Kazin's Quest: Book I of The Dragon Mage Trilogy Read online

  There was the crack of a twig to his left. He turned in his saddle to peer through the downpour. This movement caused his scar to reopen, forcing him to wince in pain. If only he had let that cleric tend to his wound! Instead he had to go gallivanting off after a dangerous renegade mage. A lightning bolt sizzled out of the rain, grazing his already bleeding arm. Max yelped and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. That renegade was going to pay!

  Through the trees he saw the mage. The chase was on. Max remembered the raven’s feather and cast a swift spell on his horse. The renegade turned and began to cast more lightning bolts in his direction, speeding up his own horse to keep a safe distance ahead. Max kept his horse on the move to prevent the renegade from homing in on his location. Lightning bolts were the most useful weapon under the present conditions but his own lightning bolts were too weak to do any damage. He had to concentrate on his specialty. Ice bolts. But in order for them to work, he needed to draw on more energy than he had available. To cast an ice bolt, he would have to cancel the swift spell. But if he cancelled the swift spell, the renegade would get too far ahead for an ice spell to work. He needed to get closer and stay close. A branch struck his wounded arm. “OW!” He was beginning to get lightheaded from the loss of blood. If he was going to do anything, he would have to do it now. With his last ounce of physical and magical energy, he pulled the rock from his pouch and held it up in the rain, hoarsely chanting his favourite spell.

  The renegade was just turning to prepare a spell of his own when he saw the ice bolt coming at him. He raised a shield spell instead but was unprepared for the force of the ice bolt. It penetrated the shield and embedded itself in his arm, yanking him off his horse.

  The last thing Max saw before he blacked out was his flame winking out in the merciless rain.

  Part II

  Honour and Freedom

  Chapter 5

  As Zylor prepared to leave the arena after an early morning exercise, he thought back to the time his life had taken an unexpected turn. Around six months ago his mother, Mylorga, had taken ill and was not expected to recover. On her deathbed, she had revealed to him that she was not, in fact, his true mother. She then proceeded, amid coughing and gasping, to tell him of his true heritage.

  His father was the former emperor of the minotaur empire who, in his prime, had supposedly died of a sudden heart attack at a formal reception nineteen years ago. In truth, he had been poisoned by his evil brother, Traygor, who had his eye on the emperor’s seat for some time. By killing his brother, Traygor was in line to take the seat as the only male next of kin.

  Meanwhile, very few knew that Zylor’s real mother, Minga, was pregnant and had given birth the night of the murder. The birthing was difficult and Zylor’s mother died shortly after he was born. Mylorga was the midwife during this time and when she heard that Traygor was coming to see his sister-in-law to send his condolences that very night; she fled with Zylor in her arms. Most of the guards were near the reception so she escaped out the servant’s entrance. Glancing down a long hallway on her way out, she saw Traygor entering Minga’s bed chamber with a long dagger in his hand. This confirmed her suspicions. As she left the fortress behind, she heard a horrible bellow of anger and rage. Mylorga laughed dryly at this, “Imagine his surprise when he discovered that he couldn’t have the satisfaction of killing your mother since she was already dead!” Apparently, Traygor’s rage didn’t end here. He killed all the servants and sent out search parties looking for a lone female minotaur with an infant. Many innocent lives were lost that night. Mylorga had a friend who had hidden them in his cellar and helped them to escape into the mountains during the night. There some dwarves, of all people, found the compassion to care for them for a few months.

  When Traygor’s rage finally subsided, he reasoned that the infant couldn’t harm him so long as he denied its existence. If the baby was female, it didn’t matter—she couldn’t rule anyway. If, on the other hand, someone claimed that their infant was his nephew, he would kill first and ask questions later. So he called off his search parties and Mylorga left the safety of the dwarves and settled in the mountain town of Manhar, where Zylor now lived.

  Zylor’s path became clear then. He would take back the throne, but he wouldn’t stoop to his uncle’s tactics to do it. He would take part in the election battle like any other would-be emperors.

