Authors: Victor Gischler
She reached for the next branch above her, and turned to sling the glass ball with the other hand.
And the serpent was upon her.
The gaping mouth and stone fangs filled her vision, but its wide body lodged fast in the fork of two thick limbs, its huge jaws snapping shut an inch from Rina’s nose. It struggled violently to free itself, thrashing and hissing. It opened its mouth wide once again to bare its fangs.
And Rina tossed the glass ball down its throat.
She leapt onto the snake’s head, arms encircling it, and used the bull strength to clamp the beast’s mouth shut. The ball in the snake’s throat exploded just behind its head, and Rina was flying. Head and Ink Mage tumbled down through branches and leaves.
Rina flailed out again with her arms, but couldn’t grab hold this time. She fell through some branches and bounced off others. The hard ground arrived to slam into her. She heard and felt things crack and crunch along her body. Her sight dimmed. She struggled to stay conscious and cling to the spirit.
She felt the healing rune flare in her side.
Come on. Faster
. Rina knew the pain was there waiting for her if she released the spirit.
Bones mended. Ankle, knee, rib, shoulder.
You’re using too much. You’ll use yourself up
.
How long did she lie there? It felt like hours, but it was only minutes. She pushed herself up, touched the bowl hanging from her neck by the leather strap. It was still intact. A minor miracle.
She heaved herself to one knee. Stood. She needed to heal more, but she was draining spirit rapidly.
Just a little more
.
She looked about her. The snake head lay three feet from her, the body beyond that. The serpent appeared to be no more than a broken statue now. Whatever had animated the creature had been blown away by Talbun’s magic. She retrieved Kork’s sword.
Rina couldn’t stall any longer. She was draining herself. She had to release the spirit. Now.
But she didn’t.
Weylan warned you, didn’t he? Will you be able to step away, duchess?
She released her hold on the spirit.
Pain flooded her. Her legs went watery, and her eyes rolled back in her head. She wilted into the mud, the cold rain pelting her slack face.
He sat cross-legged on the floor in one of the tower rooms. General Chen had been happy to let him have the space. Few were keen to climb so many stairs on a daily basis.
Ankar didn’t mind, didn’t leave the room very often anyway, choosing to meditate long hours instead. The room was well away from the other residents of Castle Klaar, and he liked to stare at the view of the town spread out below him.
And he liked the privacy. The close quarters aboard ship on the trek over had been almost intolerable, and the other two wizards—what were their names again? Ah, yes, Prullap and Jariko—had chattered like old hens the first week, trying to pry his secrets from him. He’d glowered at them once and hadn’t been pestered the rest of the voyage, choosing mostly to meditate on deck in the chill of the sea air.
Ankar always felt just a little too hot.
He stood, threw back his hood, tugged loose the bow at his throat and let the cloak fall. He wore only a thin loincloth underneath and soft, ankle-high leather boots.
Ankar was bald and covered from head to foot with tattoos. Not much of him was left open for more. He had been warned by the wizards who inked the tattoos that too many could overload him. Those wizards were dead now. Ankar had killed each one of them after letting them first ink the new magic into his skin. None would come after Ankar to get the same power. He alone possessed so much ink magic. He had tattoos to give him strength and speed. Sewn into his skin was magic that let his eyes see clearly to the horizon, that would let him hear a gnat fart at a thousand yards. The tattoo on his throat made his voice so sweet that he could beguile the weak-minded. The tattoo on his skull was a shield to prevent supernatural forces from invading his mind. Other tattoos gave him more powers still, some minor, some great.
Ankar was a one-man fortress, a conqueror, a nation unto himself. Ostensibly, he’d come to Helva at the bequest of the emperor. Technically, he was to offer his services to General Chen.
But Ankar’s ambitions were his own. He went to the window and threw open the shutters. A bitter wind bathed him in winter. His skin was so hot, always. The magic writhed just under his skin like something alive, pulsing in his veins even when he wasn’t tapped into the spirit. Perhaps the wizards had been right. Maybe Ankar was overloading himself. His was a big man, muscled, broad back and shoulders. That was a lot of skin. A lot of ink. He would control the magic with the very force of his will.
