The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner: The Complete Duology
Thomas Lombard
The Chronicles
of Nevin Reasoner
Books I and II
Thomas Lombard
Copyright © 2018 by Thomas Lombard
ISBN: 978-0-9891663-4-8
Cover design by Tatiana Vila
Finally, For Aria
Alliance
for Antrim
The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner:
Book 1
By Thomas Lombard
Copyright © 2013 by Thomas Lombard
Ebook formatting by Jesse Gordon
License Notes
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
Cover Illustrations by T. J. Lombard
ISBN #978-0-9891663-0-0
Submit inquiries and comments at [email protected]
To Cathy
For 22 years of everlasting support
and patience to see this publication
Alliance for Antrim Index
Chapter 1: Anson
Chapter 2: Close call
Chapter 3: Attack
Chapter 4: Deliverance
Chapter 5: Nevin
Chapter 6: Delusion
Chapter 7: Demonstrations
Chapter 8: New magic
Chapter 9: Hiroshima in Pictures
Chapter 10: Bartram
Chapter 11: Mindpower
Chapter 12: Orris
Chapter 13: Night visitor
Chapter 14: Zael
Chapter 15: Sartel
Chapter 16: Bar fight
Chapter 17: Lucan
Chapter 18: Corissa
Chapter 19: Alliance plus one
Chapter 1
Anson
It was unusual for a farmer to suffer an injury from a mishap with a sword. Odder still, Anson was asked to come after dark, well past the usual bedtime for farm folks.
Lona, the farmer’s wife, looked on with great concern.
“Please cast a spell, young master, and deliver my poor man from misery. He wants to get back to his fields in the morning. ”
Local folks had little patience for herbal or physical treatments. Most thought a mage had spells for all purposes that would heal anything from warts to rigor mortis. While there were occasional rumors of high ones who might have such talents, the people of Huxley would have to expect less from Anson. There was no magic to heal a laceration like this overnight.
Not only did naive requests for spellwork make him uncomfortable, lately it seemed no one wanted it known that his services were needed. This change was nothing personal towards him; it was just that people did not want their woes to attract attention. Those who appeared vulnerable had more to fear these days, even from their neighbors.
Anson understood that the residents of this village, like most common folk throughout the kingdom of Antrim, could give in to superstitious thinking. For this, and other reasons, he deliberately avoided using spells in their presence. Despite his youth, Anson was true to his training and always secretive about spellcasting. He never discussed the art with anyone except another mage or apprentice, and he kept completely secret why he left his last apprenticeship before it was completed. Besides, the injury suffered by this poor farmer should respond well to the proper mundane treatments without the need for spellwork.
Anson knelt by the cot but the injured man faced away toward the wall, using his left hand to cover his eyes. While the mage examined the lacerated leg, there would be no conversation with this man. Anson carefully washed the cut, using the basin and clean cloth Lona provided. He shook some small dried leaves from a leather pouch onto his palm, added a few drops of water, and mulled the mixture with a smooth stone; he gently pasted the mixture on the wound and tied a dressing. Once it began leeching into the cut, the farmer muffled a grunt over the pain and pulled away his throbbing leg.
Lona watched over Anson’s shoulder. The look on her face still conveyed a plea for magery to help her husband, but Anson would not mislead her about that. Spellwork could not restore physical injuries. His effectiveness as a healer was due to his knowledge of herb lore and the proper dosages and applications of medicinal powders, plus bits of common sense. The proper treatment for the nasty gash on this man’s leg is a week of rest and clean dressings. Anson stepped away from the cot and quietly cautioned Lona. “I’m sorry, Mistress, but there is no spell to heal a leg cut like this. I used nettle leaves to pucker the edges of the cut, but take care that these leaves do not remain on the wound for long or it will scald his skin. You know how much pain he feels already, even though he tries not to show it. But most important, you must make certain that he stays out of his fields for a full seven days.”
Nettle plants had analgesic properties but would leave an unpleasant burn if left on too long. Anson’s willingness to share this knowledge was one of the traits that distinguished him from the few other mages known by name in this kingdom, all of whom were typically closemouthed about herb lore as well as spellwork. It pleased Anson when local folks called him to their homes to apply his skills, even for late night duty, and his faithful services were usually appreciated.
The farmer with the injured leg, a stout man named Drexel, still grimaced and said nothing as he lay on his cot. Like most folks of this area, he had coarse brown hair cropped short with brown eyes and was well muscled from physical labor. His winter complexion was beginning to tan from the early spring days in the fields. Folks in Huxley were typically genteel and usually imperturbable, though Drexel liked to display a gruff facade. Flexing his leg to test the treatment of his wound, he tossed a little on the cot but still refused to speak directly to Anson. This movement caught the mage’s attention and brought a slight knowing smile, so Anson raised his voice to allow the farmer to hear there was no gratuity expected, verbal or otherwise. He knew Drexel would complain later that the village needed an older, more experienced mage who knew more spells and could have cured his leg without the folly of seven days of idleness. That would be a foolish complaint, since these days there was no other mage, old or otherwise, who would be willing to treat common aches and pains. In fact, most of the people of Huxley had not seen a mage in person until Anson took up residence a few years earlier.
