Page 2 of War Mage (The War Brides of Adrik #4)

Urim

I sit in the back of a wagon on a wooden bench, looking down at the unconscious mage before me. She lays on her side, drooling, iron manacles on her wrists. The iron will inhibit the magic in her veins, in case she wakes up. She has been asleep since yesterday when my queen dosed her with knockout powder. I use the moment as I sit and regard her to take in details about her as she lies harmlessly unconscious. The mage’s hair is black, long, and coming loose from a braid. Her skin is a medium brown, darker than the average Adrikian’s but not as dark as a Sheaothan. From my knowledge of humans, I would guess that her family comes from the south of Teurilia. Ustreya or Briacor. Her heritage could explain her Affinity to fire, something that is not common in Adrik or the surrounding nations.

Everything about her annoys me. The fact that she is comfortably sleeping after trying to harm my rulers, my charges; the fact that she is a pretty and delicate human; the fact that she is a powerful mage, which makes her a dangerous prisoner; the fact that I know so little about her and her story. But most of all that she exists at all and I didn't know about her, didn’t plan for her, and I couldn’t stop her myself.

As the Shield of the King, it’s my duty to know about and neutralize threats before they ever trouble my king. From the time I took my position at Rognar’s side, I have never once been taken unawares. My spy network is vast, my intelligence resources even more so. I have a knack for ferreting out plots. I have killed more assassins than I can count, most before they even had time to begin to implement their plans. It is not arrogance to say that I have been one of the most successful Shields in history.

It doesn't matter that I know that I am not a god. I’m not all-seeing or all-knowing. It doesn't matter that it is true that a lone magical assassin, with no regard for their own life and no political, trackable agenda is practically impossible to plan for. What matters to me is that I failed. That my queen was almost killed. Would have been killed if she hadn’t had the foresight to prepare defensive runes for herself. I would have lost my king's mate, made him watch her die right before his eyes, all because I was unprepared.

That will not happen again. Never again, I vow to myself as we arrive at Garden Manor, which has a small, yet serviceable dungeon where we will be putting the would-be assassin. There, she will be under my control and I will get all the answers I require from her, through whatever means necessary. Well, perhaps not whatever means necessary. Queen Adalind asked that I go easy on the mage, that I don’t torture her unless I deem it strictly necessary. She still sees the mage as a resource that can be useful. Useful for what? I’m unsure, but our new queen is devious, always planning five steps ahead. It’s just as well. I do not enjoy torture, though I am adept at it. In this case, however, I don’t think I will need it. I have broken more hardened criminals than this now-magicless mage through psychological means alone.

I push her limp body with my foot, but she doesn’t stir. I push a little harder, but still no reaction. That knockout powder my queen used was potent. I weigh my options, as I often do. I could wait for her to wake up by herself so that she can walk of her own power to the dungeons, but she may try to struggle or run, which would be aggravating. The other option is to carry her to the anti-mage chamber myself. Though I have no desire to do so, it would seem that it is the best option.

I lift her and find that she is a bag of bones, barely any weight to her at all. I have marched with knapsacks on my back heavier than she is. The robes she wears hide the fact that her bones are sticking out sharply under her skin. That’s not too surprising, however. She said that she was one of the mages conscripted into service by King Yorian. If she was at Fort Attis before it fell, she would have had to survive a months-long siege. The humans at the fort were weak and malnourished when we finally broke through their gate. Except King Yorian, who was slightly plump when Rognar took his head. I file away the observation. It is merely another clue to the puzzle that is the mage.

Normally, coming across a woman the size of an urchin would stir something in me. A need to care and provide, to fatten her up and make her strong again. I know what it’s like to go hungry, that gnawing pain in the belly that makes it impossible to think of anything else. Orik was not kind to orphans when I was young. But in the case of this mage who I will need to break, it just gives me another weapon in my arsenal. A way to reward as well as punish. A way to draw out the information I need from her.

