flask.

He had a vague direction: west out of Upper Wem, through the goat and sheep pastures. Presumably, he would be on the trail to the Midland.

His trail knife was in his pack, so he’d be able to hunt.

He had his years of training, his Auric connection... those would help him. But in the hills, who knew? It was easy to downplay the spells on the hills, but Gauvain’s instruction had taught him better. The spells could bind you, lead you astray, turn you around. Stories about the horrors of the hills abounded in Upper Wem, which perhaps accounted for the fact that virtually no one ever left. But the hike here hadn’t been so bad, so perhaps it was all myth and rumor...

Don’t go there. Facts only.

Well, the fact was, he had to get by the guard outside his door and strike out to the west, as soon as possible, to cover distance before someone came knocking. And to do that...

There was the trick he and his fellow apprentices had played on each other when they were beginning their training and trying out newly discovered powers. With a bit of modification, it would do. John reviewed the technique, readied his supplies, then opened the door.

The guard was leaning against a tree on the far side of the trail fronting the cabin. A grizzled, middle-aged man, he looked bored and sleepy but straightened as John stepped out. Hey there, young fella. Anything you need? It’s not a good idea to be wandering around at night, you know. The dang hills and all.

John let himself amble a little closer, pasting on a goofy, innocent smile. Just feeling a little lonely. I can’t settle tonight. I sure could use some sleep.

Farmers’ hours, that’s the trick. Them friends of yours... not settin’ a good example, you ask me.

Neve means well, he said casually, throwing his sister under the proverbial donkey cart for the sake of the role he’d assigned himself – hapless teenager, unaware of the predicament he was in. Easily led astray, I guess you’d say. John began a hand movement. A very precise hand movement, not quite visible in the meager light from the man’s lantern. For distraction, he asked, Any tips to get to sleep?

The man yawned. You’d better get yourself in that door, he said to the accompaniment of a second jaw-cracking yawn. Try countin’ sheep in the field or some such.

Good advice, thanks. John stepped back through the doorway but didn’t quite draw the door closed – or cease his hand movement. He waited, listening. Very soon he picked up the sound he wanted: a snore. Snaring the pack and creeping soundlessly from the cabin, he noted with satisfaction that the man, now curled up next to the tree, was soundly asleep. He closed the door behind him and kindled a small mage light, then he struck out for points west.

The Midland

Dog

The hills lay behind him. Their influence had dropped away abruptly, and John supposed he now stood in the Midland. But nowhere was there a sign of human habitation. Civilization sounded wonderful about now, but where was it?

The trek so far had taken him seven days, forging westward, hunting for his meals but never snaring enough to sate his teenaged appetite. Hunting had been poor, and the pack now held only a couple of strips of dried meat and the last of Tess’s spiced nuts, which he had held in reserve to fend off utter starvation.

Peaks loomed behind him, appearing steeper and more jagged than they had seemed when he was in them, and the canyon he had been following cut toward the southwest, roughly the direction he needed to go. However, the clear path alongside the stream had vanished along with the spells blanketing the hills. Scrambling down the rough bed while avoiding the narrow stream, keeping his boots dry... John took a breath. Returning into the hills wasn’t an option. The relief when the pressure of the spells abruptly vanished had been visceral.

Above all, John found the continuing absence of people unnerving. Before the ill-fated adventure into the hills, he had never been away from home, family, or Gauvain for more than a day. Awareness of the incursions the spells in the hills made into his Auric sensitivity, the tricks they played with his perceptions, had been enough to test his resolve to continue moving forward.

Logic told him to continue west. If the Midlanders were planning a trade route from the town of Stanstead in the north toward the far southern reaches of the hills, there had to be a road, and if he kept moving in a generally westward direction, he would find it.

A road meant people.

People like us? Gauvain had been stingy with information about the Midland. All John knew, really, was that they were more agrarian, and substantially poorer, than the prosperous population around Orlan, Borgonne’s primary city. But their beliefs, customs, habits... how primitive were these people? John had allowed bravado to carry him through the hills, but now he stood in danger of succumbing to nerves.

He cast his Auric-tuned senses outward, searching for the familiar. The land didn’t feel alien. It wasn’t as dry as Borgonne had been where they had entered the hills, resembling the more northern regions around Orlan. John felt a sudden stab of homesickness for his family’s farm and brushed it aside. No space for sentiment; he had to focus on survival.