Fortunately for the farmer, Lona listened closely to Anson’s instructions and would follow them. She realized the mage placed himself in jeopardy to come to their homes, but more than that, she trusted him. Last year her second son had been ill with a high fever and she summoned Anson. Despite her son’s deathly pallor, Anson did not use spells on that occasion either because he insisted that red elm tea was the needed treatment. She recalled how Anson became frantic when her son would not drink the unpleasant tasting tea, and how, without explanation, Anson bolted from their cottage. At first, she thought he had abandoned them but he returned later, out of breath from a long run after picking fresh red raspberry leaves. He used these leaves to make the medicinal tea more pleasant, so the boy drank it more willingly and his fever reduced. Anson saw to it that Lona had a sufficient supply of raspberry leaves with red elm as her son fully recovered. Now that her husband had sliced his leg, she did not hesitate to send for Anson, though she waited for the late hour. She had confidence this mage knew what was best for them. She nodded when he asked if she could make a poultice.
“Oh, my Jonny is faring well now, growing strong. And he is the equal of his father in the fields.” She was obviously pleased to report her son’s recovery. “He has no ill effects from his fever, thanks to you. But he has turned fourteen and we are afraid the King’s army will take him. They are taking such young boys now. So many men died from the fighting, and now they have gone to taking the boys as well. We have already lost one of our sons as you know, and I had a daughter widowed last year before she reached her eighteenth year.”
Lona gently pulled Anson away from the cot so her husband would not overhear. She cupped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “With so few men left, my girl fears she will never bear a child of her own. She even talked to me in private about sharing a husband with another young widow.”
That was a delicate secret. He gave Lona’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. Until recently, she was a plump but energetic woman, prone to talk about her children endlessly. Now, her face was haggard from worry as much as an emptier larder. The brown shift she wore looked oversized and had to sash it at the waist. It had a brown vest-like bodice with modest yellow swirls embroidered down each side of the front; women’s clothing often had some colorful embellishments, but anything more garish would be overmuch for local custom. When she noticed her husband propped up on an elbow to see them whispering, she took a step towards the cot and spoke slightly louder to discourage the appearance of gossiping. “It will make my Drexel all the more ornery if they take our boy before the spring planting is done.” Drexel snorted at her remark and tossed again on the cot. She wrinkled her face in annoyance, but the set of her chin showed her resolve to keep her husband abed despite his expected protests.
Lona looked again at Anson, her expression changing in the privacy of their gaze. She was troubled from all sides by her son’s possible impressment in the army, her daughter’s odd notion of sharing a husband, the falling farm production, and now her husband’s injury—all stemming from a ubiquitous threat that disrupted their lives. For now, her husband’s needs had to trump other concerns.
Anson gently guided her over to the open doorway, beckoning her to speak freely. She moved a step closer and whispered, knowing the tribulation ahead if her husband was going to suffer further. “Umm…Sir…Won’t the pepper in the poultice sting the open cut? When no one but me is around, my Drexel does not stand up to pain the quiet way he lays now.”
Anson grinned outright, appreciating her prediction and silently thanking her for not calling him “Lad” or something else youthful. “If we used black pepper he would indeed find his voice, Lona, but use only the red. It is a capsicum, and they will tingle at first but not sting too badly. If you leave it out of the poultice, the healing time will be much longer and more painful throughout.” Anson took a step away and spoke louder so Drexel would hear, “Now listen further, Lona. At the end of the day when you remove the old poultice, keep the wound clean by washing it with fresh well water. Do not use creek water. If the wound begins to fester, you must call me without delay. Drexel could lose his leg if we do not care for it properly.” Anson saw her nod with acceptance. He added with a sly grin, “...and a one-legged farmer wouldn’t grow much grain to share with the King.”
Anson gave Lona a reassuring touch on the arm, then looked back to catch Drexel’s eye. Straight-faced, the mage said, “Although, my good farmer, if you were to lose that leg you would get more use out of a pair of boots.” With that, Anson left just ahead of the thump made from a boot glancing off the door, followed by a yelp of pain.
Chapter 2
Close call
Anson left the cottage and walked toward the village center, his smile fading over the foolishness of Drexel’s injury. While doing fieldwork the man cut himself from the ungainliness of wearing a rusty old sword. It was a shame farmers had to bear arms while they worked their fields.
