Authors: J. V. Jones
Magra was giving
them an excuse. Judging from the shaking of her hands and the disorderly state
of the cottage, she had just been subject to one of Rovas' temper tantrums.
The beginning of a
matching anger began to rise within Jack. Magra and Tarissa were his family now
and he wouldn't stand for anyone upsetting them.
Jack moved forward
and came to stand directly opposite Rovas. Although smaller than him, the
smuggler was twice as wide. He was barely two feet away and his breath reeked
of ale. "Well, we're back now," said Jack, turning his voice to a
threat. "So there's no need for you to worry."
The two men looked
at each other. Rovas' eyes were filled with loathing. Jack didn't want to think
about the reason why the man hated him so much. Such thoughts were best kept in
the dark. He was aware of a buildup of tension within his head and a burning
sensation in his throat. Sorcery or fear-it was hard to tell. Whatever it was,
he worked to keep it under control. Afraid that his bile might carry a sting
more deadly than acid, Jack made a determined effort to stop his stomach from
contracting. He wanted to deal with Rovas alone. With muscle, not sorcery as
his weapon.
Rovas backed away.
Sighs of relief
could be heard from Tarissa and Magra. Part of Jack wanted to sigh along with
them, but he stood firm, never once taking his eyes off the smuggler. He was
suspicious: Rovas was not a man to back down lightly.
"Well,
Jack," he said. "It's obvious you're ready to avenge your
sweetheart's death. Aggression like that will come in useful when it comes to
dealing with Captain Vanly."
"He's the man
who murdered Melli?" Jack was tense. He had managed to control the swell
of sorcery, but at what cost? His heart was beating wildly and he was aware of
a warm trickle of blood running from his nose.
"Murdered and
raped her, then cut off her head." Rovas' lip curled to a sneer. A sharp
intake of breath sounded from Tarissa.
The words were a
finely aimed barb. Jack covered the space between him and the smuggler, his
hands grabbing for the man's throat. Rovas was ready. A mighty punch sent his
head reeling. The two men fell on the floor. Pots and pans scattered about
them. Jack hit his jaw on the side of the table and the smuggler landed on top
of him. Tarissa was screaming. Sorcery was building. Rovas had got hold of a
knife.
Then someone threw
cold water over them. Jack looked up. Magra stood above him like a goddess, an
empty bucket in her hand. She bent down and started beating them both with the
wooden bucket. Her fine features were wild with fury. Jack could see where
Tarissa got her physical strength from; the blows were fierce and biting. He
and Rovas submitted to the beating like naughty children. After a while,
however, Rovas clearly had enough.
"Leave me be,
woman," he said. "I'll be black-and-blue tomorrow."
"I hope you
are," cried Magra. "And that goes for you, too!" she said,
turning to Jack.
Rovas smiled
ruefully and held out his hand. "Come on, lad, I'm sorry for speaking out
of turn. I don't know what got into me.". Jack could feel the considerable
force of Rovas' charm working upon him. "No hard feelings, eh?"
To keep the peace
for Magra and Tarissa's sake, Jack took the smuggler's hand. "No hard
feelings," he lied. The tension in the room collapsed upon itself, leaving
relief in its wake.
Rovas helped Jack
to stand up. The sorcery, for there had been no mistaking its metallic tang,
seemed to have dissipated naturally this time. Although beating quickly, his
heart now felt under less strain. The nosebleed had stopped.
Magra had swapped
the bucket for a pitcher of ale and poured them both a brimming cup. Jack took
the offered cup and downed it in one. "So when do I see to Vanly?"
Rovas wiped the
froth from his upper lip. "The day after tomorrow. I just got word that
Kylock has invaded western Halcus, so it won't be long before Vanly is called
to the front."
Jack dropped his
beer mug. Kylock invading Halcus. He never heard the sound of the mug crashing
to the floor. At the mention of Kylock's name, something pulled sharply at
Jack's thoughts, causing them to refocus on Bren and the war, and then,
unexpectedly, on the man with the golden hair. It seemed the thread hadn't been
severed after all.
Baralis warmed the
oil in a crucible over the flame. When it reached the desired temperature, he
added a dull gray powder to the mix. His hands shook with fatigue. The pain in
his joints was unbearable. The pain in his chest was torture.
