Lord Loxlin Series [1930s Fantasy]

Alexandra's words hit Sean hard. He faltered and took a step back. You could tell something similar was going on inside him, and whatever logic told him, his heart wasn't in working with the Kinkaids.

A glance in my direction confirmed it.

There was almost no hatred in it… but so much pain.

I honestly don't know if I could ever set aside a thirst for revenge, not for my grandfather, and work with Simon Feron, if…

No, I can't even imagine Grandfather betraying the clan. Or the kind of hell Sean's son put him through with his choices. His loyalty to the clan was hanging by a thread. Dear gods, we need to protect Sharon more fiercely than any treasure, considering what Feron might be capable of.

"That's enough!" Bryce barked, grabbed the woman by the shoulder and yanked her to her feet. "Donald," he called to Nicholas's first assistant, "escort Alexandra home!"

She opened her mouth to object, but my uncle's grip tightened like a vice. She cried out in pain, and fell silent. That same shoulder was handed off directly into Donald's waiting hand.

Bryce gave the gathering a hard stare, then dismissed everyone with all the authority of a warlord.

I wanted to approach, but he gave me a look that made it clear: not a good idea. I had no choice but to turn and trudge home with the rest.

Simon suggested a trip to the pub, but I imagined the mood brewing in the minds of our clansfolk and shut that down immediately. With the kind of praise Nicholas and Bryce had showered on Kettle, he'd be plied with drinks by every other person, and I'd be the one dragging his carcass home.

No, thank you.

A quiet evening. A cup of tea. A book from Harry's recommended reading. And sleep.

The morning came late, which made it all the more pleasant. When I got up, Simon was already on the back lawn, doing some sort of exercise routine in just a shirt. Nothing complicated: squats, jumps, arm swings and kicks. Only, in his version, everything crackled with electrical discharges and showers of sparks that vanished before touching the ground.

I really should get back to my own training. I've let myself go a bit. But not today. Today I had very different plans, assuming my uncle didn't spring something new.

"I've got a pair of Indian clubs in the storeroom," I said to Simon.

My grandfather used them, and he'd taught me as well. He liked to train in the morning, I preferred evening sessions. The clubs improve coordination and strengthen arms, shoulders, and back. In Farnell, I had a pair I used regularly, three times a week, without fail. I dropped it once the big construction began. Just didn't have the energy for anything else.

"Thanks, but I've got my own routine," Simon declined. "So, what's the plan for today? Maybe your uncle could show me the displacement trick a couple more times."

"I thought you'd mastered it."

"So did I," Simon muttered. "This morning I burned through my reserve twice and still couldn't repeat it."

"I don't think it's possible," I said, trying not to sound too disappointed. "He's already ordered someone to pick a simpler trick for you."

"Maybe you could ask? I'll owe you."

"Your debts usually come back to bite me."

"You exaggerate."

"A little," I admitted.

Besides, my uncle did want to build a good rapport with a talented young prospect, this might be a chance.

"I'll ask. Let's have breakfast, and then I'll head over."

For the first time since we got here, we had a proper bachelor's breakfast. Strangely enough, neither the relatives nor the girls seemed concerned about our nourishment today. So: eggs, bacon, beans, a couple of toasts, and a strong cup of tea with a dash of milk.

"All right, I'll go see my uncle. You go to Sally's. After that, we'll figure out the day. I'm thinking of heading to the Ancient Stones, but you lot don't have to tag along."

To be honest, an earth place of power was even more useless to my friends than the water source had been.

"Raw" water, with some effort, could be used for healing and reinforcing the body, though it was far less effective than blood. Earth, like steel, could be used to strengthen weapons, but after the cold-forging in the Cave of Blades, it was basically redundant.

I didn't barge into the house or the Clanhall. Bryce was probably at work by now, but I decided to make a few calls first, confirm his whereabouts, and offer to speak if needed or lay out my plans over the phone. Uncle told me to come in. Straight to Nicholas, to avoid loitering outside his office.