Entering the anti-mage chamber, I place her on the floor. The chamber is similar to a normal prison cell, with a cot, a chair, and lumen crystals embedded in the walls, but there are runes carved into every stone in the wall and floor. There are ten notches in the door that activate the room’s runes when touched. The notches only react to one that doesn’t have magic in their blood, so the mages within can’t tamper with them. The room is strong enough to nullify the power of five mages at a time when fully activated. Though she is powerful, activating three of the runes should be enough to contain her magic. Any more runes would start to be painful to her and I don’t need her in pain. Yet.

After undoing the iron manacles on the mage’s wrists, I grab the chair and sit with my back to the door. And I wait.

???

The sun is almost setting by the time that the mage finally stirs. She groans, a pained sound, before pushing up to a sitting position. Her eyes narrow as she looks around at her new surroundings. She doesn't seem to notice me yet.

“Ahh,” she groans again. “That bitch. . .”

My lips twist in a frown. She speaks of my queen, I’m sure. “It won’t help you to speak poorly of your queen. Your circumstances are of your own making.”

The mage turns sharply toward me, with an audible intake of breath. Her eyes round as she takes in my face. I know that I am not one of the more handsome orcs. Though my father was a human, I take more after my orc heritage with big tusks, a strong brow, and deep green skin. I also have a hideous, jagged scar down the length of my left cheek, a mark I gained as a child on the streets. I look neither welcoming nor attractive unlike my counterpart, Gunag, the Axe of the King. He is what many orcs call elf-pretty, though I would never make the mistake of saying so to his face. But I do not mind. My appearance makes me more intimidating, something that has served me well in my role as Shield.

“Who are you?” breathes out the mage, the shadows from the dim room highlighting how hollow her cheeks are.

“I ask the questions here,” I say evenly. “And you will answer them or be punished. Do you understand?”

Her eyes narrow into a wary glare. “So the queen kept me alive just so that she can torture me? Typical noble sadist.”

I ignore the continued slights to my queen.“You will not be tortured unless you refuse to comply,” I return, my voice still even, reasonable. “Are you saying that you won’t comply?”

“What could she possibly want to know about me?” she demands, looking angry and small on the floor. “What information could I possibly have that would benefit the Crown?”

“Let’s start with your name,” I say, looking at her intently. “What are you called”

“So you want my name and you won’t give me yours?” scoffs the mage. She is still angry, defiant. The reality of her circumstances hasn't sunken in yet. That will change.

“You are not the one in power in this situation,” I point out calmly. “Anything I give you is a boon that I would grant you, a reward for good behavior. Anything I want from you is something that you are required to give me in order to keep from pain. Do you see the difference?”

“Bastard,” spits the mage, her eyes burning with rage. I’m sure that if we were not in an anti-mage chamber she would be summoning actual flames right about now.

“Tell me your name and make things easier on yourself,” I command, my voice smooth and level. I could yell at her, I suppose, but that’s not my way. I don’t need to lose control to make another person break.

“Cara,” the mage says finally. “My name is Cara. Happy, orc?”

I sniff the air and am greeted with the scent of prevarication. She’s given me a false name. I almost sigh at the ridiculousness of lying at this point. We haven't even gotten to the harder questions.

“You lie,” I cock my head. “Try again.”

“My name is Cara,” she insists, sitting up straighter, her eyes directly on mine. She’s a good liar, I’ll give her that. She has conviction and confidence, but she’s no match for an orc’s nose.

“Orcs can smell lies,” I tell her, “and half-truths. You cannot lie to me and not be caught.”

She stubbornly sits in the center of the room, her mouth hardening into a tight line.

I’ll try the gentler tack. For now. “Tell me your name and I’ll feed you. You’re hungry, aren’t you? You haven’t eaten in a full day. Maybe even longer. Your belly must be cramping, tightening, caving in on itself. Just think of a slice of freshly made bread, chewy and filling. And all those flames earlier, I’m sure you are thirsty. Think of a glass of cool, refreshing water, quenching your parched throat. I can give you both of those things, in exchange for your name.”

