Black raid, p.1
Black Raid, page 1
part #3 of The Jack of Magic Series
Black Raid
Alex Linwood
Greenlees Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Alex Linwood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Greenlees Publishing, contact@greenleespublishing.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-951098-05-6
Cover designed by Natasha Snow Designs | www.NatashaSnowDesigns.com
About this book:
Black Raid is the third novel in the fast-paced Jack of Magic fantasy adventure series.
“They took Jokhnovo!”
When the kingdom to the north falls to the invaders, the outlook is grim for Portia’s country. If the land to the south falls as well they'll be surrounded on three sides and hard-pressed to survive. But they know little about the enemy that is destroying their world. Portia must find out who they are if she is to stop them.
The Jack of Magic novels follow the adventures of Portia, former street thief, on her dangerous quest to save the kingdom and people she loves.
Follow all of Portia’s adventures in The Jack of Magic Series.
Red Jack
Moss Gate
Black Raid
Iron War
Contents
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 1
Portia ducked as the pieces of wood exploded, sending fragments flying throughout the room. One large chunk of wood hit her hand and drove into the open palm, sending a streak of pain up her arm. She tucked in, gasping and holding her hand.
She couldn’t hear anything, not the drumming that had filled the room a moment before, or even the sound of the wood falling like snow around her.
One chunk of wood remained on the kitchen table, burning brightly, flames licking upwards. The ancient table discolored as the finish heated and its old varnish blackened.
“That was not correct,” a dry voice said, cutting through the silence in her head.
Portia looked up. Across the room, through the still falling debris, Lord Fife sat in his chair, the drum silent on his lap. He stared at her.
She awoke with a start, the nightmare of her most recent failure still fresh. Her magical abilities seemed to be getting worse, not better. How could she save them all?
Portia stood outside the small cottage where Lord Fife and Merit, his companion and caretaker, lived. The front yard was a riot of plants and herbs growing together in a tangle. Despite its random look, it was far from undesigned. Symbiotic plants grew together, and medicinal plants filled every open spot.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. Before she knocked, the door was opened by the tiny elf, Merit, who smiled at her and bade entry. Merit was short, even for an elf, and only reached Portia’s shoulder—but then Portia was tall for a fourteen-year-old human. Portia followed her into the kitchen where Lord Fife waited.
Lord Fife was bent over in a wheeled chair by the fire. His eyes, surrounded by wrinkles and wild long white eyebrow hairs, shone with intelligence and spirit. They burned in Portia’s direction. The gentle smile softened his face but did not completely banish Portia’s nervousness.
“Welcome back, child. How is your hand?” he asked, solicitous.
“It’s fine,” Portia said. It still stung, but there was no lasting damage. She hid the bandaged hand behind her back. It was a mortifying reminder of her failure.
“No matter. You will succeed today,” he said. At Portia’s skeptical look, he continued, “You must.”
Portia nodded and looked to the table. Merit had left the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone.
On the table were the items for her work that day—a ridiculously large swan egg, a tiny plant clipping in a crystal cup, a miniature rose bush, and an enormous log of wood.
Portia’s heart sank. The log took up half the table. It had been broken over a rock in the yard and was larger than the one that had exploded. Why not try a smaller piece after what happened? As if in response, her palm throbbed. Lord Fife had not taken that option.
Lord Fife took a piece of paper off his lap and ripped it in two and then placed it on the table.
“We’ll do a warm-up first,” he said, nodding at the paper. He meant to get to work immediately.
Portia stepped forward to face the piece of paper.
Picking up the drum on his lap, he beat out a complex rhythm Portia knew by heart. It haunted her dreams and hounded her throughout the day, but it was also reassuring to hear it played for her. She focused on the rhythm first, then looked to the paper.
She sang.
The sound of the drum faded away in her hearing as she concentrated on the paper while singing the Elven words. The pieces vibrated with her efforts. Using only magic, Portia nudged the paper pieces closer together so they just touched. A tingle ran down her spine from the power concentrated in the room. She ignored the hairs rising on her back and her shaking hands and only thought of the paper, of how it would look whole and unmarked.
The paper’s vibrations increased, the two halves fluttering next to each other until their torn edges joined from the top to the bottom in a rapid motion. It was whole. She had succeeded. She had cast the splinter healing spell and not faltered. Still singing, she checked the paper for any mark upon it where it had been ripped. There was none.
Portia stopped singing and released the spell, hanging her head down. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck and into her shirt. The drumming stopped.
“Well done, child, well done,” Lord Fife said quietly, setting down the drum on the table next to him, his breathing ragged. Even playing the drum for as long as it took her to sing the spell exhausted him. Portia wished, not for the first time, that she was faster with the elf magic. At least this time she had completed it.
