‘Never mind. We’ll just have to make do.’
They sat down to eat in silence, as always. No grace was said, no thanks to the gods. Why bother? It wasn’t them had paid for the food, it wasn’t them had cooked it.
Nobul was ravenous but he took his time, savouring the meat and the taste of the fresh bread. He had to give his son something – he could certainly cook a decent broth. Markus, however, gobbled his stew down faster than Nobul had ever seen him. Steam was coming from his mouth, and his cheeks were reddening with the heat; it was obviously burning as it went down, but the boy seemed heedless of the pain.
‘You in a rush?’ Nobul asked.
Markus looked up. It was a guilty look if ever Nobul had seen one, but his son shook his head nonetheless. He slowed his eating somewhat, but still finished well before Nobul, quickly getting up and taking his trencher and spoon to the bucket that stood in the corner. Nobul watched his son clean his plate, stack it by the windowsill to dry, then turn, anxiously.
‘Am I keeping you?’ Nobul asked.
Markus shook his head, but his leg was twitching, quivering like the hind end of a rutting stallion; it was obvious he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else.
‘It’s getting late. Sun’s gone down. You know I don’t like it when you—’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Markus said. ‘And I won’t be out later than last bell.’
Nobul nodded, then bent his head towards the door in a
go on then, get out
gesture.
Markus gave a half smile, and was rushing towards the door when Nobul suddenly reached out to stop him. He had only wanted to tell him to keep a lookout, and not stray too far, but when he grabbed his son’s arm he felt something hard beneath the sleeve.
Whatever he was going to say was forgotten as he pulled Markus towards him, dragging up the sleeve of his cotton shirt and seeing the tiny pouch tied to his forearm. He didn’t speak but pulled the pouch free and wrenched it open. He could already tell what was inside. Four tiny coins sat at the bottom: three coppers and one silver piece. Enough to feed them for a week.
Nobul stood up slowly as he poured the coins into his open hand.
‘Where did you get these?’ Rage was building, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that Markus looked so guilty, like someone caught red-handed. There was no answer, and his anger bubbled up like that thick broth, in the stew pot. Nobul towered over the slight form of his son. ‘Tell me!’ he shouted. ‘Did you steal it? Who did you—’
Then he froze. It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be, but deep down he already knew it was.
‘Did you get this from under my bed? For what? To give to those urchins you’ve taken up with? What have I told you about that street scum?’
The tear that suddenly ran down Markus’ cheek spoke the confession his lips didn’t dare.
The slap was loud as Nobul’s meaty palm struck his son’s cheek. It was hard enough to knock Markus off his feet and send him sprawling, his gangly limbs flailing. It had been instinctive, a result of the rage, and as Nobul watched his son fall he instantly regretted it.
He took a step forward, reaching out to pick the boy up, his mouth open to speak a word of regret, perhaps even to say he was sorry, but Markus was immediately up on his feet and at the door. Nobul didn’t even have time to call out before Markus had wrenched open the door and run out into the night.
Nobul could only watch him leave.
The coins were still in his hand. They seemed to burn in his palm like he was holding a searing brand, reminding him of his guilt. With a feral growl he flung the coins across the room where they bounced and scattered.
Slowly, with each breath, he calmed, the rage cooling, his eyes tightly shut. For another man, a weaker man, they might have been shut to quell the tears of his regret, but Nobul had done all his crying twelve years ago. He had no tears left.
He closed the door and went to the hearth to sit in the chair. Her chair.
Rona had been young when they met. Too young for Nobul, or so everyone had told him. At first he’d ignored them, just happy that she had shown him any attention, happy that they were together. He’d never met anyone like her before, anyone so innocent and sweet and kind. Eventually though he had listened to the voices: his old friends, or what Nobul had in the way of friends, and also her parents, though they had never spoken ill of him to his face. He’d responded by trying to put her off, tried to explain he was no good and she should find someone better, someone younger. It hadn’t worked at first, not until he got drunk one night and into a bar fight. Then she had seen the real Nobul Jacks, the fast Nobul Jacks, tough and ruthless. Yet two days after, when all the dust had settled, she’d come back to him. He hadn’t been able to turn her away, and he had promised, as she asked, not to fight any more.