  This battle took place every four years and the winner of the one-on-one battles would have the opportunity to challenge the present emperor to a duel for leadership. The champion of the battles had the choice of either receiving a large sum of money for his victory, or offering a challenge for leadership. The emperor himself would then either accept the challenge, or step down from leadership with a decent retirement package and his honour intact. If the challenge was accepted, the challenger had to fight without weapons, while the present emperor could use any weapon of his choosing; again without loss of honour. This battle went to the death. If the emperor won, he retained his leadership and personally financed the burial of the challenger, who died an honourable death. If the challenger won, he immediately assumed command and the former emperor was buried without honour. After all, he had a weapon and still failed. Usually the challenger would still bury the former emperor with some show of respect if the people enjoyed his rule.

  “Not bloody likely,” thought Zylor, thinking of Traygor, who wasn’t a very popular leader to begin with.

  If the emperor died before the next election, the next of kin male would take over until the election battle took place. If the new leader was not old enough to rule yet, the mother would rule until her son was of age. This resulted in the only time a female could be in charge. If there was no mother available, the emperor’s lead general would take command until the son came of age. When the son came of age, (usually sixteen), the election battle would commence. This new leader could then step down with his honour intact or he could fight to retain his leadership. If there was no next of kin, the election battle would take place as soon as possible and a new ruler would be selected.

  Zylor looked forward to the day he entered the arena against his uncle, achieving revenge for his father and those who were killed that same night, as well as restoring his name on the throne.

  “Zylor, where are you going?”

  Zylor turned and realized he was so engrossed in his thoughts that he had walked right past the prison gatehouse where he worked. He shook his head and grinned sheepishly. “Morning, Karlan. I was just thinking of my glorious future as a prison guard.”

  “Yeah, don’t we all,” grunted Karlan, the head of the prison guards. He was nearly as tall as Zylor, about eight feet, but his horns were much shorter than they should be. Many minotaurs ridiculed him for this, since bigger horns meant more strength. But Karlan fought his way through the ranks and those who knew him knew he could hold his own and more. “Working out again?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Zylor. “It’s a good way to start the day.”

  “Well, so is working in. We’ve got a new prisoner today. He’s a little banged up but he’ll survive. Since you’re on feeding duty this week, it’s your job to feed the guy until he can feed himself.”

  Zylor sighed. “Where is he?”

  “Cell sixteen.”

  The prisoners were an odd assortment of humans, orcs, goblins and dwarves. The orcs, humans, and goblins were used as entertainment in the arenas and were treated well if they fought well. The dwarves were not used in the arenas as often, being more valuable if held for ransom. Any dwarves that were captured alive and relatively unharmed were traded for superior dwarven weapons that the minotaurs were using in their battles to the east against the humans. This arrangement was fine to both parties.

  Zylor liked his job. He was particularly kind to the dwarven prisoners, remembering the stories Mylorga had told him of their aid and friendship in the mountains many years
ago. Her story then was that she was being pursued by a crazed minotaur lover who thought Zylor was another minotaur’s child. It was partially true, he guessed, and there was no reason for her to lie about the dwarves’ aid. However his life had changed, he would still feel a kinship to the dwarves.

  He came to cell 16 and looked through the bars into the darkness. After a moment, he could make out the shape of a figure curled up on the cot. No threat there. Zylor grunted. Of course not. Karlan said he was banged up after all, didn’t he? Still, it wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked while delivering food. The key rattled in the lock as he fumbled with the mechanism. Zylor cursed. He always forgot to tell Karlan that the locks needed oiling. Finally the lock snapped open and Zylor entered. The figure did not move. Zylor approached cautiously and gently prodded the figure with his finger. It was a small figure—another dwarf. He prodded again and this time the figure groaned and rolled over. Both eyes were swollen shut, the grey beard tangled and matted. The upper lip was swollen with a bluish tinge. Zylor frowned. This was not going to be easy.