“Thank you. Finally, it worked,” Portia said. Lord Fife raised one eyebrow at Portia’s comment. “I don’t usually have trouble doing magic.” Portia’s face turned red. “And, well, it’s a little off-putting when things explode when you don’t do them right. And I messed up your table.”
Lord Fife waved that away. “I suppose human magic doesn’t have such hurdles. How uninteresting.”
Portia squinted at the elf master. “Yes. Don’t you think that’s preferable to exploding?”
“No, because I think that means it’s weak. Maybe the spell should explode or evaporate the idiot attempting it incorrectly or do something else terrible if it’s misused. You think there shouldn’t be consequences?” A brief twinkle shone is his eyes before Lord Fife’s face became drawn and serious. His twisted sense of humor had made the long hours of studying go by much faster and had helped when she had failed time after time—especially now with the stress of all that had happened within the last few days.
“Consequences?” Merit said as she entered the kitchen. The tiny elf walked to the hearth and swung the kettle over the fire to make afternoon tea. “What do you know about consequences, you old elf?” Merit was formidable even though she looked nearly as old as the elf master of magic sitting in the chair by the fire. She took good care of the old master.
Lord Fife waved his hand dismissively at Merit. Portia turned away to hide her smile. “I know all about consequences,” he said. “That’s why I am teaching this young human what she needs to know to save all our skins.”
Merit grunted and pulled mugs down from the shelf. “Tea will be ready soon.” Smoothing her dress, she exited the room without giving either Portia or Lord Fife a backwards glance.
“Relentless,” Lord Fife mumbled under his breath.
Despite his complaints, Portia had never seen him turn down a meal break from Merit. Nor would Portia ever do so, for Merit’s cooking had no parallel. Her mouth watered just thinking of the small sandwiches and seed cakes to come.
“Now. You think too much. We are going through all the spells I’ve taught you. Quickly. No arguments,” Lord Fife said, picking up the drum once again. “We have little time before our kings and queens move you around like a chess piece to the front of the war coming our way.”
Portia shifted on her feet. What time she had here learning from Lord Fife after the hourglass had reached zero—the gigantic hourglass that told when the next splintering was upon the world—was precious. They’d sent word to Queen Lorica of the human kingdom of Haulstatt, but no message had come back yet. A twinge of guilt knotted Portia’s stomach about not returning right away to her queen, but there had been little choice. She needed to be fluent in the splinter healing spell to be any good to humans or elves. The magic was critical to protecting them all. And no other human had the ability to cast it, so the duty fell to Portia. Failing would mean death and hardship to those s he cared about.
Her hand throbbed again.
“More doing, less thinking,” Lord Fife commanded over the thud of the drum. He hit with great force, its reverberations filling the kitchen. The commanding noise forced the thoughts out of Portia’s head.
Nodding, she turned to face the row of items on the table.
First, she attempted the basic elf healing spell. Picking up the smooth white swan egg, she cracked it against the table—hard enough for a thin line to appear on the shell but not so much as to open the egg. Setting down the cracked egg, she sang the lilting song of healing. As with all elf magic, it was music based. The spell did not need the drum that Lord Fife played, but it helped Portia match the correct rhythm with her singing, which kept the magic flowing. If she had been more talented, she could have strengthened the spell by playing an instrument, but she lacked that skill. Too bad there was no magic powered by thieving skills, at least none that she knew of, since that was the skill she had practiced most in her life.
After several moments, the egg wobbled on the table and a silvery shimmer flowed over the surface; the magic started to take hold. Portia concentrated on hitting the high notes in the healing song and allowing her throat to relax. Pulling her shoulders back helped with both her singing and banishing the tension in her back. Healing was a complex and exhausting spell, somewhere between the ease of fire magic and the draining effort needed for cryomancy.
After one last decisive wobble, the egg stopped moving. Portia looked it over carefully while still singing to maintain the spell. The crack was gone with nothing left in its place to give away it had ever been there. Portia stopped singing and held her breath. The egg remained stationary on the table. She breathed out a sigh of relief.
Lord Fife did not stop his drumming. He nodded at Portia to continue.
The next spell was one of her favorites. Picking up the crystal glass holding the tiny clipping that only had two leaves on it, Portia looked at it closely and blew on it for good luck. She then sang to it the Elven words for growth and happiness. The vine vibrated in response. Portia imagined she could feel its thanks as she sent it energy. The vine trembled for several seconds then grew rapidly, expanding out of its container, new leaves appearing as it lengthened and thickened. Portia quickly put down the glass and the fast-growing plant. It had become too heavy to hold.