These days Huxley residents were constantly vigilant for an attack or marauding of some kind. Although this village was several leagues from the border with the kingdom of Gilsum, lately there were rumors that Gilsum troops were looting towns and killing civilians instead of clashing directly with the Antrim army, a tactic much different from how wars were traditionally fought. Anson preferred to ignore the activities of war, but he knew that soldiers tended toward ritualized skirmishes where relatively few combatants were actually killed. Apparently, war was not so civilized any more. The armies of Antrim and Gilsum now fought more aggressively, seeking advantage by inflicting harm on civilians through sneak attacks. Farmers around Huxley started carrying weapons and posting lookouts, all of which distracted them from farming and reduced their productivity.
Tired from the lateness of the hour, he ambled slowly toward his small dwellinghouse at the far edge of town. An evening shower left the streets puddled, producing the dual effect of cleansing the land and charging the night air with the stimulating odors of early spring that soothed his thoughts. Spring was the freshest of the seasons, especially in this southwestern region of Antrim. Anson loved this time of year for the aromatic flora growing everywhere in surrounding fields and brakes; cracks and niches everywhere around the village had blooming growth of some kind. Flowers, herbs and grasses produced a blend of fragrances invigorating to his senses. Even the most rundown of houses had flower boxes in windows and yard spaces where decorative perennial plants reliably returned. The rich, black dirt of the fields, recently tilled, inspired a feeling of renewal. Anson paused and breathed deeply to enjoy these sensations, but it was not enough to settle his mind.
This year the attractions of the spring season were not enough to ward off anxieties spawned by the accumulating ravages of war and portent of worse to come. War’s insidious affects on the people of Huxley and other villages in Antrim were far from subtle. Mounting loss of life and property negated the hardiness and industry of its people. Rising fear and anxiety made people prone to impulsive acts and irrational thinking. Many of the local men and women had become sullen and peevish, like Drexel. Unfriendliness toward outsiders was fast developing into alienation as families kept more to themselves, jealously hoarding their staples and straining bonds of friendship that had existed over generations. Petty thievery started happening, something that seldom occurred except for the occasional impetuous youth.
Other changes unsettled the people of Huxley. Nearly every household had lost someone to the war. Marriage age turned younger with unhappy results for adolescents too immature for the responsibilities. Widows were numerous and most were very young, too young to have enjoyed the bliss of a mature marital partnership. In their desperation for a family life, some widows, like Lona’s daughter, were considering polygamy. If that started happening, it would create a rift between the generations that would further disrupt their community. Older folks were already uneasy about the low birthrate and some lamented to Anson about it, seeking a potion or talisman that would somehow increase or even prolong their own fertility. When he tried to explain that such devices were unreliable and only proffered by charlatans who took advantage of gullible patrons, Anson could expect to be chided for not using his skills for the good of the villagers. Life was changing and out of control. Dwindling numbers of noisy children made the eldest villagers fear the loss of their family lines; some of the eldest became melancholy, anticipating their own deaths without the comfort of progeny. Even more disturbing was the outbreak of thievery from brigands appearing in some towns. For the first time in anyone’s memory, desperate men preyed upon members of their own
communities for subsistence.
Anson walked the quiet, darkened streets of Huxley feeling discouraged at his own rising anxiety, so he tried again to change his thoughts to more pleasant things. He needed to replenish his supplies of herbs and powders, so in another week or so he should make an excursion to one of the deep forests rife with new plant growth. This year he should venture a bit farther to the north, perhaps even go as far as the northwestern woodlands rarely visited by common folks. There were rumors that elves lived in those lands. Though he had never actually met any elves, the prospect of meeting one was a pleasant thought.
A lack of breeze made for a quiet interlude this night. Natural sounds included the usual night birds and a soughing breeze rustling new leaves. The only unnatural sound at this late hour was the padding of Anson’s footsteps as his soft leather boots scuffed through damp ground. There were no lights in any houses or buildings and the absence of moonlight made it so dark that strangers would have trouble finding their way through the narrow village streets. Anson passed close to many huts and cottages but as usual, it failed to excite any of the village dogs. It always surprised him that none ever barked when he made his way through the streets at night. All his life animals usually responded politely to him, but he was never too curious about it. A mentor once told him he had an unusual “close touch” with living things.
As he passed the halfway point home, Anson recollected his decision to live openly and not in secret quarters like other mages. He had no regrets. It had been two years since he took up residence in Huxley. Prior to that, he had spent most of his life serving apprenticeships with older mages, all in isolated locations throughout the southern half of the kingdom of Antrim. Despite his youth, he was properly skilled in magery. There were at least twenty spells he could reliably cast, most of them with a single iteration. He was also beginning to teach himself some reversals, a tricky alteration causing spells to have their opposite effects; none of his mentors would, or possibly could, teach him to do reversals so more practice might help him advance that art. Few mages twice his age could claim all these accomplishments, or at least claim them truthfully as mages tended to exaggerate the effects of magic. Often what passed for magic was only sleight of hand or showy evocations that incited superstition.