The Aura was indeed weaker on this side of the hills, as Gauvain had claimed. It wasn’t a big difference, merely a slight attenuation, but enough to make him uneasy. He had cast protection circles every night of his trek through the hills, despite having little faith they could resist the dense layer of spells. Here, he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to cast one. Who knew what dangers might assail him in the night?

It was already midmorning. John set off. Carefully, aware of the danger a twisted ankle presented, he worked his way down the canyon. With the sun high overhead, he ate the last of the meat, and later the nuts, and drank the clear water flowing beside him, pretending they filled the hollow in his gut.

By evening, the canyon had opened into a floodplain, and the stream had become wider and lazier. Exhausted, starving, and filthy, John studied his surroundings. He stood in an open riparian forest where the stream cut through a field, green and gold with grasses dancing in waves under a light breeze that dried the sweat on his face. Grateful, he released his hair from its leather tie and let it blow, enjoying the coolness.

The field promised to be a good place to camp and set a trap or two, hopefully providing him with a supper more substantial than the greens he recognized along the stream edge. Weary but letting the euphoria of being released from the hills carry him forward, he set off again, on the alert for a good campsite.

*

Morning dawned fresh and considerably cooler. Spatters of rain driven by a blustery wind hit the outer surface of the protection circle – a half sphere really. He stretched and lay still, savoring the feeling of impending... what? He sensed change in the air but detected no threats.

And he had breakfast, the leftovers from his supper of hare stew, enriched by the herbs and greens he had learned from Neve. Idly, he flicked his hand toward the fire, re-kindling it to heat his breakfast. Then he levered upright.

Outside the circle, an animal stood. A dog.

A very large dog, the largest he had ever seen. With very large teeth, bared in a growl.

John froze. After a pause long enough to fray anyone’s nerves, he slowly stood. The dog watched his every move.

His protection circle was holding. The animal couldn’t get to him. Almost certainly it was attracted by the aromas emanating from the cook pot.

So, it was hungry. The dog wanted the stew. And was large enough to pose a serious threat.

John approached the boundary of the protection circle. The dog’s reaction was immediate; it snarled, again baring vicious teeth, but it put no weight on its right front paw. Wounded, then. It probably hadn’t been able to hunt since the injury.

He had learned basic earth-based medicine from Neve. Because he was a farmer at heart, his connection to the land enhanced his essentially air-based talents, although neither Neve nor Gauvain grasped how it worked. He knew he could help the dog, providing the animal didn’t maul him first.

I guess we’re both hungry, he stated conversationally, keeping any hint of tension out of his voice. Guess we need to figure out how to share. Because I’ll tell you now, I don’t have any intention of becoming your next meal.

John liked dogs. He’d figure this out.

As soon as he left the proximity of the circle’s edge, the dog settled down, alert but not showing hostility. As John puttered about his campsite, ordering his pack, tending the fire, and stirring the stew, he discussed all this with his unwanted visitor, who followed his words intently, as if he understood. So you see, he wound up, we have a problem here. Any ideas on what to do about it? If you let me fix your paw, between us we’ll catch enough game for a feast – you look to be a fine hunter. The last he threw in as a bit of flattery, but it was true. Now that he was calm enough to really look, he could see the dog was suffering, but at its core it was strong and sleek, an alpha, and had been well cared for. Which might mean they weren’t too far from the road, from a settlement.

The dog’s ear twitched, but he never lifted his muzzle from his left paw, or his eyes from John’s movements.

Stirring the stew had been a mistake. The aroma hit his taste buds and spawned an intense reaction in his gut. He really, really wanted his breakfast. Instead, well conscious of the need to maintain the protection circle between them, he sank cross-legged in front of the dog.

The drizzle had cleared, and the sun climbed through a sky holding pitifully few clouds. It was going to be hot. John had no idea how the protection circle dealt with heat. Would it magnify or reduce?

His stomach let out another protest.

At least he had his mage’s trance to support him as he tried to communicate with the dog. No ill intent. No threat. Share the meal. Heal the paw.

The dog raised his head, ears pricked, alert. John had concocted an elaborate picture in his mind of the two of them sharing the stew. The dog rose onto his haunches and studied him as he built the image, piling on more and more detail, throwing in scents, flavors.

What next? John moved to a picture of the two of them relaxing side by side, sated by the meal. No threat. No aggression. From there he gambled and constructed an image of him touching the injured paw, salves at the ready – this was less successful, because he had no idea what the problem was.