“Enough, child!” Lord Fife admonished, laughing. “How is Merit to get that out to the front yard?” He motioned to the large vine now covering the table, its body as thick as Portia’s wrist, with just the last bit of one of several large roots still in the tiny glass that had once held the entire thing. Portia’s face turned red. Pride at her accomplishment mixed with embarrassment at having gone so far overboard.
“I’ll help her, don’t worry,” Portia assured him, turning to hide her embarrassment.
“The next one, now!” Lord Fife commanded.
Portia concentrated on the second plant on the table, a tiny tea rose bush. It was all of five inches tall but had nearly three dozen tiny buds on it. Portia sang a fast little tune to the plant. It was a quick burst of music, closer in tone to a flute than a human voice. Even without the drum, the rhythm was perfect. The plant responded by instantly sending each bud into full bloom, packing the blooms into a tight sphere of ruby red petals. Portia laughed in delight.
“’Tis well done.” Lord Fife beamed at the flowers. Just as with all other elves she’d met, he adored roses. “But keep going. Hurry.”
The last object on the table now lay partially hidden beneath the leaves of the huge vine: the large broken log. Long, thick splinters and fibers on each half showed where it had been forcibly separated into two pieces. A shiver ran down her spine and her palm stung with sympathetic pain.
The spell began in a low register. Portia used the bottom of her range to give herself room to reach the high notes without exceeding her own natural singing range. The notes began deep in her chest and resonated there, adding to the power of the spell. The first time that had happened, it had scared her. Now it was a comfort. It meant the spell was being sung correctly and was working its magic. Building in both volume and pitch, she progressed through the song of the spell.
The two pieces of log vibrated and moved across the table towards each other, ever so slowly.
Exhaustion pulled at Portia. The heavy pieces of wood resisted moving. The other spells had pulled upon her pool of magic already.
Portia’s song faltered. The vibrations shaking the logs became erratic, bouncing the wood all over the table.
“Concentrate!” Lord Fife called.
Portia pushed thoughts of the other spell out of her mind and instead focused on the jagged edges of the log, on where each fiber had been ripped from its place in the wood. She willed them back together.
The vibrations in the wood once again calmed and slowly moved the pieces closer, the wood fibers intertwining as the two pieces nested, finding where they had once grown as one. This was the most dangerous part of the spell where the energy poured into it was the highest, but there was as yet nothing to hold the energy in—except the spell itself.
Portia pushed that worry out of her mind. She must concentrate on action. She tapped the rhythm on her knee with her hand along with Lord Fife. Each time she hit her knee, it helped reinforce where she was in the spell. A change in the vibration within her chest told her the pieces were mending with each other. She kept the vibration harmonic with the pitch of her singing. Any dissonance now would create a weakness in the wood.
Such a weakness in a healed splinter between worlds meant it could open up again and cause more troubles. That was what she was learning this spell for—to heal and shut off a gate between worlds. She must heal this wood without a scar, just as she must heal the splinter without a defect.
The air around the wood blurred, hiding what was happening at the exact jointure. Portia felt the progress. The vibration within her resonated for a moment and then faded away until it was just her singing left.
The spell was over, and the magic had done its work. Lord Fife nodded. Tentatively, Portia stopped singing, backing up at the same time. It was cowardly, but getting hit by the exploding pieces of wood on the previous occasion was a powerful incentive to get some distance.
The log lay whole upon the table. There was not a mark upon it to signify that it had once been damaged in any way, much less broken into two completely separate pieces. Portia breathed out a sigh of relief.
Lord Fife stopped drumming. “Excellent work. See? Less thinking. You approached it differently this time. And just in time, because here comes our taskmaster.”
Merit entered the kitchen again. “Oh hush, no one tells you what to do and you know it. Unless you need to hear it, of course,” she said, checking the kettle to see if the water was hot enough.
The contents of the pot steamed as Merit poured it into the teapot on the dried leaves within. She set a cup down by Lord Fife and one for Portia on the table.
Portia pushed aside part of the vine and sat on the bench in front of the table, picking up her cup of tea. She sipped it thoughtfully. “Why do things explode if the spell doesn’t go right? I’m still unclear on that.”
“The spell needs to pull the pieces together, which takes a lot of energy.” Lord Fife picked up his own cup and held it for Portia to see. “A crack in a cup is easy, the pieces are right next to each other, which makes it easier. But the edges of a splinter are far apart—they must be for creatures to pass through—and you need to force them together and then run the healing spell to keep them together. That is why the spell is so dangerous if you do not complete it. If you do not bind the energy it takes to move the pieces together with the second part of the spell and make the object whole, then the pieces will fly apart… or a fire will start, or some other unexpected event will happen. The energy is there and must go somewhere if you do not use it in the healing.”