They were married north of the city, just the two of them under an old elm tree. Just them and the druid, a wedding looked over by the Old Gods just as she’d wanted. They returned to the city and hadn’t been back more than a day before Nobul got the call up. There had been rumblings in the south for months. The Wardens of the South had come back with reports that there were Lion Men abroad, beating the drums of war with their eye on the Free States. As an ex-mercenary Nobul was expected to fight, expected to offer his sword arm to the cause, despite the promise he had made to Rona. He had no choice.
Before he travelled south with the armies, he promised Rona he would come back, promised he would return with everything he went with still intact. Nobul had asked nothing of her. How could he? She was young, and if he died she would have to move on, find someone new to take care of her.
War against the Aeslanti had been worse than any of them could have thought. They’d heard the tales that the beast warriors of Equ’un were giants who lived on the flesh of men. The truth had been much worse.
The Battle of Bakhaus Gate was legendary now; a thousand brave men holding the pass against a horde of roaring monsters. Fighting valiantly with the flags of the Free States held aloft with pride.
Reality was somewhat less glorious – it always was.
They had been closer to ten thousand, every one of them pissing in fear. No one gave a fuck about flags or pride or glory, they just wanted to run, and they would have if they hadn’t been more afraid of their commanding officers than the enemy. The vast host they faced had been enough to make them question that fear though, and their loyalty to officers or even the king. An armoured sea of bestial daemons, waving massive blades and roaring louder than a thunderstorm, had swept towards Bakhaus Gate.
But somehow they had won.
Nobul kept his promise to Rona, and brought himself back with all parts still working, but what he had seen down in the south, the slaughter and the cruelty, had deadened him inside. Deadened him to her joy at having a baby and deadened him to watching that child grow. Instead he had learned a trade, a hard punishing trade – and busied himself with it heart and soul. What heart and soul he had left.
When Rona fell ill with the Sweet Canker, Nobul only flung himself into his work still further.
Only when he found her corpse lying in bed, her blue eyes staring at the ceiling, her body eaten away by sickness, did he realise just what he had missed … what he had lost.
All he had left was Markus, and now it seemed he had managed to drive the boy away. He needed Rona, needed her sweet touch, her careful words and her kindness, but she was gone.
Now he had nothing.
Nobul picked himself up from the chair, pulled on his boots and walked the short distance to the forge. He was pleased to find the embers of the fire still burned.
With a heavy heart he picked up his hammer and began the song of steel anew. Perhaps, with luck, he might lose himself in it once more.
T
he chamber was on the north side of the Tower of Magisters, its single window looking out onto the Storway and the Old Stone Road where they both began their long journeys. It was far from the highest room, only at the mid point of the vast citadel, but the view from its window still rivalled that from any other spire in the city of Steelhaven.
At one end of the chamber stood a pitch-blackened chalkboard covered in sigils, ciphers and runes, arranged in a web-like pattern of equations. To any man literate enough to read it would have seemed like a random scrawl, a pretty pattern of outlandish characters that might represent some ancient and forbidden language. To the members of the Caste, those within the Free States who were given licence to practise the arts of magick, it represented the source of their power, the meaning behind the Veil, a way to tap sorceries from the diabolical storms that raged unseen throughout the lands of men.
To Waylian Grimm it was all nonsense.
He had been such a promising student back in his home province of Ankavern. The college he had attended in the town of Groffham had lauded him as their best scholar, heaping praise on him, apparently delighted that his intellect was far in excess of any of his peers. Waylian had even been considered more able than some of his tutors, and it was only natural that he be recommended to the Tower of Magisters for advanced study. His parents had been eager too, even his mother, who had treated Waylian like a helpless infant until he was well into his teenage years. They were only too happy for him to travel the road west to Steelhaven – the promise that their son might one day become a magister clearly outweighing their need to protect him.
