Weremage: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 5) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  The Books of Underrealm

  Dedication

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  forty-two

  forty-three

  forty-four

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  epilogue

  WEREMAGE

  Garrett Robinson

  Copyright © 2016 by Legacy Books. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  THE BOOKS OF UNDERREALM

  BY GARRETT ROBINSON

  To see all novels in the world of Underrealm, visit:

  Underrealm.net/books

  THE NIGHTBLADE EPIC

  NIGHTBLADE

  MYSTIC

  DARKFIRE

  SHADEBORN

  WEREMAGE

  YERRIN

  THE ACADEMY JOURNALS

  THE ALCHEMIST’S TOUCH

  THE MINDMAGE’S WRATH

  THE FIREMAGE’S VENGEANCE

  CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  NIGHTBLADE

  MYSTIC

  DARKFIRE

  SHADEBORN

  THE ALCHEMIST’S TOUCH

  THE MINDMAGE’S WRATH

  WEREMAGE

  THE FIREMAGE’S VENGEANCE

  YERRIN

  To my family

  Who make everything I do better

  To Johnny, Sean and Dave

  Who told me to write

  And to my Rebels

  Don’t forget why you left the woods

  one

  THE DOOR TO THEIR CHAMBERS opened easily under Loren’s hand, and in the creaking of the hinges there were no echoes of the battles cries and bloodshed that still haunted her thoughts.

  Cool air brushed her face as the room was revealed to her, and she sighed. The scents of the High King’s Seat came rushing through the door, the heady salt of the Great Bay and the acrid smoke of the city’s ten thousand hearths. She closed her eyes and drank them in.

  “Loren?”

  Chet’s hand on her arm brought her back to herself. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I am sorry. It … it feels a lifetime since last we were here. A span of months, not days.”

  “I feel the same,” he said quietly. “But now that we are here, might we not go inside, rather than standing in the hall without purpose?”

  She chuckled and took his hand to draw him in after her. Inside, they removed their cloaks and hung them on hooks beside the door. To the left were the doors that led to Xain and Gem’s rooms. To the right were two more doors, where Chet and Loren had once slept apart—though that had changed in the days since first they came here.

  Much of the furniture in the common room was new, its wood fresh-hewn and the cushions too bright to have seen much use. The tables and chairs that had once been here must have been destroyed in the fighting. That thought further dampened what was already a solemn day—for while many in the city rejoiced at the return of the High King Enalyn, the wise knew it was no proud thing that she had been chased from her capital in the first place.

  Seven days it was since the Seat had been attacked and Loren had helped Enalyn escape the fighting. Her forces had fled to the kingdom of Selvan, thinking to muster a counter-attack—but then, as swiftly as they had come, the attacking armies had fled. The fleet of Dulmun sailed east across the Great Bay, vanishing into their mighty coastal fortresses. The Shades had rowed the short distance between the Seat and Dorsea’s eastern coast, and had disappeared into the Birchwood. All the scouts the High King could muster had failed to find them since, and many who were sent to do so had never been heard from again.

  Since then, Enalyn had granted Loren a new position: Nightblade of the High King, her personal agent. It was a recognition of the valiant way Loren had saved the lives of Enalyn and her son, the Lord Prince Eamin. But other than a pretty name and a great honor, Loren was not quite sure what it meant. The title of Nightblade had been a childhood fancy, something she had thought up when she was a girl of the forest. The world she found herself in now was all too real, all too perilous. What good was a daydream in the face of the dangers that Loren had seen?

  “Sky above. Come look at this.”

  Chet’s voice came from their balcony. The words made her tense for a moment—but his voice held only awe, and no trace of fear. She entered their room, briefly noting the new bedclothes, before she passed through it to the balcony.

  He stood leaning out into the open air, wiry arms spread as they gripped the railing. They were perhaps thirty paces high, and had an excellent view northwest across the Seat. The sun was still rising in the east, for the day was young, and the youthful warmth of its shine turned the winter air bracing rather than chilling. The city’s smell struck her again, stronger than before, and she smiled without thinking.

  “What?” said Loren. “What is it?”

  “All of it,” said Chet. “Look at it. Look at them.”

  He pointed. There, far below, she saw figures scurrying through the streets. A multitude of colors could be found: the red cloaks of Mystics, the russet armor of constables, the white-and-gold of the High King’s guard, and all the liveries of soldiers and servants from across the nine kingdoms. But most wore simple clothes and carried tools, or pulled them in carts. Saws and hammers, lumber and ladders, all the accoutrements of craftsmen and artisans. They looked like a colony of ants from this high up, running frantically about in the chaos of a careless step that had crushed their hill. But their scurrying had a purpose: their home had been destroyed, and they meant to rebuild it.