Her belly chooses this moment to gurgle loudly in the silence. The sound is almost violent in its intensity, most likely spurred on by my words. I was right to press on that weakness.

“Such a small thing,” I say softly. “Your name for a bit of comfort.”

The mage flushes at the betrayal of her own body. I can tell the moment I win: her eyes screw tightly shut and quietly, almost in a whisper, she says. “Adara. My name is Adara.”

I sniff the air again and all I smell is her scent, like cinnamon and smoke. No lies.

“And your family name?”

She shakes her head. “I have no family, only the Tower. They called me Flameborn.”

More truth. Finally, we are getting somewhere.

“Adara Flameborn,” I repeat, rolling the name around my head. It isn’t familiar to me, but no matter. It will be. With her name and the Mage’s Tower connection, it’ll be easy to get information. I’ll send one of my spies to the Tower immediately.

“The food?” she asks, a hint of shame in her voice. She doesn’t like that she gave me what I wanted because of her weaknesses. But she should get used to giving me what I want. She is no match for me.

I snap my fingers and an orc guard appears at the grate in the cell door.

“Bring food and water to the prisoner,” I order.

The orc gives the sign of respect, then leaves, his footsteps echoing down the dungeon hall.

“Now, Adara,” I say, sounding conversational, “let’s try some harder questions. For every answer you give me that is true, I will let you stay in this room in relative comfort. Every time you lie to me, however, I will activate another rune in this room. Do you know what that will do to you?”

“Tickle?” she says sarcastically.

Ah, so she’s one of those. The type to confront fear with bravado and humor. That must have served her well in the war, but it will be no help to her in this cell. She will break under my technique. It is a matter of not if but when. Therefore, I choose to ignore her snark. I’m sure that she knows what she’s in for, but a reminder will help to break down whatever defenses she thinks she has. I begin, explaining as if she were a child, “Mages, as you must know, get their magic from an excess of soul. From their mana, as that excess is called. To cut a mage off from this magic, one must also cut them off from their very soul. Currently, I have this chamber activated just enough that you can't do magic. A small separation, barely noticeable. The more runes I activate, the more distance there is between you and your soul. The connection thins and strains. I’m told that is very uncomfortable, especially for those who are more powerful and used to having a deep connection with their mana, like you. Should we test it, or will you answer my questions?”

She keeps a brave face on, but I catch hints of uneasiness in her scent. She must know about anti-mage chambers and knows that I am not bluffing. Good . Her thinking about it will add an additional mental pressure on her to answer my questions.

“Go on,” she says, trying to sound arrogant, but her confidence is a little too low to quite pull it off.

“You said that there would be others that would take your revenge for you. Who are you working with?”

“No one,” she glares back at me.

I scent the air and am surprised it is the truth. She is working alone. So, she is not connected to the human Cabal that my queen wants to root out and destroy? Her words after the fight made me think . . . well, no matter what it made me think. It is obviously not true. Hmm .

I change course. “Then who were you talking about taking revenge?”

She hesitates. “No one. I was just spewing threats before I died.”

A half-truth, according to her scent. Interesting . What can that mean?

I stand and head to the door, passing my finger over the fourth rune, activating it. The mage flinches, the new rune affecting her. “That was the wrong answer, Adara. I will have the whole truth, or you will be punished.”

“I really don’t know of anyone else that would take revenge! It was empty threats!”

More half-truths. I hit the fifth rune. She flinches again. How does it feel, I wonder? Is it painful or just unsettling? Whatever the answer, she obviously doesn’t like it.

“Tell me the whole truth, Adara.”

She grimaces, fighting my question a while longer, but eventually, grudgingly, she says, “Occasionally, not too often, the Mage’s Tower would get requests from the Crown. Requests for dark manuscripts. Forbidden writings about demons and blood magic. The Tower did an investigation and found that all over the country, people would disappear after these requests. Serfs, mostly. The lowest of the low. Those that wouldn’t be missed. But they would disappear, never to be seen again.”