  “Not in very good shape, is he?”

  Zylor turned to the doorway.

  Garad, another guard, continued, “He fought like hell when he was caught. Knocked out one minotaur and severed the arm of another before the blunt end of a battle axe knocked some sense into him. Or out of him, if you prefer.”

  Zylor said nothing.

  Garad shrugged and continued down the corridor.

  Zylor turned to the dwarf and began to administer the food. The going was slow. The dwarf winced with every spoonful. Eventually the gruel bowl was empty. A short while later, Zylor returned with some bandages and ointment and bandaged the dwarf’s head. The bandages were large and were meant for minotaurs and when the job was finished, Zylor sat back to examine his handiwork.

  Garad appeared again and chuckled. “First time we had a mummy in our prison.”

  “Very funny,” said Zylor, but he couldn’t resist a chuckle of his own. The dwarf did indeed look like a small mummy.

  A few days later, the bandages were removed and the dwarf looked slightly more dwarfish and a lot less like a mummy.

  Harran squinted around at his cell. Though it was dark, it was still hard on his eyes, which had seen nothing but blackness for several days. There were two minotaurs glaring at him. They always glared, the ugly brutes, thought Harran. “Well, what’s wrong? You never saw a dwarf before?”

  One minotaur growled; the other never changed its ‘glare’.

  “I’ll take over from here, Garad,” said the glaring one.

  Garad left.

  “What’s your name?” demanded the remaining minotaur.

  “What’s it to you?” snapped Harran.

  “We need to give your name to the dwarven emissary so ransom can be arranged.”

  “Go to hell,” said Harran.

  Karlan shook his head. “Suit yourself.” He got up and shouted down the corridor, “Zylor! Come feed the twirp. It looks like he wants to stay with us for a while.” As Zylor passed into the room with a tray, Karlan smirked, “Maybe he likes your motherly touch!” Zylor growled. Karlan tilted his head back and laughed. Then he playfully slapped Zylor’s arm and strode off down the hallway, still chuckling. Zylor shook his head and turned to the dwarf. “How about some solid food for a change?”

  The dwarf glared suspiciously at the minotaur. This was the beast that had dressed his wounds? Harran harrumphed. He didn’t owe this minotaur anything. Minotaurs got him into this mess; they can get him out of it. His stomach growled, causing him to take notice of the tray held before him. It was even steaming. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to eat a little something. Zylor noticed the gaze and gave the tray to the dwarf. The dwarf took it, sparing only a quick glance at it before returning his eyes to the minotaur.

  “I don’t like being watched while I eat,” said Harran.

  Zylor simply nodded, turned, and left the cell, closing and locking the door behind him.

  Harran couldn’t contain his appetite any longer. He wolfed the food down quickly, put the empty tray on the floor, and closed his eyes. It was still too bright in here.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was still in the same position when Zylor returned for the empty tray. Harran opened his eyes and winced. It was definitely too bright in here.

  “We can move you to a darker cell if you like,” stated Zylor.

  Since when were minotaurs concerned with a dwarf’s welfare? thought Harran. “This one’s just fine,” he grumbled instead. “Leave me alone.”

  “If you need something, just call,” said Zylor, exiting the cell and locking it, leaving the dwarf alone to his thoughts.

  “Being waited on by a minotaur,” murmured Harran smugly. “Probably guilty over what they did to me. Oh, well.” He lay back on his cot and decided to rest before thinking of a way to get out of his dilemma.

  The following morning there was a small commotion as Zylor entered the guard house.

  “What’s up?” he asked Garad, who was in conversation with another guard.

  “The emperor’s calling a full third of all able bodied minotaurs to arms,” said Garad. “It looks like he’s preparing to do battle with the humans again.”

