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  DEMON’S BANE

  Mageblood Chronicles

  India Powers

  Copyright © 2019 by Laurie Anne Powers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.

  for my loved ones

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Author Bio

  1

  Northern England

  1450

  The punishment for treason rang in Julian Rutherford’s mind like a church bell calling sinners to repent.

  Hanged. Drawn. Quartered.

  Swearing at his morbid thoughts, Julian reined up his stallion at the top of the limestone ridge. Behind him his army pounded to a stop, the thud of hoofbeats fading until only the clank of chainmail remained. Hundreds of the Mage High Council’s soldiers flooded the valley below, a red-cloaked sea flowing past muddy white tents and dark smoldering fires.

  Today he would end the war his brother started.

  A grey palfrey rode up to his left, as Evelyn joined him. The hood of her brown cloak was thrown back, exposing thick honey-gold hair that gleamed in the few rays of sunlight that broke through the heavy clouds. But her hollow cheeks and weary green eyes told a different story about lean days and the ravages of war.

  Julian’s gut twisted into knots. He and his men—a ragtag band of mageborn rebels, humans, and half-bloods—outnumbered the opposing army, but every single one of the council’s soldiers had magic. Only Julian’s mages and some of the half-bloods had power. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  “I’m your wife. Of course I had to come.” She glared at the soldiers below, and then her shoulders dropped. Her left hand pressed protectively against her belly where their unborn child lay. Tears welled in her eyes. “You have to win. We need you.” Her husky voice broke over him, molten and sweet.

  Love and determination surged hot through his body. “Don’t worry. I will.”

  “You’d better. I’m a healer, not a miracle worker. I can fix a lot of things, but I can’t cure death.”

  He squeezed her hand reassuringly. Her answering smile was a shadow of her usual one, but it warmed him regardless. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

  He nudged his bay stallion down the slope towards the enemy camp. The council’s soldiers parted at his approach, forming thick barricades on either side of the packed earthen road.

  Ashes drifted on the air, glinting darkly in the cold morning light before falling to stain the white-frosted field. All nine members of the Mage High Council waited within a fifty-foot ring seared into the dried winter grass. Their luxurious purple robes were cinched with gold braid. How many villages could have been fed with the cost of their clothing alone?

  The Chancellor of the Mage High Council, a stately man with grey hair and steel blue eyes, stood at the forefront of the group. His fingers caressed a hammered gold disc dangling from a chain around his neck. A reminder of who was in charge here.

  The scent of scorched heather stung Julian’s nostrils as he swung down off his horse.

  The Chancellor unfurled a scroll. “Due to the high number of casualties sustained over the last seven years to the mageborn population, the Mageborn War will be settled by single combat per the accords signed last week. The Marquis of Harbrook will represent the Mage High Council, while Julian Rutherford, the second son of the Earl of Lindsay, will fight on behalf of the rebels. If Lord Harbrook wins, Lord Lindsay’s followers agree to quit this insurrection and return to their homes. All leaders of the rebellion will then suffer a punishment deemed reasonable by the council.”

  Once again, a church bell tolled in Julian’s mind. If he lost, he and his men would not receive an honorable death by magic. They’d be hanged, drawn, and quartered, a punishment reserved for human offenders—and mageborn traitors.

  “When I win, the Mage High Council will accept our terms—all edicts against mageborn and human concourse will be abolished.”

  “Agreed.” The Chancellor’s lips pursed as if the word were bitter upon his tongue.

  “In addition, all laws banning the rights of human-mageborn offspring to inherit will be struck down.” Eric had begun the rebellion to ensure his son Alex would inherit his title and property, and by all that was holy, Julian would finish it. He would see the laws against half-bloods changed. His nephew would receive his rightful inheritance.

  The Chancellor searched the Accords. His narrowed gaze fell on Julian, more frigid than winter’s deepest frost. “As stated in the Accords, so it shall be done.”

  “Very well,” Julian said. “Let’s begin.”

  “Lord Harbrook.” For the first time the Chancellor acknowledged Harbrook’s presence.

  “Chancellor.” Harbrook approached the councilors. His worn brown cloak, extraordinary height, and burly chest made him seem like a bear in the midst of children. He pushed his hood back, revealing wavy blonde hair and rugged features women had swooned over in their youth.

  Harbrook. Foster brother, best friend, comrade-in-arms.

  Enemy.

  The ache of betrayal flared in Julian’s chest. Harbrook used to believe in rights for humans and half-bloods. Why would he join the council’s forces?

