The rogue mage, p.1
The Rogue Mage, page 1
The sundered Web Book 2
THE ROGUE MAGE
Alex Thornbury
The Rogue Mage is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 Alex Thornbury
All rights reserved.
Distributed by Shadow Lore Publishing
First Edition: December 2023
No part of this book may be reproduced or modified in any form, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner, except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Cover artwork by Alejandro Colucci
eBook ISBN 978-0-6454970-4-5
US Edition
www.alexthornbury.com
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Author’s Note
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Al-Terren
“We remember the day, We, the many, became one ... one creature inside this body. It was the day we awoke in the world of Seramight, the world from our dreams. We remember seeing through the strange eyes of a man. Seeing much that was wondrous ... and yet not seeing what must be there. Seramight is not beautiful as Alafraysia is beautiful. It is not as magnificent or dazzling. And we grew uncertain. Then we, or rather the man who sheltered us, took a breath and touched his face and we Felt. We felt the smooth, warm skin beneath our fingers, we felt the air rush into our chest ... we smelt it in his nose. Upon it, we smelt the odor of the man and felt disgusted. Aye, we felt that emotion, so alien to us. We heard the sounds of the world that we so long desired to live in. A world made of true stone and earth, water and air, and life. A solid, unchanging world which is more than a mere dream ... Then we saw our Tsarin Reval standing before us, fire and being as one. ‘Your task, Bluelight is to write the history of our combined realms. It is to be a gift for my beloved Arala. ′Tis why I brought you to this world.’”
The History of Alafraysia and Seramight,
By Mageguard Bluelight
They said all stories began and ended at the Bridge to Magic. The wise priests who knew such things, men who had listened to the tales of their forefathers, and old women who told them to their children.
But they were wrong. Stories ended at the Bridge to Magic. And then began anew. At least for those, like her, who had survived the crossing.
Elika crouched down and brushed the shimmering water as the old sea rolled over her shoes and retreated again. Cold. Icy cold for it was winter. She brought her fingertip to her lips. Salty. Just as Bill Fisher had told her. He was ancient and had seen the great sea that had once covered half of Seramight. That was before Syn’Moreg had sundered their world.
Her gaze ran over the sparkling water towards the dark chasm, and then beyond it, to the grey landscape of the city she had left behind. Only this morning, she had stood on the other side of that dividing dark scar, gazing across at the vast, empty plains of rock and dust of the Deadlands. All her life, she had stared at them from across the chasm and wondered.
She was the last to cross the bridge before it unraveled, the last to walk towards that lifeless landscape. But magic was treacherous, and it lied to them all. Instead of the deadlands, she was greeted by a vibrant world of color and life and men’s voices. And a frightening feeling crept up on her; perhaps it was she who had lived in the deadlands all her life whilst life went on here, across the rift.
Her city was now a broken rubble—dull, lifeless, abandoned. All the lands beyond it had been destroyed by the Blight. Death reigned there now instead of man. There was no sea on that side. It had drained away long ago into the rift, leaving behind endless salt marshes and mud plains bestrewed with carcasses of ancient ships.
Yet here, on this side of the divide, the sea ran up to the chasm and stopped abruptly, held back from spilling over the edge by some force ... by magic. The thought wormed its way into her. Magic. She was in the land to where it had been exiled, the land ruled by that untamed force, with no way back home. The bridge that had brought her here was gone. She had stabbed it and destroyed it. Some secret knowledge deep in her soul suspected she might have made a terrible mistake.
Voices cut through the crisp air, shouts and calls of alarm. She turned and faced the towering city wall of the other half of Terren. For six hundred years, men believed this half of their city had perished in the great cataclysm. Yet, here it was, built from the same silver-veined grey stone, only larger and fiercer than before. The streets, which once joined with those on the other side, ran to the edge of the fissure. The houses, which had once stood across Rift Street, were a mirror of those she had left behind. But that was where the similarity ended.
Here, the residents had built an enormous outer wall between their city and the chasm, capped with towers and battlements, as if against a giant enemy threatening them from the Abyss. The wall encircling the city had sprung up behind abandoned old buildings and ran into the sea on one side, and along the coast on the other. Even from here, she could see enough to know that this Terren had grown and grown whilst her world had been shrinking.
In front of a circular stone courtyard, was a squat city gate, tall enough for a horse and rider to go through. The portcullis was raised but seemed unwelcoming. It faced the chasm across the courtyard. There, she saw the upturned cobbles and the gouges in the ground where the roots of the bridge had once held firm.
She beheld the empty courtyard. Turned to take in the empty beach and the old cobbled road along the other half of Rift Street. Turned again, and an ache rose in her chest. No one was waiting for her. Neither Mite, nor Penny, nor her parents. Her parents had died crossing the bridge. Penny likely thought her dead by now. And Mite ... he had left her behind to find a new life for himself. Did she truly expect him to be standing here waiting for her?
