Read Tinkermage (Book 2) Online
Authors: Kenny Soward
Niksabella spent the next hour sitting cross-legged on the canvas coverlet, reading her book and lazing in the quiet energy of the camp. What had once been an organized mess was now a comfortable albeit temporary home where gnomes and gnomestresses told jokes around the fire and sang soft songs (much better ones than those sung in Hightower). A small group on the outskirts of the camp played an interesting-looking game with sticks and twine. Termund had gone into the woods and up a hill to check on the watch. Flay and Terrence leaned against one of the wagons, scooping huge spoonfuls of stew from their bowls into their mouths. Terrence caught Niksabella’s gaze, let go of his spoon, and waved. She returned the gesture.
“You need anything, Nika?” Flay called.
“No. Thank you.”
She took one more look around the camp, lifting her face to a passing winter breeze, and then dove back into her book.
The Magickal Core
was a smallish book, and one she probably would have passed right over in the Hightower Library, but Kalaquick had assured her it held all the basic principles a practitioner needed to fortify their wellspring.
“Haven’t seen this old thing since I first entered the Academy,” he’d said. “Read this front to back. Put it to practice, too. Without a strong wellspring, a caster is nothing.”
“How long did it take you to master the principles?” she had asked, hoping it wouldn’t take her a lifetime.
“Oh, I finished the book in about three days if I recall, but never practiced.” He’d given it back to her and sighed. “Channeling my wellspring has always come easy, but not so for everyone. I should have practiced more, so that’s my advice, Nika. Read it and practice.”
Niksabella flipped to chapter two, mumbling the lesson to herself as she read: “… building on chapter one, where was created a sufficient representation of the wellspring in the mind’s eye, the magick user must meditate, or, in old gnomish,
mindperkl
, to expand and expunge the wellspring’s depth. A widening of breadth, however, may only be achieved through extensive practice and study of the art of mindperkl, at which point multi-casting may be achieved. It is recommended to practice perkling the mind no less than once per day—several times a day recommended—as the practice not only sharpens the mind but affords the perkler illumination of mind and quietude of spirit.”
Niksabella memorized the steps for a successful
perkl
before setting the book on her backpack down on the ground beside her. It was time to give it a go. This would be the first time in over thirty years she’d be using her wellspring for something more than imbuing objects . She pulled her feet beneath her to perch, cross-legged. Her hands rested on her knees, her head level, chin slightly elevated. A passing breeze kissed her face.
The dry-brittle branches of the trees clacked together, creaking and whispering over their heads. Not unfriendly sounds. She listened to them, absorbed them, and everything else around. She let those thoughts pass untouched through her mind—in one ear, out the other, Auntie Gemma might say. Niksabella allowed herself to drift effortlessly in the void… listless… listening.
Before she realized what was happening, she stood in a small, dark alcove, a dingy, ill-used refuge where one might store very old, useless things. A golden glow churned in the center of the floor, a sort of liquid effulgence that seeped through the cracks and pores of the foundation.
She tried to imagine her wellspring as something else besides the typical spring of water every other wizard talked about: a sky full of thunder and lightning from which she could pull raw energy, a flock of sparrows which would come to do her bidding whenever she called. Even a great, cooked turkey from which she could cut great swaths of butter-basted meat. But her mind’s eye saw this pool of water, just like everyone else, like a common dream every wizard shared—except for the golden color. This coincidence in itself was part of the bigger mystery of magick, she realized, a common thread that tied together all mages and wizards of every race and creed. Fine then, she’d go along with it. A puddle to start, and then a pool of swelling, swirling, living light which began to overflow the crumbling stones of the rough-hewn well’s wall.
You need to fix that. That’s the first step.
She knelt in the dirt, grabbed stones and clay and shoved them into the gaps, shifting and cajoling the odd shapes to fit. Her wellspring squished through the narrowing breaches, dripping down the sides like molasses leaking from cracks in a barrel. Niksabella scooped handfuls of the golden liquid back over the rim, packing it into nooks and crannies as she went. It was like holding cool jelly, and it made her skin tingle to touch it. It even acted as a kind of mortar, drying dark and coppery as she plastered it in. She worked her way around the well, patching, fixing, reinforcing, so intent with her work she completely forgot herself.
Still, her magick surged, jumping at her touch, awakened somehow by her presence. A bubble or two boiled to the surface, bloating and popping sluggishly, swelling over the sides yet again. In an anxious rush, Niksabella made another layer of rock, using her liquid power—that sweet, tingly honey—to fill the breaks as a bricklayer might, and she was becoming quite good at it.