Unfortunately, since his arrival, Waylian had found that the vast intellect and excellence at study which had made him so remarkable back in Ankavern seemed quite ordinary amongst his new peers. He was beginning to feel like something of a failure. That was not to say he hadn’t learned much since starting his apprenticeship. Indeed, he had consumed knowledge voraciously.
In the few months since his schooling began he had learned the basics of seven different languages, from the distinct clicks and sighs of the differing Equ’un tribes to the lilting singsong dialects of the Elharim. He had mastered histories both ancient and modern, from the many campaigns of the Kaer’Vahari Dragon Wars to the military strategies of the Sword Kings, and the migratory routes of the early Teutonian tribes. He had studied the origins of the Old Gods and their eventual demise before the rising veneration of Arlor and Vorena. Waylian had become an accomplished theologian with expert knowledge in the pantheons of a dozen polytheistic cultures, from the various Khurtic death cults to the Aeslanti sky gods and their relevant constellations. His knowledge of eastern manners, rituals and customs was second to none, and had he so desired Waylian could easily have become a valuable envoy to the East in the court of King Cael.
All of no use though, if he couldn’t even grasp the basics of magick.
The Magistra stood beside the board, speaking in her rapid monotone. She was the only other person in the room, her focus solely on teaching Waylian the intricacies of the art. She might as well have been speaking in tongues for all he understood.
Waylian
had
studied the books – one of them was open before him even now, the relevant page taunting him with almost indecipherable language. He had learned all he could by rote: the relevant sigils, gestures, equations, components, incantations, meditations and means of execution; but he simply couldn’t understand any of it.
Of course he had retained some things. He knew that the conjuration of fire required coal dust, soot or some other carbon based ingredient, spread on the skin in the correct manner whilst evoking the requisite incantation. He knew that the weather could be harnessed and manipulated to the magicker’s will through the tapping of simple elemental conduits. He knew that non-sentient creatures could be influenced into carrying out the will of any man who knew the relevant language and the particular words to speak. But when asked to recall any of the details, when he had to remember the specific incantations or the components that went with a particular conjuration, his mind was a blank.
Without this secret knowledge, without being able to put all these things together instinctively, it was impossible for a magister to tap into the storm, to break the Veil and become a true caster.
Waylian’s only consolation was that, for now, he wouldn’t have to. He was only an apprentice, a journeyman, a neophyte, and consequently forbidden to perform magick until he was inducted as a member of the Caste. For now his studies were purely theoretical, and as long as they stayed like that, Waylian would be able to disguise the fact that he was struggling. More than struggling – he was failing, drowning in a sea of knowledge he could neither comprehend nor control.
‘Am I keeping you awake?’
It was the Magistra.
At her words, Waylian suddenly realised he had been staring at the hard wood of his desk, rather than hanging on her every word. She gazed at him, her white hair swept back, pulled tight and severe, her mature features, her piercing blue eyes, glaring with contempt.
‘No, Magistra,’ Waylian replied. He swallowed hard.
Waylian was fearful of his teacher – more fearful of her than he had been of any other human being in his short life. She was his mentor, his tutor, but above all his mistress. Gelredida … the Red Witch as she was called by the other apprentices, though Waylian only ever called her Magistra. She stood tall and erect, though the lines of her face showed an age and experience far beyond mortal years. Waylian had often wondered if she used her magicks to keep herself youthful. Perhaps she was centuries old?
Not that he would ever dare ask.
She was well respected and feared within the Tower, treated with reverence even by the other magisters. Trust his damned luck to end up apprenticed to such a formidable tutor.
It was not just her commanding air and reputation that fuelled Waylian’s fear. It was her aura of power, the self-assurance that emanated from her, as though she could snatch the life from anyone who crossed her – not that she had ever demonstrated such power. Indeed, since Waylian had arrived in Steelhaven he had not seen so much as a minor invocation being uttered. He had learned quickly that magick was a powerful tool, never to be used lightly. Its use came with a price that was paid by every magister, one way or another. This was demonstrated in some of the older magickers who wandered the halls of the Tower – some muttering to themselves in dementia-fuelled rants, others stooped, toothless and horribly scarred, their bodies withered or maimed; by what fell magicks Waylian dare not imagine.