Crope had laid out
the body on the bed. The unfortunate girl, whoever she was, had been lured here
with promises of gold. Baralis didn't bother to ask where she came from. She
was a whore, that much was obvious, and judging from her coarsely dyed yellow
hair, she was a low-class one at that. She would not be missed.
They were in a
small inn in the whoring quarter. It was shabby and flea-ridden. The rushes on
the floor stank of mold and the stains on the bedclothes told of sex and blood
and urine. A place where no questions were asked once the innkeeper had tested
the worth of one's gold. The journey here had been almost intolerable. Crope
had to carry him from the palace and lift him into the waiting litter. All the
time, the skin on his chest was weeping into the bandage. Pain had accompanied
every footfall of the litter carriers. It had all been necessary, though. Even
with the duke away, Baralis could not risk anyone at the palace discovering
what he was up to. Too many hostile eyes waited eagerly for his downfall.
"It's not
enough to place the cloth over her face," he said to Crope. "It must
be tied, so she cannot see." The girl was unconscious, but if she were to
wake, as she surely would, it would be better if she didn't see what was
happening to her. "Bind her hands together, as well." Baralis had
watched the effects of fear on many people, and he'd seen enough to know that
extreme terror could sometimes provoke great feats of strength, so he was
taking no chances. This girl had to die so that he might regain his strength.
He needed new skin for his chest.
The powder had
dissolved in the oil. A light scum floated on the surface and Baralis drew it
off with a spoon. He allowed a drop of water to fall into the crucible; it
hissed and skittered. Good, the oil was ready. He picked up the crucible by its
long tapering handle and carried it toward the bed. Pushing back the cloth from
the girl's forehead, he poured the oil over her scalp.
The girl
convulsed. A low groan gurgled in her throat and then her jaw started working
on a scream. The wad of cloth in her mouth stopped the sound from escaping. Her
body thrashed wildly on the bed and under the cloth her eyes opened. The fine
linen gave away every terrified blink. A fatty, meaty smell filled the air as
the oil burned its way into her flesh.
Baralis stood and
watched. After a few moments the powder that was borne on the oil began to work
its commission. The girl settled down, her jaw no longer straining to be heard.
One scarred finger scraped along the crucible's edge, and the last drop of oil
was brought to Baralis' lips. He let it fall under his tongue. It was cool now,
but bitter all the same. Quickly, so quickly it worked. The room blurred
sharply and then refocused, more vivid and more menacing than before. The girl
became known to him. Her seedy little life appeared in patches before him. She
was no different than a thousand whores: greedy, vain, pathetic.
The drawing would
be half sorcery, half alchemy. A particularly potent mix, which was still
practiced amongst the nomads who roamed the Great Plains. In those ancient
grasslands, where survival depended on the whims of nature and the speed of a
spear, hunters were second only to God. The herdsmen tended the herds, while
the hunters rode out on their swift and graceful horses and slew any man or
beast that was a threat. If a hunter were maimed or injured, a herdsman would
forfeit his life. The sorcery created by the sacrifice would save him. It was a
hard law, but one Baralis had come to respect during the year he'd spent with
the nomads. Survival of the tribe was all that counted.
Set apart from the
civilized world that encircled them, the nomads had managed to keep and
cultivate their magic. The elders held generations worth of knowledge in their
heads. Nothing was recorded: methods and ingredients were passed from father to
son. Their sorcery was thick with earth and blood. Crude and powerful, it
depended on the flesh and bones of sacrifice. Even the lacus, that most fetid
of potions which could cure a man of a hundred different ailments, was the
product of ritual slaying. A score of goats and one newly born child went into
its making. Squeezing the animals' stomachs rendered a pale silvery liquid, but
it was the sacrifice of the child that gave the lacus its life. Without it, the
lacus was as insipid as milk.
The nomads kept
their secret close. Few knew of the true nature of their magic. When he arrived
on the Great Plains, fresh from his time in the Far South, the skills of the
herdsmen had seemed crude and blundering compared to the heady, subtle magic of
Hanatta. He knew differently now. They were closer to the source: blood and
belly, earth and nature; the mind and its intellect almost disregarded.
