Authors: Victor Gischler
The crowd on the other side scattered as the horse erupted from the gate.
Alem neared the Long Bridge and saw that Perranese organizational skills had worked in his favor. All of the incoming traffic had been moved to the left side of the bridge to allow clear passage for the outgoing. He leaned low, spurring the horse onward as fast as it would go. The horse pounded past the line of soldiers and incoming carts; heads turned as it passed, nobody quite understanding what was happening or lifting a finger to stop him.
He sped past the end of the bridge, heart threatening to thump out of his chest. He hadn’t felt a spear or an arrow in his back. Not yet.
The Perranese camp was a hundred yards ahead. Many of the invaders had moved into the city, but there were still many tents and soldiers ahead of him. If they could catch the camp by surprise, ride past them suddenly like they had at the gate, they might just have a chance. Horses were in short supply, so it was unlikely the Perranese could give chase.
Alem allowed himself to hope.
But the guards at the edge of the camp exploded into activity at his approach, pointing at him and running to intercept. Evidently the Perranese were not keen on letting an unidentified horseman streak through their midst at full speed. If they’d drawn swords to kill him, Alem would be dead, but the soldiers ran at him empty-handed.
He veered from a trio of sprinting soldiers coming fast from his left, but that allowed the one approaching from his right to make a grab at him. It looked like they wanted to capture him alive, and Alem felt a hand on his calf, yanking at him.
Alem’s foot came up out of reflex, flattened the warrior’s nose. Alem felt the cartilage snap under his heel, and the warrior went down in a spray of blood. He jerked the reins and battered another warrior aside with the horse as he turned for the clearest path through the camp.
The first arrow passed within an inch of his face.
They weren’t trying to take him alive anymore.
He was in the middle of the tent rows now, dodging along the narrow pathways, between cooking fires and startled warriors.
Alem rounded a large tent, desperately looking for open ground, and ran into a dozen warriors with swords drawn. The gelding reared, a hoof flailing and crushing the skull of a lead warrior, helm flying off with a metallic
clang
. More arrows flew past him.
I’m going to die!
Alem pulled the reins hard, and the gelding turned sharply into one of the open tents. Perranese warriors scattered camp chairs as they leapt for spears. The gelding bucked in a panic, back hooves flying out to crush another solider with a sick crunch as both armor and bones beneath were crushed.
He spurred the horse out of the tent, knocking aside more warriors, flinching back from a sword swing that came within a hair’s width of his nose.
Alem galloped around another tent, and the horse balked at a low wooden fence in the way. A hasty corral had been erected to pen in a dozen goats. He wheeled the horse to return the way he’d come.
Two dozen Perranese spread out in front of him. They’d wised up, choosing to advance slowly with long pikes, attempting to pin him against the goat corral. Alem turned the horse again, kicked it forward as hard as he could, leaning low. How many times had he practiced jumping fences?
Zero times. I have never jumped anything
.
You are going to break your neck, idiot
.
He came to the fence.
The gelding jumped.
Horse and rider came down hard amid the panicked and bleating goats. Alem came out of the saddle and back down again hard, jarring his tailbone all the way up to his skull. He flung himself forward to grab the horse’s neck and almost lost his grip when the gelding jumped the fence on the other side of the corral.
He came down hard again, a foot coming out of one stirrup. Only grabbing a fistful of the horse’s mane kept him from bouncing out of the saddle. He righted himself and rode fast. He was beyond the camp now, galloping down the forest road to the lowlands.
Alem glanced back. No pursuit. He laughed in giddy relief. He exhaled raggedly, felt almost dizzy.
I’m not going to die
. He saw an arrow stuck in the material of his cloak under the arm. Another near miss. He started laughing again.
It was only then he realized Tosh wasn’t with him.
At first, the pinpricks felt like hot fly bites down the soft white skin over her spine and along her shoulders.
The first time Rina flinched, the mage had admonished her harshly. She hadn’t moved again.
Her knees hurt on the rough stone. Her muscles ached. The mage worked the needle behind her, sewing his strange magic into her flesh. A slow fire built under her skin, along her backbone, growing warm and uncomfortable. His rough hands worked steadily. He paused to cough, making a sick noise in his throat, then went back to work.
