Grimacing, Ilbei drew his dagger from his sheath just as Mags came up beside him, her stance a practiced one, her weight distributed well and evenly upon the balls of her feet.
The magician laughed when he saw her. “I should have beaten more sense into you.”
“Your mistake,” she said. She and Ilbei advanced, spreading apart a little as they went, Ilbei intent on getting to Cavendis, and Mags seemingly intent on having some revenge.
The magician was chanting again.
“Better make it quick,” Cavendis said. “Or her old beau is going to have one of you down like your other two friends. Isn’t lightning fun?”
Ilbei tried to maneuver around to Cavendis’ right, wanting to move him away from the wall—and Ilbei’s pickaxe. But this wasn’t the South Mark lord’s first fight. Cavendis lunged, first a feint, then a real strike, a long stab that nearly got Ilbei through the wrist. Ilbei pulled back in time to receive only a cut, a neat slice at the tip of his middle finger, which dangled now, open like a cap.
“Hah, close, Spadebreaker,” Cavendis taunted. “You’re quicker than your fat frame suggests.”
“And you’re a sorrier excuse fer a man than yer noble blood suggests.”
“Touché.” He lunged at Ilbei again, but the steady old soldier batted it away with the flat of his knife.
Lightning arced again, a long white line of it blindingly drawn in the air before Ilbei’s eyes. It hit the blade of his knife, and for an instant he thought some invisible giant had tried to yank his arm out of the socket in one great tug. Spots swam before his eyes, and he was dimly aware of Cavendis lunging for his heart with his longsword. Ilbei crumpled, his mind turned to hazy gauze. He heard wood strike steel through the buzzing in his head, a sharp, single note as he fell, then the clank and clack of it in a rapid
rata-tat-tat
as he lay on the floor. He couldn’t figure out which way was up, or he’d have gotten up to help.
Someone was mumbling then, singing maybe. And something else very heavy crashed against the wall, followed right after by another one, like someone throwing rocks. Then something else hit someone really hard, a dull thud, followed by a sword clattering to the ground. Kaige laughed. Then someone else screamed as the room grew bright. The screaming got louder, and there was a fluttering of cloth. Ilbei fought to clear his head.
He got himself up to his knees. His ears were ringing. Something was burning a few paces away, where the magician had been, where the screaming was coming from. This screaming definitely sounded male. Dull wooden
thwack
ing sounds also came from where the fire burned, and a shadowy figure stood over the flames. Blinking a few more times, Ilbei realized it was Mags whaling away at what had to be the wizard, who was lying on the ground, burning.
Slowly, Ilbei got to his feet, his vision still blurry and a tone in his ears so loud it made him squint. Careful to teeter toward the wall and not into the hole, he made his way to Mags, who continued to bash upon the burning Ivan Gangue, who continued to scream. Blinking a few more times, he saw that the lump he had to step over was Cavendis, the young lord out cold on the floor. Ilbei stopped, squinting as he peered down at the man. Gauging by the way his shoulder and arm lay, most of the bones at the joint were crushed. There was a hunk of gold the size of a cantaloupe lying just beyond the disabled lord. He glanced over at Kaige, who saw him looking and grinned. “Busted him up good, Sarge. It’s what he gets for impersonating an officer.”
Ilbei smiled back, though doing so made his head throb. “It is, son. That it is.” His balance still precarious but his mind mainly working again, he gently stepped between Mags and the mage and caught her wrists in one hand and the quarterstaff in the other. Despite his superior strength, the effort, and the sharp pain in the end of his finger, set him off balance, staggering him backward, where he nearly tripped over the prostrate form of Cavendis. Cavendis began to moan. Mags, still in Ilbei’s grip, moved with him a step, then leaned her weight against his fall, steadying him. He thanked her, and together they collected their scattered thoughts.
They locked eyes for a moment, and he peered into hers to see if she was okay, knowing well that combat was a traumatic experience all by itself, much less with the sort of man as was Ivan Gangue. She looked frightened, but she mustered a smile and a shrug. “It’s what he gets,” she said.
“That’s my girl,” Ilbei said. “We’ll make a soldier out of ya yet.”