Unlike with the clan head, queues didn't usually form outside Boily's door, unless by direct order, so he found time for me quickly, rang Bryce, and he came down.

"Do I have an assignment?" I asked.

"No, a conversation," my uncle said, settling by the window. "Do you remember what Alexandra said?"

"She said plenty…"

"The memory of their son…"

'You shame the memory of our son!' — that's how she'd phrased it. But I'd been focused on Sean's reaction, and I'd missed the real meaning behind the words. Alexandra knew their son was dead, and I didn't think it was Sean who'd told her. Looks like we've found our traitor.

"Thought so," Bryce said, watching me. "I see it's clicked."

"Don't go near her," Nicholas warned. "Don't get in our way."

"Stay out of it," my uncle added. "It could be dangerous, for you, and for your friends."

"I was planning a trip to the Stones. The lads won't get much out of it, though. They'll need something to keep them busy. Simon's been having trouble with displacement."

"I'll check in on him tonight," Bryce said. "He's got a different trainer today. Chris is working with Ellie, but I've no idea what to do with Finella. The girl's already armed to the teeth. Maybe a couple of potion vials will pique her interest?"

"Oh, they'll interest her all right, if the goal is just to buy her off."

"She needs something to do," my uncle muttered, then turned to Nicholas. "Maybe we give them some team training? Got any free instructors?"

"Our own take years to train," Nicholas replied. "One session won't do much."

"It doesn't need to. The point is to keep them under supervision," said Bryce. "Send someone with Duncan too."

"Who?" Nicholas groaned. "I've got no one... Hang on, what about Logan?"

"Let the lad sleep!"

What in the world had they put my brother through that he now needed to sleep it off?

"There's literally no one else! Unless we throw together a big squad of underpowered grunts." Nicholas turned to me. "Is secrecy important?"

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"Not really," I shrugged. "Everyone already knows I'm trying to open the source."

"Knowing you're trying is one thing," Bryce said. "If you succeed — that's different. I think I know who to ask."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, only his brows, silently asking the question.

"We'll rope in your cousin," Bryce said.

I assumed he meant Lisa Logg, who took over from the Kinks as the clan's chief of intelligence. That post had a high turnover rate, the department was made up mostly of non-gifted women and dealt mostly in rumours. Truth be told, tracking and scouting in the clan was something everyone did to some extent. Until recently, it had been assumed the clan had no real enemies left, and thus, no real targets for recon.

The department still existed more out of habit than need. Still, a couple of solid fighters were always attached to it.

"She definitely won't have anyone free right now," Nicholas said. "Not since the whole werewolf clan came to light."

"What about the old-timers?" I asked. Since we were talking recon, I thought of old Patrick Kink, who'd run the department during its heyday. "What about old man Kink? He's a Shifter, still strong."

"But no good in a fight anymore."

"He'd spot danger a mile off. And the Stones are the closest place of power to home. All we need is a signal, and half the neighbourhood would come running."

"Logical," my uncle said. "I'll ask."

That's the thing, he would ask. Sure, as clan head, he could order it. But around here, age and wisdom come with respect, and the elders are treated accordingly.

The old man didn't refuse. On the contrary, he was glad to be of use, and chatted the whole way about how he, Grandfather Gregor, and the other lads used to walk these trails in their youth. His well-developed spiritual heart let him keep a steady pace, slightly slower than I was used to, but perfectly manageable, and his eagle spirit could spot the smallest movement behind the ash trees.

As the soil beneath our feet grew poorer, the ash and maple gave way to beech and birch. Soon after, the path began climbing up a slope hidden beneath the trees. The first pines appeared, along with moss-covered rocks.

With every step, the deciduous trees thinned, and the ground beneath us was covered more and more with dry needles. The slope evened out, and now it was the pines that began to thin. Mossy stones gave way to large bald boulders. I began watching them carefully, looking for any that might move.