  “Gentlemen, the rules of combat are as follows: the first to step outside this ring loses. If you cry mercy or are unable to fight, you cede the contest. You will stand back to back, then walk ten paces. When the horn sounds, you may turn and engage.”

  Julian studied the rigid features of the man who’d once been like a brother to him. The muscle ticking in Harbrook’s jaw showed anger churned just below the surface. By His Blood, what had Julian done to raise the man’s ire against him? Harbrook had betrayed him.

  “My lords, take your places.” The Chancellor gestured to the middle of the circle. Then he led the other councilors to the perimeter, where the soldiers dispersed to give them room.

  “Lindsay.” Harbrook’s familiar voice rumbled.

  “Harbrook.” Julian moved until they stood back to back on the rocky field. Bloody hell, fighting Harbrook would be like battling his own brother.

  “If you stand down now, t
he Chancellor said your life would be spared.”

  The first words in two years Harbrook spoke to him, and he wanted Julian to quit? Did his best friend even know him anymore? So much churned inside Julian, but he couldn’t speak the words. “That’s not what the Accords say.”

  “The Chancellor gets to choose the punishment. He would grant you clemency and spare your life.”

  “And in exchange I lose the war and watch the men who followed me hanged as traitors? Never.”

  “One…” The Chancellor’s voice boomed across the open meadow.

  Julian moved forward as Harbrook stepped away.

  “You would keep your title and estate,” Harbrook said.

  “You know me better than that.”

  “Two…”

  “I’m a demon hunter. You can’t win against me.” Thanks to his demon-hunter lineage, in addition to his ability to track demons, Harbrook was bigger, faster, and more powerful than ordinary mageborn. He definitely had the advantage.

  Julian clenched his teeth. “I trained and hunted demons with you. I can hold my own.”

  “Three…”

  “Don’t say I didn’t offer you a chance.”

  “You offer me dishonor.”

  “It’s an opportunity to spare your life.”

  “No.” An icy wind blew across the stone-riddled field, sweeping a lock of black hair across Julian’s eyes.

  “Four…”

  “What about Evelyn?”

  Julian’s gaze flicked across the field to Evelyn, who clutched a rosary in her hands. The beads slipped slowly through her fingers, prayer by prayer. She carried their child. What would happen to them if he failed?

  He sucked in a deep breath. The frigid morning air seared his lungs, and he was grateful for the icy burn that forced him back to the situation at hand. “You know I can’t.”

  “Five…”

  “You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good!”

  Julian almost laughed. How many times had the old earl, his father, yelled that at him? It’d become a badge of honor for him to resist.

  “Six…”

  Julian took another step and assessed the rocky terrain. Boulders as tiny as finches and large as wolves littered the uneven field. The exposed limestone fell sharply to a rocky ledge on his left. If he got trapped between the limestone terrace and the edge of the ring, he would be at Harbrook’s mercy.

  “Seven…”

  Julian surveyed the field before him and considered his choices.

  “Eight…”

  His sister-in-law and nephew were in hiding after two attempts on their lives. Julian wouldn’t let them down. He had to win. For Eric, Cecilia and Alex.

  “Nine…”

  He called forth the magic in his blood, feeling it surge through his veins, raw, powerful, dangerous. Thick currents flowed hot beneath his skin. Scanning the rough terrain before him, Julian planned his first strike.

  “Ten…”

  He took the last step, his muscles taut. His blood pounded through his veins in anticipation.

  The horn’s deep wail reverberated across the valley.

  Julian dove to his right, flattening himself behind a large boulder. A sharp sizzle hissed near his left ear. He leaned forward and darted a quick glance around the pitted stone that shielded him. A blackened patch marked the spot where he’d been standing moments ago.

  Harbrook didn’t bother to take cover. He stood in the middle of the field, lips moving, hands cupped before him.

  Julian rose. Magic burst from his fingertips, streaking blue across the field, sucking moisture from the air as it went. Harbrook’s hands separated and he held them up, palms out in a defensive position. Julian whispered and the water froze, shattering into a million shards of ice as it hit Harbrook’s hastily constructed shield. Blood welled bright red on Harbrook’s cheek where a stray sliver found its mark.

  Julian’s pulse raced as he harnessed his mage energy once again.

  Harbrook cupped his hands and flung them outward. Stones littering the field jolted into the air, then arced towards Julian like a barrage of arrows.

  He dove off the edge of the terrace. The sharp-edged rocks pummeled his back and arms. He clenched his teeth and rolled to his feet on the terrace below, too close to the ring’s blackened outline for comfort. His chest constricted. He was trapped. His father had called him a failure, a wicked imp he should have drowned at birth. But not Eric. His brother had been the sun of both their lives and shielded his younger brother from their father’s unholy rages. Julian had failed to save Eric, but he wouldn’t fail Eric’s cause.