Ah, the Cabal. So she does know about their existence, in a roundabout kind of way. Playing dumb, I ask, “What does that have to do with the threat toward the queen?”

“My masters at the Mage’s Tower had a theory that there were nobles in the kingdom experimenting with forbidden rituals of death and pain to increase their power and wealth. We were going to investigate further, as forbidden magic threats are meant to be neutralized by the Mage’s Tower as part of its charter, when the High Master gave us the order to cease. He was worried that since the requests often came from the Crown, that Yorian was at the head of the conspiracy and would punish the Tower if we interfered. Not that us ceasing the investigation meant anything in the end. He still conscripted us all once the war started going poorly.” These last words are said with abject bitterness. Her rage still hasn’t abated. She still wants her revenge.

“But the threat?” I insist.

“I’m getting there!” she retorts hotly. “I just had the thought that if there are nobles that follow forbidden magic rituals under the old king, they wouldn't just roll over and give up their power to orcs! That they would also look for a way to kill the king and queen and most likely succeed where I failed.”

“You would rather have nobles that were kidnapping and killing innocent peasants rule, rather than the queen who saved your country?” I am genuinely curious.

She scrubs a hand over her ear like it’s paining her. “Saved the country? Honestly? Saved her own neck, you mean. She should have kept fighting! Used her magic to expel you all back across the border, not welcomed you in and started this farcical peace! Humans died defending this country that she just handed over to your king. But what does she care? She kept her head and gained another crown in the bargain. What does it matter if the rest of us suffer?”

“Orcs died too,” I point out softly.

“What?” She looks at me sharply.

“Adrik invaded Orik first. Attacked the border villages. Do you know who lived in those villages, Adara?”

“No . . .” she responds warily, obviously not understanding my meaning.

“Farmers, mostly. Retired warriors making a living off the land. And their families. I hear that when the reinforcements finally arrived, there were so many dead orclings littering the road that hardened warriors wept. Your soldiers didn’t even spare the children . All because your king wanted the rich, pastoral lands past the Deep Wood. And not for any noble purpose; purely for greed. Because he thought that my king was too weak to stop him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks, though she looks a little horrified, my words finding their target. It would appear she has some semblance of a conscience. Another weakness I can apply pressure to.

“Because you are an angry fool,” I say simply. The outrage on her face is immediate, but I continue, “Did you think that you were the only one who lost someone in the war? Your own queen lost her brother. Did you think that there weren’t orcs who wanted to raze your whole country to the ground to recoup what they lost? To not stop until every human was dead? Who opposed the king’s decision to sign a treaty with your queen? But orcs, though you humans think of us as barbarians, know one thing.”

“And what is that?” she glares at me, though with less confidence than before.

I shrug. “That there is no honor in killing innocents. Your queen is an innocent. She was powerless in the face of Yorian. He didn’t treat her as an equal, did not listen to her thoughts. Her hands were clean in your war. Once she did have power, the first thing she did was stop hostilities so that no more of her people were killed. No more of your people were killed. The remaining mages from Fort Attis have all been released, as well as the other prisoners. Yet you, in your rage, blame her because the true focus of your hate is already dead.”

The mage looks stunned, like I have slapped her across the face with my words. At that moment there’s a knock on the door, the orc guard back with the bread and water. I open the door, letting him in and he places the dishes on the floor before leaving. I go to follow him.

“Where are you going?” demands Adara.

“I am going to supper,” I reply. “But I’ll be back. I look forward to more conversations. Hopefully, you will be less combative next time.”

I slide my finger on the runes, taking them back to just three runes and I hear the mage sigh in relief, though she tries to mask it with a yawn.

“Don’t count on it, orc,” she says, still trying to be defiant.

I tilt my head, considering, then hit the fourth rune again. She gasps.

“What was that for?”

“A lesson, Adara,” I say, as the door swings closed behind me. “Your defiance will only ever cause you trouble.”

With that I go down the hall, leaving four runes activated. She can live with the discomfort and the unspoken second lesson I have also left with her.

In the battle of wills between us, I will always win. Always .