Aye, you did, a voice inside her mocked. Foolish that you are.
Bells began to ring.
“Dae-Terren!” Men shouted from atop the city wall, and the guards rushed to the parapet to stare and point at the city on the other side of the rift.
Folk emerged from the gate into the empty courtyard. They were clad in loose clothes made of strange, brightly colored cloth. Some wore shimmering garb and plaited their hair with silver lace. No one was looking at her. The ruinous city from where she had come transfixed them, as if they had never seen it before.
“’Tis Dae-Terren ... it’s real,” said a boy in wonder, as he came to stand beside her.
“’Course it’s real, you fool,” replied an old woman next to him. “Where do you think all them damned Daes came from?”
They spoke in the common tongue of men, but with a soft accent unfamiliar to Elika’s ears.
“Where did the fog go, Nan? Do you think it’s Ilikan who’s up to no good again?”
“Now, how am I to know that? Besides, it’s Reval who controls the clouds, and fog is like clouds, ain’t it?”
More folk came to stand on the beach. “Hey, you, Dae, did you just cross?”
Elika felt eyes on her and turned.
“You, boy, aye. Did you just cross?” The man who spoke was staring straight at her.
She shook her head and walked into the crowd, away from his suspicious frown.
More and more folk piled out of the squat gate, and she shoved past them towards the city.
“Where’s the bridge?” she heard someone ask.
“What happened to the mist?”
Aye, there was an impenetrable mist when she crossed, but it disappeared soon after the bridge fell into the Abyss.
The crowd grew thicker. The guards joined them, too, scrutinizing the newly uncovered old street and crumbling houses. She needed to get away before more of them realized she did not belong. She had to find a quiet place to think.
Out of nowhere, a dark shadow fell over them, as if a thunderous cloud had blocked the sun. Elika looked up ... and gaped in horror. Up in the sky, a mountainous island of rock and gardens floated towards them. It spun and turned, as if it did not know which way was up or down. A crystalline palace lay in its heart, surrounded by lush gardens, silver orchards with big fruits and bridges over flowing streams. And she grew certain that she must be asleep, dreaming one of Bill Fisher’s old tales of things that could never be.
“Reval! someone shouted and pointed at the sky island.
“Why is he here?”
“Guards to the wall!” a commanding voice shouted.
But his shout was drowned by another.
“ARALA!” A fierce roar of anguish boomed over the land like thunder and sent a wave of wind with it.
Elika covered her ears and ducked as the force of that wave knocked her to the ground.
Then all around her there were boots and legs and skirts, tripping over her and over each other. She crawled to the stone wall and found her feet. The deafening roar of wind filled her ears. Over the heads of the panicked crowd, she saw a vortex of dust and water heading for them, and she joined in with the pushing and shoving through the gate and the tunnel beneath the wall.
“Reval!” Men shouted the warning to the folk ahead. “He’s sent the winds against us. Hide!”
“Close the gates!”
The pushing grew frantic, and Elika burst from the tunnel into a crowded square. Everywhere she looked, her way was blocked by fleeing bodies. She darted to the edges of the street before they trampled her to death.
Overhead, a roof blew off. She covered her head against the rain of stone debris and tiles and fled onward. The winds intensified, and each step grew labored. She glanced behind. The whirlwind was near upon them. A young woman screamed as she was yanked into the sky, and the raging vortex advanced towards Elika. It ripped at her clothes and limbs, and made her feel light and weightless as it threatened to whisk her away. She pushed open the nearest door, threw herself inside, crawled into the corner and curled into a tight ball. Then there was nothing but darkness and the fierce roar of savage wind, the shattering of glass and screams.
It seemed an age passed before the rumbling noise of destruction faded to silence.
Elika uncurled.
Light had returned to the world. She took in her surroundings and found herself in a small shop. Its windows were broken. Shattered jars of herbs, dried flowers and berries lay beneath the empty shelves. A small boy peered at her with large eyes from under a table. A plump woman was hiding behind him under the same table. They emerged uncertainly, looking stunned. The shopkeeper rose from behind a counter, dazed and confused, wiping his bald head with his hand as he took in his ravaged shop.
A man dressed in a bright-green suit emerged from behind the same counter. Though he trembled, he made a show of calmly brushing off the dust from his sleeves. The shimmering cloth was unlike anything Elika had ever seen. It was distractingly decorated with gold leaves and rippled with light under his touch.
Then their gazes snagged on her.
“It’s a Dae,” said the pouch in the green suit, halting mid-preen. “She’s dressed like an Othersider.” His voice was laced with that same soft accent. It contrasted starkly with his disdainful expression that raked her from head to heel.