He turned and saw that Kaige was putting out the last of the flames in the magician’s long tunic, the work made easier without Mags’ quarterstaff beating all about. Meggins was crawling to his hands and knees right behind them. From the way he was groaning, Ilbei knew exactly what he was going through. But at least he was up.
He went to check on Jasper next, but the young magician was already coming his way, fishing through his satchel of scrolls as he did. “It’s a good thing that man can’t be more than a D- or E-class conjurer,” he said as he approached. “And he’s not a very smart one at that. Everyone knows an ice lance is a better choice for lower-ranked combat conjuring. I would never have cast a D- or E-class electrical spell in a situation like that. You might as well just throw the scroll itself.” He laughed a sniffy sort of laugh, enjoying his own joke.
Ilbei straightened and shook his ringing head, unable to share Jasper’s assessment of the usefulness of the lightning spell, but he did not give the thought voice. Instead, he let the young sorcerer enjoy having amused himself as he sifted through his satchel looking for what Ilbei hoped were healing spells.
Jasper saw the look on Ilbei’s face, however, and realized that Ilbei didn’t understand, clearly mistaking that to mean he cared to be enlightened. “Well, I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant to be on the receiving end of that lightning,” he explained. “But look how much good it did. That’s my point, and that’s why I wouldn’t have cast it. As a matter of comparison, the small fireball I just read on him was only an E-class spell as well. And as you can see, it only barely did its job. Clearly he couldn’t have done worse than lightning, as my fire was only a marginally better choice, and it was the only one I had. Anyone who’s ever read a book, much less a conjurer himself, would know that an E-class conjurer can’t generate enough power to evaporate a hogshead in one bolt. At very least, a touch lightning spell is the only proper method for a rank that low. A bolt at that level is pure pride.
“Finnius Addenpore—who did his best work under Tytamon at Calico Castle, despite what people say about Finnius’ having killed himself—observed that a spell bolt that can’t turn a hogshead of water to steam will be nonlethal over eighty-one percent of the time. He dubbed that the ‘hogshead quotient for lightning’—or HQL for short—and proved lightning at the rank of E was much less desirable than an ice lance of the same level, which has greater range and no lethality limitations beyond the armor an opponent wears. He even suggested that—”
Ilbei didn’t have the heart to tell him to shut up, given that he’d performed so well when it mattered most, so he interrupted gently, saying, “You’re a fine lad, son. And a fine mage too. Don’t let nobody say otherwise.” He gave the wizard a kindly smile, but was unable to help himself adding, “Not that ya’d hear em fer all the talkin ya do.”
Jasper took no insult from the last, as the compliment had caught him off guard. He was soon glowing at the praise. Ilbei gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, and the rise of the young wizard’s elation brought forth a whole new round of happy didacticisms, which, of course, Ilbei ignored.
Leaving Jasper to go on about ice lances and lightning bolts, Ilbei went to help Kaige, who had begun binding the two men they’d captured, hands and feet. He cut a strip of unburnt cloth from one of the sorcerer’s wide sleeves, which he used to wrap the end of his finger, and then set to work.
When Cavendis and Gangue were bound, Ilbei straightened once more and rubbed his jaw. He was sure his head was going to hurt for a week. He looked down upon the pair of prisoners and shook his head. “Meggins, if you’re up to it, see if ya can find somethin to gag this one with beyond just a stretch of cloth. I don’t want him castin magic around it somehow.” Ilbei gestured toward the wizard as he spoke. “And Kaige, until then, if he even starts talkin, bash his head in. Don’t wait for a second word, hear?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Gangue glared at him and was rewarded by one of Kaige’s farm-boy grins.
“Meggins, are ya all right?” Ilbei said, seeing Meggins hesitate.
Meggins waved him away, nodding and still blinking. “Yeah, yeah, Sarge. I got it. Just give me a second to clear my head.”
Satisfied, Ilbei went to the door through which they had entered and peered down the corridor, listening. He didn’t hear anything, nor did he see light approaching. Maybe no one had heard. Even if they hadn’t, he figured someone would see the three bodies lying at the bottom of the hole, and if not that, they’d certainly notice the baskets weren’t coming down anymore. Someone would notice something, he knew. He just didn’t know how long it would take.