Ankar would be master of ink mages.
In the past twenty years, Ankar had met only three other ink mages. Like Ankar, they’d sought out wizards with tattoos to offer, so it was only natural that Ankar and these other mages should cross paths. There had been no question they would battle. Ink mages guarded their power as jealously as other wizards. He’d slain all three.
Ankar breathed in through the nose, held the breath a moment before releasing it slowly through the mouth. He stood straight, eyes closed, and let the cold air wash over him. He stood that way a moment and was tempted to tap into the spirit. He resisted. For all his power, he suffered the same weakness as all ink mages. If not careful, he could use so much magic that he might drain himself. In his duel with the third ink mage, he’d come perilously close to doing just that.
He opened his eyes, turned his hands over and looked down at his empty palms. His musing had reminded him why he’d come to Helva—not to serve the Emperor, although he would do that also—but rather to chase the rumor of a final tattoo. The palms of Ankar’s hands. The only unmarked skin on his body. No ink.
Somewhere in Helva there was a priest. Ankar would find him.
And the final tattoo would make him the most powerful ink mage in history.
The first two things she realized after her eyes flickered open were that she was lying flat on a hard table and that she was naked. She tried to lift her head, couldn’t, like it was a boulder attached to her neck.
Rina realized she should have felt bruised and battered after her battle with the great stone serpent. She didn’t. The tiny healing rune on her side had worked its magic. She felt only a deep fatigue.
And … something more.
A slight sting on her ankles, a fly bite.
A pinprick.
“It’s finished.” Talbun’s voice. Soft hands on Rina’s feet. “I figured as long as you were asleep I might as well use the time to ink the tattoos. With the stencils it didn’t take long.”
Rina managed to turn her head. Talbun was there at her side. She wore a loose red robe.
“Your friends brought you here, unconscious and tossed across a saddle,” Talbun said. “They’re downstairs. My people are feeding them, allowing them a bath and rest. By the look of them, they’ve been on the road a good long time.”
Rina managed a slight nod.
“You didn’t look so great yourself.” That quick, mocking smile.
Rina didn’t mind. She was alive.
She felt dry, rough hands on her back and shoulders, lifting her suddenly into a sitting position. Two old women, Talbun’s servants.
A third woman held a steaming cup to Rina’s lips; an acrid smell hit her nose. The cup tilted back; the hot liquid flooded Rina’s mouth, spilling down her throat. Warmth spread through her, into her muscles and bones. The fatigue eased. Her eyes slid sideways to the wizard.
“Nothing magical,” Talbun said. “A century of herb lore has proven to be a useful hobby.”
Rina sipped again, swung her legs over the table, bare feet cold on the floor. She glanced around. She was back at the top of the wizard’s tower. “My clothes.”
“I threw them out,” Talbun said. “They were a bit tattered.”
Tattered
was an understatement. Rina’s brutal encounter with the great stone serpent had been rough on her wardrobe. She finished the tea, looked up to see the wizard staring at her, curiosity plain in her eyes.
Of course. She doesn’t know. The monks never told her what kind of guardian might be up there
.
“A statue of the Kashar snake over the entrance arch,” Rina explained. “It came alive when I passed below it. It was
big
.” She described how the thing had tried to kill her.
“Powerful magic to animate something like that,” Talbun said. “You’re fortunate it was only your clothes that were ruffled.”
“I got ruffled plenty,” Rina said. “Your little magic fireballs saved me. And Weylan’s healing rune.”
“I’m surprised no one tried such a thing before Weylan,” the wizard said. “I’ve heard there are thousands of tattoos in the world, endless possibilities. Many have probably been lost, died along with the wizards who guarded the secrets. And I’ve also heard rumors too absurd to be true.”
“Like what?”
A half shrug, a sly smile. “Tattoos that go directly on the eyeball. A dragon tattoo on a tongue that lets the ink mage breathe dragon fire. I’m not sure how you’d tattoo a tongue.”