Elika could only stare at him in disbelief. A magical wind had just ripped through their city, and she was the oddity worthy of his notice?
“Magic-hater,” the shopkeeper sneered, dusting himself off.
“It’s the magic you are all hiding from in here,” she bit back and cringed at the rough sound of her own harsher tongue compared to his song-like lilt. “It’s the magic that broke your shop.”
“Not magic, but that damned Reval. He’s as raving mad as a bull with busted ... ahem, pardon me, mistress.” He bowed apologetically to the plump woman before turning back to Elika. “Nothing anyone can do about it when he gets into one of his moods.”
The shopkeeper bent down to pick up his broken jars, muttering to himself about insane Reval and the bloody tsaren with their endless squabbles.
“Did ye just cross, boy? Have you a master?” asked the woman in a kindly voice. She was also dressed in vibrant colors, though her dress seemed plain compared to the man’s gold-leafed coat.
“Been here a while,” Elika lied. She could tell from their faces that they did not believe her. In her rough spun trousers and shirt, she must look like a beggar to them.
“Mummy, is that a barbarian from the other side?” the boy whispered to the woman.
“Aye, dear, ’tis one of them. He’s from Dae-Terren.”
“Where magic-haters live,” he breathed, eyeing her with wonder.
“Shush. The old race has not been civilized like us.”
“Pa says they’re invaders come to destroy our world, like they destroyed their own.”
“Your pa’s not wrong, boy,” scoffed the man in the suit. “Get the guards before this one causes trouble.”
Elika noted that he did not step closer to her himself.
“Might be the guards are too busy cleaning up the mess,” she snapped and pushed past them. The woman gripped the boy as if she thought this barbarian might kill him.
None of them followed her outside.
In the street, the destruction left by the vortex was reminiscent of a war. Men and women lay lifeless on the ground, like broken dolls in pretty dresses. Others were walking around, dazed. Roofs had been ripped off and buildings lay in ruins. None of it seemed real. Elika hugged herself and walked in the opposite direction to the folk rushing to help the injured. She needed to find a place where the eyes of these people did not follow her.
This was Terren, her home, yet she did not recognize any part of it. The unfamiliar streets and unknown faces disorientated her senses. Even the blue sky here was wrong. Everything was brighter, the colors more vivid. The air itself was thick with some vital force. She felt it deep in her bones. Reach out and she might touch it. Even the familiar grey buildings of old Terren, which had survived the vagaries of time, were more vibrant somehow. And she felt as if she had awoken from a dream into a stark and frightening reality.
She turned into a quiet, dead-end alley and ducked behind a large plant pot with a small tree growing from it. She crouched against the wall next to a closed door and tried to gather her scattered thoughts.
She had crossed the bridge—almost died crossing it. Instead of the Deadlands, she had found herself here in Terren ... the other half of Terren they had thought destroyed. The folk here had not died six hundred years ago when Syn’Moreg sundered their world, but lived on. These were the descendants of those who had long ago vanished. They must have known there was another world across the chasm, for many had crossed from it. Dae they had called her. The incomers from her world must have carried tales of another Terren. But why did no one cross from this one into hers? Might be because these descendants believed her kind to be uncivilized barbarians, she thought with rising bitterness.
Magic-hater, the man had called her. His scorn-filled words did not sit easily in her mind.
Scarcely a moment ago, magic had torn the city apart and killed those poor fools who got in its way. Only in tales of long ago, when the tsaren still lived in their world, had she heard of such dire things.
A terrible realization finally struck her. The tsaren, the enemies of mankind, the ones who had started the Sundering War—were here. They had not vanished or died, only crossed the bridge long ago. She had not merely stepped into another world, but another time which her own people had long ago resigned to history.
Was there a human king here also?
The cutting cold from the stone at her back pushed that thought aside. Winter chill had crept into her body, numbing her hands and feet. Overhead, clouds had gathered, threatening snow. She had lost her cloak and would not survive the night if she continued with these useless musings about kings and tsaren, instead of finding shelter.
She caught sight of her trousers—ragged, dusty and torn. Her clothes betrayed her as a Dae and drew attention to her. She needed new garb to blend in with the locals. Might be she’d find a gang of orphans to join, or an abandoned building for shelter. Either way, she could not hide here all day.
She rose and examined the iron-studded door beside her. The lock was unlike any she had ever picked. Instead of a hole for the key, there was a brass insert for a medallion. She could not pick it and steal inside. Neither could she see an easy path to the roofs. So she emerged from the alley and chose a direction to follow.
The old, grey bones of this city reminded her of home. This was Terren. She knew this city, knew how to survive on its streets. She just needed to relearn the streets all over again, that was all. Surely its people could not have changed that much. They were human, after all, and spoke in the same common tongue.