  Harbrook reached the edge of the terrace, his expression hard and angry. His upraised hands glowed.

  A blast of wind threw Julian backwards. He wrenched his body and landed just inside the marked edge of the arena. Desperation squeezed around his lungs like iron bands. He hurled his magic with a flick of his wrist. A fiery whip slashed the earth. Harbrook eased back from the cliff.

  Crack! Harbrook dove and rolled to his knees. The lash smacked the ground in a shower of sparks. Julian scrambled up the slope.

  Crack! The rope of fire wrapped around Harbrook’s ankles and flung his feet out from under him. Julian’s blood thundered in his ears as he drew the whip back.

  Harbrook rose onto one knee, and his lips and hands motioned feverishly. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Crack! A ghostly hand grabbed the lash mid-strike. Harbrook yanked and Julian fell to his knees. Something large and heavy hit his back, knocking Julian flat to the ground. The musty odor of earth and dried grass filled his nostrils. He gathered his thinning magic and thrust upward. The boulder flew off him and exploded.

  When he looked up, orange flames were dancing on Harbrook’s left hand. Fireballs struck the ground around Julian. The dead grass and heather burst into flames.

  He pressed his hands into the winter-hardened turf, tremors rippling through his body. The constant use of magic was taking its toll. The ring of fire edged closer, whipped higher by the stiffening wind. Julian’s muscles shook with exertion, but he wasn’t about to die in a cloud of ash like a suckling pig roasting in a pit. He heaved himself to his feet.

  Julian harnessed the breeze, sending it spinning around the field. Frost and ashes rose into the air, hovering as he dug deep for more mage energy. He hauled the breeze towards him and closed his mouth and eyes. A shower of frost and ashes dampened the flames.

  The air shimmered from the heat. He wiped the moisture and ashes from his eyes.

  Harbrook braced his form and lifted his hand, palm up. “Rise.”

  Julian’s body rose upright into the air, spinning in accord with the stirring motion of the marquis’s hand. His limbs trembled, his blood and muscles nearly drained of all magic. He searched his body for some remnant of power.

  He rotated faster, forming the center of a large vortex. His stomach heaved. He squeezed his eyes shut, tucked his head into his shoulder. Dirt and grass swirled around him, whipping his face and clothing. His mind clouded.

  A rope of magic connected the whirlwind to Harbrook. The whirlwind lurched.

  Evelyn’s face flashed in Julian’s mind, followed by images of Eric, Cecilia, Alex, and all his soldiers who depended on him—mageborn, human, and half-blood. Bile burned the back of his throat. Death by hanging. Cecilia and Alex alone. Evelyn devastated. His child fatherless. He couldn’t let them down.

  His mind cleared.

  He focused on his bloodstream. A single spark of power remained. He coaxed it. Fed it energy from his sinews.

  Then the heavy pressure of Harbrook’s magic flickered. Once. Twice. An old signal. Disbelieving, but determined to be ready, Julian poured his remaining power into his hands and waited. Flicker. He flung his magic down the line connecting the whirlwind to the marquis.

  A boom like rolling thunder shook the ground. The whirlwind died.

  Julian fell to the ground. He spat a tuft of grass out of his mouth, then wiped his da
mp face with the back of his hand. He was still inside the ring. He searched the area for Harbrook.

  Harbrook lay prone on the ground outside their arena. The backlash had thrown him across the field.

  Julian had won.

  The Chancellor’s voice echoed across the field. “Abiding by the rules set within the Accords of Wizardry, Julian Rutherford, second son of the Earl of Lindsay, has won the challenge. The Mageborn War is ended. All edicts regarding mageborn and human concourse will be modified, per the terms agreed upon by all parties.”

  A huge cheer rose from Julian’s men as they approached. He staggered to his feet. Griswald, his second-in-command, threw a heavy woolen cloak across his shoulders. Evelyn raced towards him, and Julian opened his arms to pull her close. He stared across the battleground at Harbrook, whose men were helping him stand up.

  Harbrook. Demon hunter. Foster brother. Best friend. Chosen of the Mage High Council.

  Robert Westcott, the Marquis of Harbrook, had intentionally won the war for the rebels.

  2

  The rebel camp rang with joy and celebration after Julian and his men returned. Food and drink flowed abundantly after months of rationing, and the campsite echoed with song and laughter. A large bonfire burned bright in the center of the camp, its orange-red flames streaking high into the black sky.