By the time she’d gotten things under control, the walls of her magickal well were up to her knees, a solid structure to hold her eager energies. And the mouth of the shaft had widened considerably; it was at least four feet across now!
Funny, I can’t remember how it got that way. It was little more than a puddle just a minute ago!
She swayed almost drunkenly, covered in yellow ooze from elbow to feet, skirt and shirt stained with dark copper splatter, intoxicated and proud of the work she’d done.
And then she knew why the structure had grown. Her wellspring was a living thing—like a child responding to a mother’s affection. It would grow and strengthen as long as she cared for it. It would become more a part of her every time she entered this meditative state, this
perkl
.
In that instant, Niksabella understood.
She opened her eyes. The camp was deathly quiet, and the moon had fallen halfway down the sky. There were no clouds, so the golden orb was left to shine along with thousands of stars, the sudden image of so many
other
worlds leaving Niksabella breathless; it wasn’t a view she could appreciate from inside the city.
Even the campfires had burned down into shrugging embers, left unattended as morning loomed closer.
“Any interesting discoveries?” Termund sat next to her on the coverlet, a steaming cup of snolt between his knees, both his hands soaking the warmth from the sides of the fireclay cup. His hood was down, his profile handsome in the half shadows. He looked askance at her. “You looked beautiful there beneath the moonlight. I’ve never seen you at such peace.”
Niksabella gave him a languid smile and reached out to bury her hand in his curls. They were soft and warm, wrapping themselves around her fingers in tender fluff. She pulled him toward her, leaning into a deep kiss. His lips were soft and warm too, parting to cover her mouth in his, raising her heat.
She left his lips alone, whispering. “I did have a nice perkl.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Niksabella shrugged, her eyes searching his face. “Let’s go to bed.”
Termund took her hand, guiding her to a cocoon sleeper near one of the supply wagons, and unbuttoned the corner flap. They removed their boots and coats, chuckling softly like gnomelings as they climbed inside. Niksabella turned on her side, drawing her knees up. Termund snuggled against her back, his form encompassing hers, arm thrown over her waist. It was cold, but their warmth saturated the space quickly, feet tangled up and legs pressed together. Termund’s lips brushed the back of her neck, sending a pleasant tingle across her skin.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel… interesting.”
Termund chuckled. “Well, that’s two of us who find you interesting.”
“No, I feel good… sleepy.” And it was true. She’d thought she’d be too wound up to sleep, especially not being in a familiar bed, but cuddled together like this made her perfectly dopey. She didn’t want to move or even speak, just lay there, wrapped up like two pastries in an oven.
“As long as you’re happy.”
By Tick and Tock, how can I ever be unhappy again? No wonder Fritzy is so damn addicted to falling in love. To feel like this all day long… all the time. To go to sleep with no worries, youe mind clear and at peace.
Termund gave her a hug and kissed her shoulder, nudging aside her shirts with his nose. “You know, after this is all over, we’re going to have a life together. I want you to see my home… to
be
at home. I…”
Niksabella replied by backing into him and gripping his arm tight around her stomach. And as she gazed up into the sky, waiting for her eyes to grow heavy, she had only one other thought.
And what about you, Prophetess? Will you visit me tonight in my dreams? Come and face me…
And, thinking that, she drifted into a cozy slumber.
Dreams of bottle-nosed whalelings
capering at the bow of her old, wave-cracking merchant ship, the
Diamond
, played through Stena’s mind as
Swinger
lurched starboard, throwing her from her hammock. A grunt escaped her, pushed out by the hard landing, and she rubbed her head where she must have smacked it on the side of a gear box.
Quickly coming to, Stena pushed her way up through a set of double doors to the deck, observing her bustling crew as they fought the yawing ship. Gowey appeared from around the aft side, grease smeared across his forehead. He lifted a panel in the back of the engine block and dove inside. Crick’s crew member pumped a lever and hit a button at the starboard control panel, sending increased heat into the bladder to lift the ship. The initial swell of panic subsided as she realized the crew had things relatively under control.
Damn but they’re good. At least they look it.
“What the futtering Hells is going on, Linsey?”
“Up here, Captain.”
Of course, Linsey was on the observation deck, giving direction to Rose, who worked the steering controls at the stern of the ship. Stena scampered up the ladder and found herself, once again, atop the world. A crosswind buffeted her, and she gripped the rail, putting her other arm on Linsey’s back. She noticed they were rising quickly, the nose of the aerostat pointed at an upward angle.
“Report.”
“Enemy ships took a shot at us, Captain.”
“Enemy ships?”