The stone elementals born of this place's magic were rarely clever, but they were certainly strong, and capable of causing a proper mess. Living stones were valuable, of course, some specimens held up to a dozen rare ingredients, but taking them down was a hassle.

For me, it meant accurate shooting with armour-piercing rounds until the stone split in half. Although... maybe I could adapt the spell for destroying ethereal entities. It should work, but that was the sort of thing I ought to be thinking about back home.

Right now, I had a very different task.

The old man and I reached the centre of the clearing, where no stones grew. At the very heart of the power, the ground was solid rock, and on top of it lay other stones, and on top of them, prepared reservoir stones made of semi-precious minerals. Leaving them directly on the ground was dangerous, the source had a habit of not just birthing boulders, but consuming anything that accumulated magic.

The scattered minerals shimmered in the sunlight like treasure from a fairytale. Without ceremony, we gathered them into canvas satchel, cleared the clearing of any stones not yet grown into it...

And now, the place of power looked just as it had on the day of Grandfather's funeral, both before and after it took his body. As if sensing the bitter pang of loss stirring in me, Kink placed his wrinkled hand on my shoulder.

"Greetings, brothers," the old man said. "Greetings, sisters." His voice held no less sorrow than I felt inside. Over the course of a long life, the Ancient Stones had accepted more than one person dear to him.

"Greetings, ancestors. Grandfather," I said, and bowed deeply. Then I took off my rucksack and pulled out a bottle of whisky. I popped the cork, took a few steps forward, and turned it over until there was just a single sip left. I offered the rest to the old man.

"And you?" he asked.

"I can't."

Kink took the bottle, drank the rest, and whispered:

"Bremor."

"Bremor," I repeated, giving the word a touch of power. "Our blood, our flesh, our spirit."

The whisky pooled on the stone, then rippled, vanished, evaporated, absorbed without a trace. Moments later, the stone was just as dry as it had been when we arrived.

My heart twinged with a quiet ache. Not exactly the mindset I needed right now.

I turned to the old man — he nodded silently, then climbed up onto the nearest boulder to get a better view.

I needed to clear my mind and heart. Prepare.

I set aside my rifle, rucksack, and satchel, keeping only an earth unity potion on me. I spread out a blanket, sat down, and closed my eyes.

Empty the mind.

I could never drive thoughts away entirely, but I could concentrate.

Inhale — exhale. Inhale — exhale.

Soon, the entire world shrank down to that one, simple, repeated action.

I was ready.

I didn't stop breathing, I simply shifted the focus to my lower abdomen, feeling how, with each breath in, magic entered the body and filled the waiting energy node.

Lightning was sharp. Metal felt solid, heavy, and reliable. Earth was similar, not as heavy, not as hard, but far more grounded. As if it were the foundation that held up life itself.

Strange...

Was that the magic of earth itself, or the influence of the place? My lower abdomen didn't feel weighed down the way it had with steel. The solidity wasn't absolute, but it felt… familiar.

Inhale — and the source filled by a quarter.

Exhale — but magic kept coming anyway.

Inhale, exhale, inhale... The source brimmed to the top, overflowing. Earth magic spread through my body.

I felt like part of something incomparably greater, something beyond understanding, like I was part of a stone monolith, a brick in a vast fortress wall suspended on the edge of time and space.

It brought certainty. Peace.

Then a thought flitted across the edge of my mind, am I a little too at peace? Wouldn't put it past the Stones to mistake me for a valuable mineral. Or a corpse...

I slowly opened my eyes, carefully, so as not to break the delicate bond, and looked around. The place of power didn't seem eager to absorb me just yet.

I unstoppered the vial.

The potion was bitter, like strong black coffee with no sugar. I hate coffee. But the bitterness passed quickly, replaced by the raw flow of magic down my throat, sinking into my gut, pooling in the source.

Surprisingly, there was still room for it. And not just for that. The magic in the source thickened, condensed, and the energy node, which had always felt like an empty vessel, suddenly shuddered and cracked.