  “It seemed so simple when Enalyn called for them,” said Loren quietly. “I know that it was not, but it seemed so. And just look how many of them have come to obey her.”

  “My father always said he would never take the High King’s power, not for anything in the world,” said Chet. “How frightening it must be, to hold such influence that your slightest whim can move an entire kingdom to action.”

  Loren nodded as if in agreement. But in her mind, she felt her thoughts turning in another direction. Yes, the great and mighty could do much with a simple command—the High King Enalyn, and the Lord Prince Eamin, and even Anwar, the king of Selvan. Yet who now walked in the halls of those mighty figures? Loren of the family Nelda. The High King’s Nightblade. The thought should have been terrifying—and she supposed it was, to a degree—but she could not deny that it excited her. That, too, had been part of the dream of the Ni
ghtblade.

  Her hand brushed her dagger, which she now wore inside the waist of her trousers, covering the hilt with her green vest. It was as though a shadow had been cast over the bright and beautiful day.

  The dagger was an ever-present source of danger. She could never stop thinking about it, and was always wary of letting it be seen by anyone but her friends. If it were ever revealed, the effects could be disastrous—not only to Loren, but to the Order of Mystics who might be the best defense against the rise of the Necromancer.

  Yet she could not bring herself to get rid of it. It had been her first theft. And by now she had learned many of the dagger’s magical qualities—the ability to find wizards, and the sight it could grant her even in pitch darkness. These had proven beyond useful, and had even saved her life on occasion. The Nightblade could not afford to throw away her most powerful tool.

  “Where has your mind gone?” said Chet, looking at her with his brow furrowed. “You have been drifting away more and more often of late. Do not think I have not noticed.”

  “Nowhere,” said Loren, shaking her head. She ran her fingertips along his arm, sending gooseflesh rippling. “I am here with you.”

  He smiled and put a hand on her cheek, his question forgotten. Her smiled widened—but in her mind, she thought sadly of how easy it was to turn his mind, just as on the day she fled their village in the Birchwood.

  They heard a gentle knock behind them and turned to find Gem. The urchin boy stood in the doorway back to their bedroom, his knuckles still held close to the doorframe as though he might knock again. He was dressed in finer clothes than Loren was used to seeing him in, though somehow he had already found a way to get them dirty.

  “I have been sent to summon you,” said Gem, looking at Loren.

  Her stomach did a turn. Without thinking, she reached for Chet’s hand. Only once he had squeezed her fingers in return did she glance at him, earning a smile that should have encouraged her. But she could see a lingering sorrow behind it.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “I know. Do not be afraid. You will do well.”

  “You are more confident than I am, I fear.”

  “I have followed you for enough leagues to know it.” He stepped before her and kissed her lightly. “And what is more, I call anyone who doubts you a fool.”

  Gem cleared his throat perhaps a bit more loudly than he needed to. “Yes, well and good,” said the boy. “Yet the council requires her presence.”

  Loren gave Chet’s hand one last squeeze before brushing past him and into their chambers. She rushed through the common room, but Chet’s voice stopped her again halfway through the door.

  “Stop.”

  She turned, steeling herself for him to ask her not to go. He did not want her to, and she knew it. But he only came forward and reached past her to the hook on the wall. He brought down her fine black cloak from where she had hung it, and with gentle fingers clasped it at her throat.

  “The Nightblade must be the Nightblade, after all,” he murmured.

  “Thank you,” she said, kissing him again—and this time it was not gentle.

  “Sky above. The council.”

  “Oh, still your tongue, Gem,” said Loren, rushing past the boy and into the hall.

  Gem scowled. “Why should I, when the two of you never do the same?”

  two

  ONLY ONCE BEFORE HAD LOREN been to the High King’s council room, but she remembered the way. Therefore she did not let Gem guide her like some page, but quickened her pace so that he had to trot to keep up, though he kept up an air of long-suffering dignity.

  “Who else will be there?” said Loren.

  “I do not know,” said Gem. “They did not summon me into the room, but sent someone out to tell me to fetch you. It is like when messengers ride day and night, relaying a letter from one to the next, except a bit more ridiculous, since it all takes place in one small palace.”

  Loren shook her head. Only Gem had a high enough opinion of himself that he could think of the High King’s palace as small. “Did you see Xain at all?”

  “No,” said Gem. “In fact, I have not seen him since we came off the ship.”

  They paused outside the council room. One of the High King’s guards stood there, resplendent in her armor. She looked down at Gem with vague disdain. The boy stuck out his tongue at her. Loren put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Gem. Now be off.”

  His eyes widened, like a dog whose master was displeased with it. “Might I not wait here, ready in case you should need me?”

  “I do not think I shall,” said Loren. “And you will likely grow bored to death, for this may take some time.”