Rina laughed. She looked down at her feet. The golden tattoo of a small lightning bolt decorated each ankle. She was tempted to tap into the spirit and see what happened.
Not yet.
“I still need something to wear.”
Talbun snapped her fingers and one of the old women scurried forward. She carried an armful of black clothing. Two more women behind her held black armor.
“A very silly young girl used to wear this,” Talbun said. “Back when she thought armor could protect her.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.” The wizard took the black clothing from the servant and handed it to Rina.
The material was light and fit close against Rina’s skin. She pulled the shirt over her head. Longs sleeves. The pants were sturdier. She stepped into them, buttoned them up. Wool socks and high leather boots. The other women brought forward the black armor.
It was not a complete set, not the heavy cumbersome plate that knights wore into the field. They lowered the armor onto her shoulders, fastened it in the back. The breastplate was clearly made for a woman. Tightly knit black chainmail hung at the sides and in the armpits. It would not protect quite as well as plate, but would allow better maneuverability. Thigh and shin guards. Bracers. The metal was surprisingly light but strong.
“I never wore a helm,” Talbun said. “I always fancied the way my hair looked. I suppose I should have gotten my head caved in for vanity, but it never happened.”
Rina tried to imagine the wizard in armor, holding a sword, but couldn’t quite picture it.
The servant brought her a long mirror, and Rina took stock of herself.
She thought she might appear clumsy and bulky, but she didn’t. The armor was sleek and fit tightly up against her body, almost as if it had been fashioned to her specific measurements.
In the mirror, she saw Talbun come up behind her.
“You were the armor well, Rina Veraiin, beautiful and lethal like the spirit of death itself.”
I suppose that works out to a compliment
.
Maybe?
The wizard’s face grew serious. “Go easy at first with your new power, Rina. With the lightning bolt tattoos you are now as fleet as the big cats who hunt the southern plains. Trust me, you
don’t
want to run into a tree or something at that speed.”
Rina pictured herself running face first into an oak tree and burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Tosh’s hangover was trying to kill him. Gnomes with iron mallets hammered the back of his eyes. He was sweaty, and clammy and miserable, and he’d still be in bed if Mother hadn’t been expecting him.
He climbed the stairs to her top floor office, wincing with each step. He knocked.
“Come in,” from the other side of the door.
Tosh entered, closed the door behind him.
Mother rose from behind her desk, hands clasped in front of her, prim and stern. Chin lifted. She glared at him. “You seemed happy here at the Wounded Bird, Tosh. What’s changed?”
Tosh decided to be blunt. “I don’t know why you’re looking for trouble. You just getting girls killed. Maybe you’ll get me killed.”
A pause. Mother’s jaw was tight, a vein working in her throat. “I see.”
The collar of Tosh’s shirt was damp from hangover sweat. “I … I just don’t understand why you want us to do the things you’re asking us to do.”
“The Perranese are foreigners, invaders,” Mother said. “You don’t want them out?”
Tosh shuffled his feet. “Of course. But … I mean it’s not like the king has an army at the gates to rescue us. People conquer other people all the time. The Perranese keep the peace. They leave us alone, don’t they? I mean, sure, if I had my way, they’d be gone. Things would go back to normal. But it’s not for people like us to start some kind of revolution. That’s for more important types.”
“Really?” Mother raised an eyebrow. “How important do you have to be to want your homeland back, Tosh? Who exactly among us is qualified to start a revolution and who isn’t?”
“I don’t know. Not me.”
Mother drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. For the first time, Tosh noticed a weariness in her eyes, a grayness in her slack face.
“I can see how you want to protect what you have,” she said. “Your life here. Tenni. It’s understandable.”
Tosh wanted to object, but couldn’t. She was right. “I just don’t see why we’re looking for trouble.”
“I could tell you there are bigger things at stake here than the little private life you’re protecting,” Mother said. “But that would be hypocritical. I have my personal reasons too.”
She opened a small wooden box on her desk, plucked out a ring. Tosh had seen her fiddle with it before and figured it for some kind of keepsake. Maybe a family heirloom.