The liquid magic from the potion grew heavier, and the bottom of the source, once solid, now felt like a thin sheet of newspaper. And in the real world, paper doesn't beat rock.

The magic tore through the bottom of the source and plummeted into a bottomless void.

Pain exploded through me. Sweat broke instantly across my forehead. That feeling of unity I'd held a moment ago became crushing, pressing in from all sides.

I was no longer a small, solid brick. I was a crumpled paper ball, trying to bear the weight of the entire wall.

My limbs turned to cotton. I collapsed onto the stony ground, and to my horror, realised I was sinking.

Old Kink stood on his boulder, hesitant to intervene, not wanting to disrupt a sacred ritual. But I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. The cold stone beneath me slowly took on the shape of my body. I felt my cheek merge with the earth, my hands begin to sink.

Finally, old Patrick must have decided that waiting was no longer worth the risk. He jumped down from his boulder.

Just a few steps away from me, he was forced to stop, his old boots sinking into the stone as if it were a bog.

I was already half gone: my left arm and leg had vanished completely, and half my face, including my left eye, had sunk beneath the surface. I could only see the world with my right eye.

But that wasn't the worst part. The stone had reached my nose.

A little further, and I wouldn't be able to breathe.

The old man took another desperate step, plunging his boot nearly to the ankle, and thrust the rifle barrel toward me. He didn't seem affected by the pressure, but I couldn't even twitch a finger.

I tried to push the magic away, then tried letting it flow through me.

Nothing worked.

Kink shoved the barrel right under my right hand, and with some previously unknown, titanic effort, I closed my fingers.

The old man pulled. Slowly, he began to draw out my arm. But lacking a foothold, he wobbled, and gave an unintentional tug that was too sharp.

My hand slipped off the barrel. My head turned. My nose plunged into the stone. And then only my right eye remained, staring at the rapidly fading patch of light on the horizon.

Bloody hell, I should've asked Ellie out sooner.

What the hell kind of thought is that?

The clan's on the brink of war!

Logan. Sally. Cousins, uncles and aunts. Friends… I hope my guests at least get left alone. Why would they matter to the enemy, without me?

Go back to Farnell. And Harry — he'll do fine with just one student. He'd never get himself into this mess.

I should've studied harder.

My lungs began to burn. In a desperate attempt to breathe, I inhaled, through my nose, stone. Liquid stone.

I'd practically said my goodbyes. Ready to join Grandfather.

I missed the old man.

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed me by the collar and yanked me out of the quickstone. I gasped for air, gulping it in through my mouth. That same hand apparently delivered a good solid clout to the back of my head, which dislodged a stone plug from my right nostril, and I sprawled across the hard stone surface.

"Duncan, you alive?" asked old Kink.

"Yeah," I croaked. "Thanks for pulling me out."

"I'd be glad to, if someone had pulled me out!"

I blinked the world back into focus and turned around.

Grandfather Patrick was standing two steps behind me, completely stuck in stone up to mid-ankle. There was no way he could've hauled me out of anything.

"Then who?" I asked, recalling just how many times I'd caught a cuff like that from my grandfather.

"You just got spat back out," Kink said. "Landed on the surface. Help me out, will you?"

"Of course," I said, snapping back to my senses.

The stone-softening spell was fairly simple, and didn't even need external power in a place like this. I scratched a quick pattern into the rock by the old man's feet, and a few seconds later, he pulled his boots free from the stone mire on his own.

As for me, the stone in my left nostril was very much still stuck, and I wasn't about to try digging it out myself. Judging by the feeling, it went all the way up into my brain. On top of that, grey blotches had appeared on my skin, patches that had hardened, almost like a reinforcement spell gone wrong.

Looked like I'd ended up with magic poisoning after all. Hopefully the damage was only superficial. I didn't feel anything seriously wrong inside.

Well… except the bottom of my source was still missing.