He shut the door and barred it, then turned and looked across the room at the door from which the tortured screams had to have come. That had to be dealt with. He retrieved his pickaxe and drew in a long, deep breath. He let it go slowly, steeling himself for what he figured he was about to see and hoping he wasn’t too late to help. “Come on, Mags,” Ilbei said. “Jasper, you too. Let’s find out what all that screamin was about.”
Chapter 32
T
he three of them entered the room cautiously, Ilbei with pickaxe in hand and ready to strike. Jasper held a scroll with an oil spell on it, having instructed Mags to throw the lamp she carried at whomever he might have cause to cast the magic on; it was the most offensive magic he had left. But there was no need for it, not for pickaxe or flaming oil spells, for the room’s only occupant was a captive harpy. Ilbei recognized her as the one they’d fought in the cave high above the cavern floor, evidenced by the cut on her forehead and the large hole burned through her left wing—Jasper’s lightning had done that, or so Ilbei surmised. There were so many burns on her now he couldn’t be sure.
She was bound to a set of bars, the grill just as Sett had described, an ironwork three spans high and not quite so wide. Her head hung limply, chin to chest, snarls of her long black hair dangling like matted horse tails. Gangue, or Cavendis—or both—had clamped the harpy’s wrists and ankles to the frame with iron manacles, and another iron band was locked tight around her throat. Blood trickled from all five localities, little rivulets drawing lines that wavered over her grimy flesh, graphing the jolts and contortions of her recent agonies. Her wings were fanned out to either side of her, lashed in places along the top of the frame and again at the sides where they angled down. They were too long for the width of the grill by a span or more, and the last three hand-widths of the left wing were bent at an angle, suggesting the wing had been broken recently. Ilbei wondered if it had been the fall that had done it when Jasper’s lightning hit her or the torture she’d received after.
Mags and Jasper gasped together, Jasper actually backing out of the room. “Oh no,” he muttered.
“You’re damned right, ‘Oh no,’” Ilbei said.
The room had a powerful reek of burnt flesh, feathers and hair. Were it not for the burn marks in the most sensitive areas of the harpy’s body, the smell alone would have given evidence that most of her injuries were more recent than Jasper’s spell. Black spots distinctly marked where she’d been burned directly on the bottom of her taloned vulture feet, both at the very bottom and at the tip of the centermost claw.
More burns like those were visible on her fingertips, her earlobes and places that a man ought to have been too ashamed to violate, and Ilbei turned round and stormed out, pacing straight across the room. He delivered three quick kicks to the side of the magician’s head, and had Cavendis been lucid, he would have done likewise to him, lord or no. He didn’t bother explaining it to either of his men, as both of them stared at him with mouths agape.
He went back into the chamber and saw Jasper digging through his satchel for a spell, as usual mumbling under his breath. All Ilbei caught was “not a healer” and “wasted on a thing like that.”
“What’s he lookin fer?” Ilbei asked Mags. He wasn’t in the mood for foolishness.
“I told him to heal her,” Mags said. “We can’t leave her like that.”
“Is she even breathin?” Ilbei asked.
“She is. I checked. It sounded okay too, though I can’t be too sure how human they are on the inside.”
As if she’d heard them, the harpy’s head lolled from side to side. She raised it with obvious effort and looked up at them through the gaps in her tangled hair. The low rasp she’d sounded while defending her nest rattled weakly from her mouth.
“Easy there, sister, we ain’t come to do ya no harm,” Ilbei said. “And we done fer them fellers what has.” He moved to the side and pointed through the door, where both Lord Cavendis and Ivan Gangue were visible, tied up on the floor.
The harpy’s eyes narrowed upon seeing them, the tone of the growl changing, then fading to silence again. She watched them for a time, then regarded Jasper when the rustle of his scroll drew her eye.
“Listen,” Ilbei said. “Jasper there is disposed to mend ya some, if’n you’ll tolerate such things. I’m not sure whether ya understand a word I’m sayin, but seems polite to ask all the same.”