Rina already regretted her decision. Each jab with the needle felt hotter and deeper, the fire down the center of her back growing more intense.
“I’m going to talk to you.” The mage’s voice had grown rough and weak in the past hour. “This will take your mind off the discomfort, perhaps, but it’s also information you need to know. Don’t answer back or move. Save your questions for later.”
Rina clenched her teeth.
Discomfort
, he’d called it.
“People think magic involves calling forth something from nothing.” He coughed. “It’s not. Remember the pinch of brimstone.”
She pictured it, the mage flicking a pinch of the powder when he lit the fire for the bath water.
“You must have an essence of the thing you wish to control or create,” he said. “It is one of the fundamentals of magic.”
Rina felt his hands lift from her back. “You can … talk a moment now … if you like. But keep still.” He sounded out of breath.
“I thought the words of the spell created the magic,” she said.
“That’s the mage talking to the universe, telling it what to do.” He coughed. Cleared his throat. “Instructions.”
She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.
The old man must have correctly interpreted her silence. “The tattoo relieves you of the responsibility of speaking the language of the universe. The words will be written into your flesh with ink and the other materials, the essence of the magic you will soon control.”
His next fit of coughing was so violent she almost turned to help him.
He gasped for breath, mastered himself. “I am running out of time. If you have a final question, ask now.”
Her mind raced. “But how can I … how does it …?”
“Quiet yourself. Think.”
She drew in a breath, let it out slowly. “You said magic wasn’t getting something for nothing. That it didn’t work that way.”
“Ah, very good, duchess.” He sounded pleased. “I will work while I answer. Be still.”
She felt his dry, gnarled hands on her back again.
“There is always a price,” he said. “You won’t need to study a book of conjuring, won’t have to memorize complex spells. But the universe demands payment. Always.”
The magical heat along Rina’s back burned fiercely.
“When you use your powers, Duchess, you pay that price from some store within you,” he said. “You tap into … well, wizards have been arguing for centuries about what to call it. Your willpower. Some say you are spending your soul, although that always seemed melodramatic to me.” A cough. “Let’s call it your spirit, eh? Every time you use this magic, you tap into your spirit. The more spirit you have the better. But you can use it up. You can kill yourself spending all your spirit. Ink mages did it all the time during the Empire Wars, burned themselves out. Oh, you will be tested, Duchess. When you’re in the frenzy of battle and the spirit has you in its grip, then you’ll know. Will you control it, or will it control you? I hope you have the will to turn it off. To step away.”
He withdrew his hands as he was wracked with a fit of coughing, but Rina’s concern for the old man’s health faded into the background of her thoughts. She was afraid, terrified of the terrible gift he was giving her. How could this be what Father had wanted for her?
The old man sucked in a ragged breath. “Listen to me. There’s not much time now. This tattoo I’m inking is just the start. It is the key. There are others like me, others who know the secrets of the ink mage. They may have different stencils, can give you different powers. Seek them out.”
He coughed again, and this time moaned in pain afterward. When he spoke again, his voice sounded like dry sticks dragged over gravel.
“So much … to tell you.” He kept working the needle into her flesh. “I may have done something special for you here.” He prodded the healed wound on her side with bony fingers. “The healing balm might have fused with the ink magic. It is … an experiment. Time will tell if it works. I won’t be around to see it. A pity. I do take pride in my craft. I should like to have known.”
Rina sensed him shifting behind her, his hands now on her shoulder. “I can go you one extra, I think. Yes, there is time. There
must
be time.”
The needle hot across her shoulder. She sensed urgency in his hands.
“You sword arm,” he said. “This is for strength. I’m mixing bull’s blood with the ink. Ogre’s blood would be better, but one must make do.” He uttered more unintelligible syllables, which danced briefly in her ears and then vanished. Her shoulder flared hot.
She heard his chair creak behind her. “It … is finished.”
Rina’s body hummed with raw power, slow at first but expanding rapidly to fill up every part of her.