  Zylor thought about this. Traygor often called minotaurs to arms during an election year in order to reduce the number of entrants in the election battles. The army pay would be too much for most minotaurs to refuse. After the election the minotaurs would be sent back home with several months’ pay and a “sorry, false alarm” from the generals. This situation, however, was different in one crucial way. Instead of the usual one tenth of minotaurs called to arms, it was one third. That meant something big was in the offing. Any young minotaur would jump at the chance for battle. Not Zylor. He had other plans.

  “Have they chosen which of us gets out of this damned prison?” asked Zylor, masking his chagrin with enthusiasm.

  Garad grinned. “Don’t worry. You’re among the strongest of all of us at the guard house. They’ll pick you for sure. I’ll probably get out of here too,” he boasted.

  Zylor grinned back but inside he was afraid. Not afraid of battle or the army, of course, but of missing the chance to battle for the emperor’s seat. True, he was preparing for the election battle four years from now since he didn’t think he was prepared for the one taking place this year. But being thrust into an army and put into action would take plenty of responsibility and would leave him no time to hone his skills in private; he didn’t want anyone to know his objective until it was time. He had to find a way out of this before it was too late.

  “By the way,” said Garad, as if it had just occurred to him, “Isn’t it your turn at feeding duty?”

  Zylor growled. “Next time we gamble to see who gets feeding duty, we’ll use fists instead of dice.”

  Garad guffawed. “You know Karlan wouldn’t allow it. Besides, playing dice is such a friendly game.”

  “Especially if they’re your dice,” muttered Zylor.

  “But Zylor,” said Garad innocently, “if you had your own dice, I’d be glad to use them instead!”

  “I just might take you up on that offer someday,” said Zylor, turning and marching off to the kitchens with Garad’s laughter in his ears. “All I need,” he thought, “is to find some enchanted dice and then I’ll show him!” Then his thoughts drifted to the more immediate problem of escaping the call to arms. He needed time. Much more time.

  Chapter 6

  The light coming through the grate in the window indicated a hot, sunny day was in store as Harran went through his morning exercise regimen. His uncle Red had told him to keep in shape even when things looked bleak. That way he would be prepared when an opportunity came to improve things.

  Harran finished his last push up and sat back with a long sigh. He had waited for
more than two weeks for that ‘opportunity’ but had come up empty. The prison was designed well, with large fenced-in areas, guards at appropriate intervals, and towers at the corners. Sure, he was allowed free movement during the day, but unless he could fly over the tall un-climbable fence and avoid the arrows of the guards, his chance of escape was non-existent. The recent call to arms might reduce the number of sentries but wouldn’t help him to fly. If there was a way to escape, he couldn’t think of it. That left him with the two options he had from the start. Become a gladiator in the games, or give his name to the dwarven emissary to arrange bail in the form of dwarven weapons.

  The first option was simply not his kind of profession (not that he couldn’t fight), and the second option, well, just to think of it made him shudder. If the dwarven community learned his identity, they would gladly pay the ransom, but he would be looked upon with dishonour for many years. Not to mention—and few people outside the dwarven community knew this—his family would have to pay the cost of the ransom, even if it took years to do so. Moreover, he was one of the kingdom’s leading map makers, which meant a higher ransom, larger family debt and, worst of all, greater dishonour.

  To be chosen as a map maker was a great honour. All dwarves, including blind ones, have the ability to find their way through the mountains without losing direction. Some dwarves, like Harran, have an exceptionally strong sense of direction and if this ability is detected early enough, they are trained to be map makers. There are thousands of tunnels in the mountains, and a high price is paid for accurate maps, particularly ones leading to valuable mineral deposits or gems. To construct a map of the tunnels, it must not only indicate the left/right configuration, but also the up/down representation in the diagram. After all, some tunnels run underneath others and even spiral below themselves. To give an indication of depth, the tunnels are marked in varying colours, ranging from lighter colours at higher altitudes to darker colours at lower ones. The creation of maps in the tunnels was a difficult process in the days before trade was established with the human mages. The magic ‘glowing paper’ and ‘fire sticks’ simplified tunnel exploration significantly.