Spells of Undeath Read online

  Spells of Undeath

  A Cavan Oltblood Novel

  Stefon Mears

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

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  About the Author

  Also by Stefon Mears

  1

  Once more, Cavan Oltblood found himself running half-naked through the chilly midnight streets of a small town, pursued by armed men with violence in mind.

  This time, the town was Drien, and the streets were not mere dirt, but irregular cobblestones drawn from the nearby river.

  Unfortunately, that just meant that Cavan’s calf-high leather boots made more noise. Another small thing, working against his escape.

  Just like the beautiful full moon in the cloudless sky above. Only a few hours ago, during the harvest festival, that moon had been romantic. Mood-setting, even. Brought him apple-and-honey kisses that led to yet more sweetness.

  Now, all that moonlight just made Cavan easier to spot.

  Well, if he had to run through midnight streets again, at least this time he was wearing pants.

  He was even pretty sure he had all his belongings, hurriedly wrapped in his gray cloak, once the shouting had started from downstairs.

  At the very least, Cavan knew for a fact he had his sword, his armor, his pouch of spells and his pouch of coins.

  If he’d lost his good red tunic, well, the world wouldn’t end.

  Cavan lowered his head for a burst of speed, and took a tight corner to try to put some distance between himself and those men-at-arms.

  Alas, the buildings of this town were inconveniently far apart, when it came to fleeing from pursuit. Didn’t these people ever worry about invading armies?

  The buildings themselves were no help either. All wooden construction — pine, from the nearby forest — and not nearly enough two and three-story buildings that would cast longer shadows.

  Not that shadows would have helped much. Not close as those pursuers were.

  Cavan could hear the men-at-arms no more than a street or so behind him. Their shouts, their pounding boots. He could even glimpse the light of their torches, if he dared to look back once more.

  No point in that, though. Any more than Cavan saw a point in trying to figure out where all those men-at-arms had come from, who they worked for, or how they had found him so quickly.

  For that matter, Cavan wasn’t even sure why they were after him.

  Reesa, the young lady who had been so eager to share her charms with Cavan, had most definitely not been married, nor promised to anyone. She’d assured him twice.

  Also, Cavan had checked around, subtly. Gotten confirmation over the course of the evening from a couple of serving girls who knew Reesa.

  This wasn’t Myrapek, after all, where what some places called “infidelity,” the Myrese called “a bit of harmless fun.”

  Cavan hadn’t even broken any laws in Drien. Not that he knew of, at least.

  And Ehren had run down a pretty long list of the local ordinances during their ride into town. Ehren had made especially clear that, in Drien, only the town wizard could cast spells without both a local residence and a separate permit for each spell.

  In fact, that warning was the entire reason that Cavan didn’t use any of the rain barrels he passed to conjure a mist that would hide his escape. Not to mention give him time to finish getting dressed.

  No. No spells. He had trouble enough right now without breaking the law.

  So Cavan had to choose between running and fighting at least a half-dozen armed men. Them with rings of mail sewn into leather jerkins that hung all the way to their knees, while Cavan’s sleeved hauberk and leggings of magnificent licha were wrapped in his cloak, where they would do him no good at all in a fight.

  Could he have beaten those men-at-arms anyway? Quite possibly. This was a small town, in the equally small kingdom of Oinos. Not likely to produce the level of opposition Cavan had grown used to in his travels.

  But Cavan wasn’t likely to defeat those men-at-arms without killing at least some of them. And despite Ehren’s accusations that Cavan was getting more and more like Amra, he really did try not to kill anyone he didn’t have to.

  So Cavan lowered his head again, and put on another burst of speed, cutting around the next corner, to the left, and hoping that the covered cart at that corner would provide cover.

  Not just a simple sheet of roughspun stretched across an open, flat cart, but multiple sheets sewn together over a framework that look tall enough that even Cavan might have been able to stand up on that cart.

  By all rights, it should have been more than enough to hide his escape.

  But Cavan’s luck never quite worked that way.

  He rounded the corner and was immediately grabbed by strong hands.

  His back was slammed against a rough wooden wall before he even saw who grabbed him.

  Amra. Of course.

  More than a head shorter than Cavan. Clad in the tight black leathers that showed off her curves as well as protected them. Her wyrding greatsword slung over her shoulder. Her quirking smile, amused at Cavan’s plight.

  Tanned skin, curly black hair, green-and-gold eyes … and lethal skills and tendencies. That was Amra.

  “Unbelievable.” That was spoken by Qalas, with his dark black southern skin and his rare, dark blue eyes. He still wore his old studded leather armor, but his tight black curls had grown longer since he quit his service to the Duke of Nolarr. And Qalas had begun growing a beard since they’d started north.

  Qalas held his halberd in one hand, and with the other he tossed a pouch into the air for Amra to catch. “How could you possibly have known?”

  “I warned you,” Ehren’s voice, Cavan could hear the smile, as well as the baritone he knew so well. “Never bet against Amra. She only bets when she’s sure she’s right.”

  “Which is always,” Amra said, hefting the pouch of coins with evident pleasure.