Sacrifice took the place of thought.
Baralis readied
the blade. There was a balance to all things, and the knife must be as warm and
as salted as the skin it would cut. Crope hovered behind like an anxious
nursemaid. He would be there to catch him when he fell.
The herdsmen had
saved his life. He had left Hanatta in disgrace. His teacher thought his niece
was too young for amorous advances. Thirteen, she was, her pubis barely downed,
her hips newly curving, yet the girl was ready all the same. There was more
seduction than modesty in her coyly given glances. His teacher had discovered
them together. There was blood on the girl's thighs and a matching stain on his
lips. Baralis left for the north the next day.
Journeys had
always proven dangerous for him, and this one was no exception. He fell in with
a group of traveling musicians; they were headed for the court at Castle
Harvell in order to perform at the betrothal ceremony of Arinalda and Lesketh.
It was during this time, listening to what the minstrels knew about the Four
Kingdoms, hearing how King Lesketh was weak and cared more for hunting than for
politics, that ideas began to grow in Baralis' mind. By all accounts, the
country was lacking in firm leadership and there were great opportunities for
those with the ambition to take them.
It would be four
more years before he found his way to the kingdoms. Their party was attacked by
bandits one hundred leagues north of Silbur. They were outnumbered three to
one. Baralis made the mistake of performing a defensive drawing. The attackers
were superstitious fools; they thought he was a devil and the minstrels were
his minions. They slaughtered everyone in the party except him. Devils would
not die by the blade.
Beaten and bound,
they dragged him to their camp. They jeered and taunted, and when they grew
bored they resorted to torture. His hands were thrust into hot coals, not once,
but many times. He felt the pain even to this day. Eventually they tired of him
and carried him out to a rocky plain and left him there to die.
The luck of the
devil saved him. Delirious with exposure and thirst, too weak for even the
simplest drawing, Baralis came so close to death he could smell it. He reeked
like carrion. Visited by visions, on the edge of madness, the stars gave him
glimpses of greatness. There was much to learn on oblivion's cusp. He saw it
all. Fate unraveled itself before him; it tantalized with an image of the north
that was ripe for the taking and chastised with the threat of death and
obscurity.
By the time the
nomads found him, he'd done his deal with the devil. Or fate, or whatever it
was that played one man or one country off against another and then waited to
see who would win. He became a force of nature on the plains while he lay
dying, and the two men who eventually found him had no choice but to bow to his
fate. They brought him to the heart of the tribe. Once there, the elders tended
him as if he were a hunter, and in many ways he was. Buming with a newly
discovered cause, they called him "the chosen one" and offered up
their resources like gifts to a god.
One year to the
day he spent with them. Unconcerned with good or evil, the herdsmen respected
strength, fertility, and fate. His time with them honed his body and spirit and
filled his mind with ancient learning. He emerged from the plains with a
mission and the means to carry it out.
Baralis forced his
mind to the present and focused it upon the girl. She lay still now, her eyes
closed, the linen still wet with her tears. The powdered oil was a bond shared,
but the blade was for her alone.
Oh, the pain was
intolerable. His chest, its muscles and the tender tissue beneath, all damaged
to save the life of a silly girl. Catherine of Bren would find herself with a
considerable debt to pay.
With hands that
were steady despite the pain, Baralis took the blade and slit the fabric of his
victim's dress. Chest and breast and belly were revealed by the taper's light.
Not quite as young as he would have liked, yet still of an age when the skin
would smooth quickly from a pinch.
"Turn her for
me," he ordered- Her back would provide a more appropriate stretch of
skin. Crope stepped forward and did his bidding. "Good. Now bring me the
second container." Baralis' eyes rested upon the girl's back. It was just
what he needed.
Crope fumbled
around by the table until he found the freshly pestled leaf. "Is this the
one, master?"
Baralis nodded.
"Hold it for me." He bent over the girl and nicked the flesh at the
base of her spine. Blood welled bright and gaudy. It ran along the salted blade
and into the waiting pot. The sap of the leaf rose to meet it. Baralis bit hard
on the tip of his tongue. The taste from the oil filled his mouth. His own
blood dripped into the mix and the potion was complete. He stirred it once with
bare fingers and then drew his power into the pot.