Free The Last Days of Magic by Mark Tompkins

kings decided to ignore. The ceremony proceeded with one less segment and a little less smoke.
    From that morning until Aisling and Anya were attacked by the Skeaghshee, days before their fourteenth birthday, many druids tried to divine the impact of the loss, but none had been able to pierce the veil of uncertainty that had fallen over the twins’ future. The general conclusion was that the effect would become manifest after their coronation.
    But there was to be no coronation without Anya.

4
    All the kingdom of Og in Bashan, which reigned in Ashtaroth and in Edrei, who remained of the remnant of the giants: for these did Moses smite, and cast them out.
    —Joshua 13:12, King James Version
    Oslo, Norway
    Three Years After the Attack on Aisling
    T he Norwegian late-autumn sun had made its brief appearance and was beating a hasty retreat. Jordan, commander of a small mercenary force on contract to the Vatican, hurried alone along the Oslo waterfront. The old inn that was his destination had been built alongside the wall of Oslo’s Akershus Castle, where decades of storms howling down the fjord left the inn leaning against the stronger stone structure, causing its stairs, walls, and floors to settle at odd angles. A cold blast through the briefly open door announced Jordan’s arrival into the dimly lit ground floor, where a smoky fire provided a hint of warmth to the room.
    One of the more persistent women working there hurriedly threw off a heavy woolen blanket, revealing a buxom figure, and sidled through the mismatched collection of grimy tables to intercept him. “Good evening, handsome,” and his stalwart Sicilian features saved her from having to lie.
    “Not tonight,” said Jordan.
    “It’s been ‘Not tonight’ ever since you arrived. What’s a man likeyou doing in this hovel anyway?” She moved in close and stroked Jordan’s cheek. “I could show you a better inn with cleaner beds.”
    “I prefer to spend my money on books,” replied Jordan, edging around the woman and heading for the stairs.
    “Books? And fancy swords by the look of it. Hard to cuddle up with those!” she called after him.
    Jordan pulled a candle stub from his pocket, lit it, and started up the dark, creaky staircase, holding out the candle so as to illuminate the odd slope of each successive step with its weak light.
    Once in his room, he lit the two candles on his desk from the one he held and then set about building a fire. Commander Jordan d’Anglano was named after his famous ancestor, though he did not like to be reminded of it. His forefather, marshal to Manfred of Sicily, captured Florence in 1260 only to quickly lose it again at the Battle of Tagliacozzo, where, as punishment, he was stripped of one hand, one foot, and both eyes. Jordan, who appeared older than his twenty-six years, still possessed both his hands and feet, as well as his intense brown eyes, in which reflections of the fire glimmered.
    Unlocking a trunk, Jordan, an avid student of forbidden books, surveyed the large, neatly arranged collection inside. He removed five and stacked them next to the candles. Opening a Latin translation of Enoch, he resumed reading from the page he had marked earlier with a bit of torn parchment. Unconsciously, he gathered his cloak tightly around himself. While he had demanded the inn’s only private room with a fireplace, it did little to thwart the damp chill that flowed through the gaps in the askew wooden walls. The cold faded from his perception as he lost himself in the pages.
    He had liberated this stack of grimoires—books of magic—from the witch Marija when he captured her outside Trier, Germany, the previous year. She was the first witch he had gone up against, and the event was a turning point in many ways. While he scissored her neck between his dagger and sword tightly enough for trickles ofblood to run down her tunic, she had tried to bribe him by offering to teach him how to work the incantations. He surprised