  “In military matters, perhaps,” Ehren said, and now Cavan saw the smiling priest over to his right, leaning against the wall beside the cart. As always, Ehren’s pale skin, long sun-blond hair, and white clothing were spotless, all the way down to his doeskin boots. A mark of favor from his deity, the sun goddess Zatafa.

  Ehren gestured with his smooth, goldenwood staff. “However—”

  “Where are the horses?” Cavan interrupted as he hustled for the rest of his clothing. And more importantly, his armor.

  The licha armor, shades of tan and red, forged from deepsand and steel by a dune elf smith into material so smooth it might have been woven. Lighter than the cloth of Cavan’s clothing, but stronger than an anvil.

  And it did look good over his lean muscles and swarthy skin.

  The tunic wasn’t there. Oh, well. He might lose some arm and chest hair to the armor then.

  “Where else would the horses be? At the inn,” Amra said, blinking innocently. “We’re not leaving until Caramel is reshod, and that won’t be before morning.”

  “Besides,” Ehren added, “you know I don’t like starting a ride without the glory of Zatafa on the rise.”

  Cavan was still trying to decide on his rejoinder when the men-at-arms rounded the corner.

  The full moon almost directly overhead. Hardly a cloud in the midnight sky, though a large crowd of stars kept watch. The smell of smoke from harvest festival fires still on the breeze.

  Cavan, finishing buckling on his sword belt, with his licha armor properly b
ack between himself and harm. His loose-woven gray cloak already draped over his shoulders, and fixed into place with its clasp, done in the county seal of Juno: the blue mountain was carved from actual crystal mined from the Ice Dagger, the mightiest peak of the Blue Mountain range. The rest of the clasp was gold.

  He at least felt presentable when the men-at-arms rounded the corner.

  Ehren remained where he was, leaning casually against the wall of … whatever building that was. No door on this side, but with that covered cart at the corner, Cavan was betting on a shop or a tavern.

  No. Had to be a shop. Cavan couldn’t imagine a tavern dead enough that he wouldn’t hear some kind of raucous noise, with the streets this quiet. At least that meant the men-at-arms weren’t likely to have supporters come out at the first sound of clashing steel.

  Qalas only shifted his grip on his halberd. Kept its steel-wrapped butt on the cobblestones, and its axe and spike threatening no one, but Cavan recognized the grip. Qalas would be able to strike just as quickly from that pose as he would if he’d been holding it aloft.

  Amra took nothing like a combat stance at all. She just smiled as she made a show of counting the men-at-arms as they spread out across the wide street.

  Cavan was at least pleased to see more than half of them sweating and panting for breath.

  “A dozen? That’s all? And they only have maces. Not even flanged maces.” Amra turned to Cavan, a sour expression on her face. “I expect better from you, Cavan. Even if they’re any good, which I doubt, there are hardly enough of them for a satisfying fight. Unless … maybe … if you and Qalas want to stand aside and watch?”

  Ehren cleared his throat and took a step forward, adjusting the soft leather backpack he kept with him always.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Ehren began.

  He didn’t get to finish.

  One of the men-at-arms, the oldest and evidently the leader, blew three sharp blasts on a hunting whistle.

  “Hisst,” Amra said, hands raised to hush him. “You’ll draw the watch and spoil our fun.”

  The man with the whistle stared at Amra as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “We are the town watch,” he said. He slapped his upper left shoulder, where something was in fact sewn over the rings and leather.

  Now that Cavan looked at the patches, he could see that they did look like the Drien seal. Pale green squares checked by pale blue. A couple of the men-at-arms, or rather, the watchmen, lowered their torches to show off their badges.

  Sure enough, every one of the dozen had that seal.

  “Cavan,” Ehren started, in that irritated tone Cavan had brought out of his friend all too many times over the years.

  Cavan didn’t let him finish.

  “I didn’t cast a thing! I haven’t broken any laws since I came to town. I swear.”

  Hoofbeats. Cavan could hear them, even as he tried to demand the watch sergeant tell him what was going on.

  At least three or four horses, approaching at speed.

  The watch sergeant just gave Cavan a grim look for an answer, and shook his head.

  Amra sighed and looked at Ehren. “You’re going to get pissy if I kill them, aren’t you?”

  “What is this about?” Ehren said, stepping between the watchmen and Cavan. And between the watchmen and Amra, for that matter. “If Cavan says he’s broken no laws, then he hasn’t.”

  “Nice to be so sure,” the sergeant of the watch said. He smiled at something farther along the street. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Cavan glanced back and saw more watchmen at the other end of the street. At least twice as many at that end.

  He and his friends were well and truly penned in now.

  “Better,” Amra said, nodding, after she saw the approaching guards. “Now we may not have to try very hard, but at least we’ll all get to play.”

  “Ehren,” Cavan muttered, “if I’m going to be falsely accused, I’m going to start casting.”

  “Peace,” Ehren said, jaw set and strain in his features, and yet his small smile still in place. But before he could say anything more, those horses arrived.

  An older, aristocratic man in fine clothes rode the lead horse. His dark blond hair was going white, but he looked to have strength in his limbs to swing the longsword he wore at his side.