  Gem’s shoulders slumped. “Very well, then. You may find me in our chambers if you need me.”

  She watched him go until he turned the corner. Then, carefully avoiding the eyes of the guard, she entered the room as quietly as she could.

  The High King Enalyn’s council chamber was much like the woman herself: restrained, imposing, but not without warmth. There were some chairs around the walls—for retainers, Loren supposed, though she had yet to see anyone sit in them. The main focus of the room, of course, was the table in its center, but that table was nowhere near so large as might have been expected. Rather than feeling ornamental, it gave the place an air of wartime preparation—and that air was particularly appropriate now, with all of Underrealm embroiled in conflict.

  At the head of the table sat Enalyn herself, propped up with one elbow on the arm of her chair, her chin resting on her fist. To her right sat the Lord Prince Eamin, scratching at his short, well-trimmed beard, and beside Eamin was Xain, much to Loren’s relief. The wizard was often bitter and always sarcastic, but he was still the closest friend she had in this room. But to Enalyn’s left sat a woman Loren did not recognize—short, fat, and clearly old, for her hair was silver and her face bore many wrinkles. Something about her seemed similar to the High King, the sharp eyes and the severe twist to her mouth, though hers held something more of a smirk than Enalyn’s did. On her shoulders was draped the red cloak of a Mystic.

  The four of them looked up the moment Loren stepped through the door, and Xain hesitantly put his hands on the arms of his chair to stand. But Enalyn lifted a hand to stopped him.

  “Greetings, Loren,” she said. “I have ten thousands of councils to hold in the time it would take me to hold ten proper ones, and so we must do away with decorum. You will pretend that these others have stood to greet you, and I will pretend that you have knelt to me. Please sit there.” She pointed at the chair beside the grey-haired woman.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Loren, hastening to obey. The woman scooted her chair over slightly to make it easier for Loren to sit.

  “You two should know each other. Lord Chancellor, this is Loren of the family Nelda, Nightblade of the High King. Loren, this is Hollen of the family Konnel, the new Lord Chancellor of the Order of Mystics.”

  “Well met,” said Loren, nodding. This is the Lord Chancellor? I thought the Mystics were all warriors.

  Hollen flashed her a wide smile, as though she guessed at Loren’s thoughts. “Well met indeed. Do not fret over my looks, dear. I am not such a bumbling old woman as I appear—but only half so much, thank the sky.”

  Loren’s eyes widened, and her cheeks flooded with red. “I … I do not think …”

  Hollen laughed, and Enalyn’s lips pressed tight. “Forgive the Lord Chancellor. She has a habit of making people uncomfortable, which is often a useful skill, and a sense of self-deprecation that she finds most amusing. At another time, I might agree with her, but there are urgent matters to discuss.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. My apologies,” said Hollen.

  Across the table, Xain caught Loren’s eye and winked. She gave him a quick smile in return.

  “Loren, we three have spoken about you already, and I have come to a decision,” said Enalyn. Loren did not much like the sound of
that. “I know that the politics of the nine kingdoms are not familiar to you, but I cannot take the time to explain them in detail. Suffice it to say that while we balance on the brink of open war, we have not yet fallen into it, and now our every effort must be to keep that from happening.”

  That made Loren balk. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but how can that be? A battle has already been fought.”

  “One, yes,” said Enalyn. “But it is my understanding that you were at Wellmont. Did that battle mean that Selvan and Dorsea were at war?”

  Loren pursed her lips. “I suppose not. But Selvan would have been well justified in declaring such a war.”

  Enalyn frowned, but across the table, Eamin’s jaw clenched. Loren wondered if he agreed with her. The Lord Chancellor interjected. “War brings only destruction, girl. No one should wish for that, no matter how justified they feel their cause to be. A ruler’s noblest purpose is the preservation of life whenever possible. All here agree that open war with Dulmun may be inevitable. But we must do all we can to avoid it, while any chance of doing so exists.”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, for I would never think to advise you on matters of which I know little,” said Loren slowly. “But is there nothing to be said for justice? Has the kingdom of Dulmun not wronged the rest of Underrealm, and should they not pay a price for it?”

  The High King leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. The room went suddenly very quiet, and Loren’s throat became as dry as sand.

  “I have spoken out of turn,” she said quietly, ducking Enalyn’s gaze. “Forgive me.”

  “No, this should be addressed,” said Enalyn. “After all, you are now an agent of a king, and therefore you ought to know the way a king’s mind works. Tell me, Loren: how many people have you killed?”

  “None, Your Majesty,” said Loren at once. And then she felt a pang of shame as she remembered my father. “Or, one, but it was not my intent to do so. I only tried to defend my life and the life of … of another.” She risked a glance at Xain, who met her gaze solemnly.