“You feel it … don’t you?” He coughed again, his voice now barely a whisper. “The power. You’ve tapped into the spirit.”
Rina felt calm. The fire down her spine, the pain of her knees on the hard cave floor, the ache in her muscles—it was all still there, but merely as facts. She was apart from it. It was as if she was aware—and in control—of every part of herself.
“The spirit,” the old man repeated. “You can run without fatigue. Cold will not touch you, nor heat, nor fear. But you spend spirit every second. How deep your well might be isn’t for me to say. Beware, Duchess, for you are still human. You must eat and sleep and refill what you drain from the well.”
Rina banished the cold. Her muscles no longer ached because she told them not to. She forbade her knees to feel pain.
“There is a wizard named Talbun who lives on the edge of the Nomad Lands,” the mage told her. “Talbun knows the secret of the tattoos. Few wizards do. Talbun owes me a favor and might be persuaded to help you.”
And Rina knew already she would go to the Nomad Lands and find the wizard Talbun and add to her power. In her mind, she pictured the map of Helva in her father’s study. The Nomad Lands were west and south. She saw the map perfectly, every detail, even the purple ring where her father had set a goblet of wine on the map’s corner.
She would gather power, and she would return. She would kill Giffen herself. There was no passion in this thought. It was simply a fact. With complete clarity she knew how she would swing the sword, where it would catch Giffen in the neck, how it would look when his decapitated head flew through the air.
Rina would reclaim Klaar, however long it took. Whatever might stand in her way.
The first step was Talbun. The journey would be long. She remembered that she did not know the old man’s name.
“Mage, tell me your name.” Her voice was calm and strong.
She heard a sound behind her, a hiss of breath like a rapier slowly sliding back into its scabbard.
“Mage, your name. So I can tell Talbun who sent me.”
Nothing.
She turned.
The old man sat limp in the chair, dead.
Tosh had fallen off his horse.
That’s what he realized as he sprawled on the cobblestones, shaking the bells out of his ears. The foreign helmet had kept him from completely bashing his brains out. He propped himself up on one elbow in time to see his mare trotting away. It took him a moment to remember how he’d ended up like this.
Oh, yeah. That stable boy. Alem. He’d sped past him and through the front gate. That had caused an uproar, and a Perranese soldier had stepped right in front of Tosh. The mare he’d been riding had reared and tossed him off. Tosh had landed hard, but he checked himself now and seemed not to have suffered serious injury.
He had to get up and move. The Perranese warriors were still gawking out the gate at a rapidly escaping Alem, and the big, angry sergeant was berating the guard who’d let him pass. But soon they’d turn their attention to the dumbass who’d fallen off his horse. Tosh scrambled to his feet, trying not to hurry or look out of place, turning his face from the crowd. In the corner of his vision, he could see a warrior grabbing his mare by the reins. So much for reclaiming his mount. He couldn’t let any of them see his face.
He walked toward an alley which led away from the square. He expected one of the warriors to call after him, or to feel an arrow hit his back, but he kept going and rounded the corner without incident. Tosh blew out a sigh of relief. Even in this cold weather he felt beads of sweat rolling down his back. He was safe, but only for the moment.
Okay. Time for a new plan.
He retreated from the main gate by a different route, using the same strategy as before, letting the Perranese armor disguise him from a distance and turning aside when he spied somebody who might get close enough to see his face clearly. It was more difficult on foot.
Tosh wondered at what point the disguise would do more harm than good. It would just be his luck to be knifed in the back by one of his overly patriotic fellow citizens. But for the time being, the Perranese ruled the streets, and he would keep the armor.
He still needed someplace to go.
He headed east, walking steadily for thirty minutes until he hit a shabby neighborhood of inexpensive homes built up against the city’s outer wall. Known simply as East Side, it wasn’t Klaar’s worst neighborhood, but it was close. The place was crowded with the city’s working poor, an occasional beggar or pickpocket thrown into the mix to keep things colorful. It wasn’t a knife-in-the-back sort of neighborhood like Backgate, but it was still not the kind of place to walk through late at night, unarmed, with a fat coin purse jingling from your belt.