The picture dissipated into the Aura, and the dog seemed to lose interest. John’s appreciation for Gauvain soared. The short sequence of mental images had left him drained. Would he ever master the intense mental focus needed for long, elaborate workings?

He returned to the image of the two of them sharing the stew. When the dog sat up again, tail wagging, John decided he’d done all he could. He stood – causing the dog to back away with a low growl – and, retreating to the remains of the fire, scooped half the meal into a hollow on the surface of a flat stone. He planned to eat from the cook pot. Then, keeping a hand on his knife, he began the process of deconstructing the protection circle.

The instant the circle wavered, the dog was inside, ignoring him completely and devouring the meal on the stone. John continued the deconstruction ritual. He had been taught never to leave a working unfinished, but he watched with dismay as the cook pot was knocked over, and the beast probed with his muzzle, finishing off almost all that remained.

Blast, but he was hungry. And now the dog was not. With the circle absorbed into the Aura, John eyed the dog and waited to see what would happen next. Think. Don’t panic. Build a mental picture. Focus – fast. With effort, he...

The animal came over to him, tail wagging, and whuffed before giving him a good sniffing.

Was this a domestic dog? He wasn’t behaving like a wild animal. Offering a hand to sniff was risky; if his instincts proved wrong... well, with no help available, a bite could be fatal. It was up to him to convince the animal he posed no threat.

And then what? Might the beast simply wander off? The dog sat, very much as if guarding his cook pot, going nowhere. John wanted to move on – with the cook pot. But as soon as he rose and approached, the dog was on the alert again, growling low in his throat, defending what he must see as his food source.

It was going to be a long day. Sighing, but at least sensing no immediate threat from the animal, John once again sat cross-legged on the ground and began his mental constructions – no threat, heal the paw, hunt together....

Mid-morning, he poured most of his remaining water into the hollow in the stone. The dog drank noisily. The stream was close; moving very slowly, John approached the bank a little upstream to refill his flask. As long as he kept his distance, the dog ignored him.

Around noon, still projecting his non-threatening images, he risked touching the dog. He got a wet nose in his hand as his reward. Which at least told him there was no fever from the supposed splinter.

It took until well into the afternoon before the dog lay on his side with a sigh, and he risked touching the wounded paw. A thorn. Deep. The dog let out a warning growl.

John sorted through his small selection of herbal medicines, what Neve jokingly referred to as his emergency first aid kit, and prayed he’d remember their uses. A drawing herb was needed, since there was no way the dog would allow him to dig out the thorn. Pain and fear were guaranteed to overthrow any mental picture. Instead, he conveyed an image of applying the poultice and wrapping the paw in a scrap of fabric, something every halfway competent farm boy always had to hand.

It worked. Doctored and fed – John remembered that stew with some bitterness – the dog lolled by the remains of the fire, watching.

Nothing for it. Only one of them would be hunting, and it wasn’t the dog.

He laid out the traps he had fashioned during his long evenings in the hills, checking them over. Keep your paws crossed, dog, he instructed. If these work, there’ll be stew tonight. If not, the stew would consist of herbs. He gathered the traps up and took off into the grassland, leaving the dog to guard the fire.

By midday the next day, the thorn had worked its way out enough that it could be removed without digging into the pad of the dog’s foot. It wasn’t without risk, but John had been priming the animal by stroking his paws, fondling them – avoiding the damaged pad – getting the beast used to his touch. And feeding him, rewarding him when the touch didn’t evoke a growl. Here’s what we’re going to do, he said conversationally; by now the dog was used to his almost non-stop prattle. This isn’t going to hurt, I hope, and it’ll be for the best in the end. Promise. He removed his pincers from the pack with as much nonchalance as he could muster, built a strong mental picture of a pain-free paw – and the thorn was out before either of them had time to think about it.

Next, apply healing salve and a rag. From experience with the farmyard dogs back home, once the rag wore off, the pad would be sufficiently healed. And the dog was free to go.

The dog didn’t go.

That afternoon, they both hunted.

First Stop on the Road

He and Dog stayed in the field for two days, John to bring up his strength after the long, scary passage through the hills, and Dog to nurse the injured paw. They spent the daylight hours hunting, swimming in the stream, and just plain lazing. At night, Dog stayed outside the protection circle – it seemed to spook him – but never strayed far.

To John’s