  More watchmen on horses with him. A half-dozen. And these had lances in their hands, and crossbows strapped to their saddles.

  “I’m so sorry about this, Cavan,” called a voice Cavan had gotten to know quite well over the last several hours.

  A high, clear voice that sounded lovely when singing, and even lovelier when engaged in … other activities.

  Craning a bit, Cavan could see her seated on the horse behind the older man. The pale blue dress she wore now had a far more conservative cut than the gown she’d worn to the harvest festival, though she still made it look fetching. Might have helped that her long, honey blond hair hung wild about her shoulders.

  “Reesa,” Cavan said, “you swore you weren’t married or promised.”

  She gave an apologetic shrug. At least the look in her eye suggested that she had an explanation, if Cavan ever got to hear it.

  That was something, at least, Cavan supposed.

  “You are Cavan Oltblood,” the aristocratic man said, but not like it was a question. “Bastard son of King Draven of Oltoss, and future Count of Juno.”

  Reesa’s eyes and mouth widened in shock, so at least she hadn’t known Cavan was anything more than a wanderer in search of adventure.

  So how did this old man know so much?

  “And you are…” Cavan said, which got him a dirty look from Ehren and a snicker from Amra, her green-and-gold eyes dancing in the torchlight. Qalas just kept his eyes on the watch.

  “Draig, fourth son of Baron Essell, and heir to his barony, as well as Speaker for the Council of Drien.”

  “You couldn’t find a willing tavern wench?” Qalas muttered. “Farmer’s daughter, perhaps?”

  “It seems my daughter has misled you,” Draig continued. “She is, in fact, as of this very morning, promised to the first son and heir to the county of Vulyys.” Draig spared his daughter a dark look. “A betrothal spoiled by her activities tonight, unless I take swift action.”

  “I never agreed to that match,” Reesa said, matching her father’s dark tone admirably. “And it wasn’t due to be revealed publicly before morning. So—”

  “So you seem to have chosen a match for yourself.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say. Father, if you’d listen—”

  Draig silenced her with a gesture and turned a malevolent smile on Cavan. “Well done, my daughter. A future count, and potential future king.”

  “Hardly,” Cavan said, unable to stop himself. “Even if my half-brothers and sisters all died, there’s no way the—”

  “So you don’t object to the marriage part?” Amra said, laughing. “This Reesa must be something else between the—”

  “Cavan Oltblood,” Draig said, his tone formal. “Will you marry my daughter under the first rays of Zatafa? Or shall I conclude that the Kingdom of Oltoss is interfering in politics here in the Kingdom of Oinos, and have you arrested for espionage?”

  False accusations by moonlight. Yes, that sounded like Cavan’s luck.

  A dozen members of the town watch at the near side of the street. All with maces in their hands, if not actively menacing, though at least they looked winded from chasing Cavan through the streets.

  Twice that many watchmen at the other end of the street. Moving slowly closer.

  Plus, this Draig, Speaker for the Council of Drien, had another six watchmen on horseback beside him. All with lances ready. Not to mention crossbows strapped to their saddles.

  The lingering hints of smoke in the air made Cavan wonder if they had a pyre waiting for him. He recognized that thought, though, as the darkness of the moment. That smoke remained from the harvest festival bonf
ires.

  At least Reesa, pretty Reesa, looked to be innocent, and not trying to set him up for this accusation of espionage.

  “Quite a stretch,” Qalas said, hefting his halberd. “Two people meet at a festival, and you call it espionage?”

  “Trumped up charges and a rigged trial?” Amra drew her two-handed sword with its mysterious dark blade, harder than steel. “You’ll forgive us if we resist.”

  The assembled guards all readied their weapons.

  Cavan reached for his pouch of spells.

  “Wait!” Ehren cried out, raising both hands to hold his goldenwood staff high.

  It seemed for a moment as though Ehren stood in a shaft of pure sunlight, despite the hour.

  But he had everyone’s attention.

  “You say you revere Zatafa,” Ehren said, directing his words to Draig. “Well I am her priest, and you may judge my standing by my clothing.”

  Ehren turned in place once, slowly.

  A few of the guards whistled admiration at the way Ehren’s crisp, white clothes bore not a single mote of dust.

  “Very well,” Draig said. “You can only be the priest known as Ehren. Companion of Cavan’s, but clearly you have Zatafa’s favor. Speak your piece.”

  “I wish only to ask a question, and hear it answered.” He looked past Draig. “Reesa, what is it you want?”

  “I think we all know what she—” Amra started but Cavan elbowed her in the stomach. She didn’t lose that grin though.

  Reesa jumped down from the horse. A smooth, agile movement that told Cavan she had more than a little experience on horseback.

  “Reesa,” Draig began, but Ehren waved him to silence. Draig bristled, but his own town watch muttered objections, and respect for the priest.

  Draig swallowed his irritation.

  “Reesa,” Ehren said again, and Cavan knew the penetrating stare of Ehren’s clear blue eyes all too well. He could only imagine what Reesa must be experiencing, facing it for the first time.