“Ships, Captain. Two of them. We were hanging over Goad’s Pocket when they attacked. One evenly elevated with us, another from below. I’m trying to get us above the clouds. Figured you’d want it that way…”
Stena ground her teeth. “To get a shot at them, yes. I’ve got this, Linsey. Take the wheel.”
Linsey related the last known enemy positions and started for the wheel deck. The first mate hesitated. “You might need your coat, Captain, if you plan on being out here for a while.”
Stena welcomed the heat of ire as it burned at her core, but she wasn’t stupid. “If someone’s free, maybe Bertrand, send them after it.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Stena searched the skies for the enemy ships, but the clouds obscured her view. They should be below
Swinger
and off the starboard side… roughly. But who flew these ships? And what were they capable of? She had no experience with aerostat war tactics. There were a few books available in the Hightower Documenstory, but she’d barely glanced over them in favor of texts pertaining to her immediate mission: subjects like airship mechanics and geography. What would have been the point in learning the best trajectory for ship-to-ship projectiles? There was no other race on Sullenor known for flying airships! As far as anyone knew, gnomes had always ruled the skies.
Swinger
rose out of the cloud bank, white mist running off her deck, the sun coloring the downy floor a deep pink as she went up and up. A hundred feet above the salmon layer, Stena held her fist high so that Lins would know to keep the aerostat leveled off at this altitude. They continued their wide circle around the spot Stena thought the enemy ship might surface. Her eyes scanned the plain as her hands passed over another control box on the rail before her. She lifted the lid and slid it back over the rail, where it hung from a pair of braces. There were two sets of controllers, simple pegs of wood affixed to pressure lines, each pair controlling the mounted ballistae on their respective sides. While the weapons could be better fired manually, Stena didn’t have the crew for it; they hadn’t expected this. So it was up to her to direct the weapons from her position.
She glanced down at the controls to make sure she had them, each one marked with numbers that an experienced pilot might find useful to concentrate their shot, but Stena had no clue about those. It would be complete guesswork.
Swinger
leaned inward as Lins made the most out of the aft and starboard propellers.
Now where are you, my friends?
As she scanned the sky, a sharp chill ran through her. A shadow rose through the thinning clouds about two hundred yards aft of starboard. Stena exhaled nervously. They hadn’t overshot the enemy by much, but it was critical to get the upper hand before the tables were turned, so she made a spinning signal in the air and pointed at the dark shape. Like clockwork,
Swinger
’s engines kicked up, and the ship tightened its circle, coming back around the bruised-looking spot.
Stena’s stomach clenched with nervous tension as it always did before battle. But she knew herself too well to let it affect her. Instead, she focused on training the ballistae on
Swinger
’s starboard side at the rising discoloration, which had become a trail of brownish-gray, as if the enemy ship was a wounded whale beneath the waves, leaking its lifeblood into the vast depths as it swam.
They’re slow. Should be easy enough.
“You’re not in the ocean anymore,” she said aloud to herself. “Up here’s a different game.”
Her shoulders tensed. The sound of gears softly winding reached her ears as she edged the ballistae in line. The steel-tipped bolts along
Swinger
’s side glinted in the late afternoon sun. Another quick shiver ran through her as the clouds parted…
A bloated thing made of dark spines and twisted, black shell—fat and oblong like a blister in the middle—rose from the dense fog trailing putrid green gasses, some sort of organic exhaust. Decks had been cut into the hard stuff, but she couldn’t make sense of them or the crew that scampered across them. She was hard-pressed to identify any vital spot at all. There was no unprotected bladder to pierce, no sense of where the airship’s soft places might be. She hesitated.
Something lived inside the vessel.
Some belly-swollen worm that stretched from bow to stern, undulating within like a snail in its shell. Its gaping maw was a ring of muscle, like tightened lips, drawing in air up front, heating it somehow, and expelling the waste at the rear as a form of propulsion. Side vents opened and closed with a clatter, venting gasses too, enabling the vessel to turn, albeit awkwardly.
How does the damned thing stay in the sky? Never mind that. How do I bring it down?
Stena caught her mouth hanging open and clamped it shut. She curled her lip at the vessel. “You’re an ugly bastard.”
In the back of her mind, she remembered a conversation with Dale soon after he’d chosen her for this mission, their interview taking place in his quarters at Precisor Hall. She remembered the sparseness of the room, the simple furnishings—a desk, lamp, three chairs—and the tidiness of the place. A neat stack of parchment sat on the desk in front of him, orders or declarations or whatever precisor generals were forced to examine and sign.
“You may see some things you don’t understand,” he’d said, his dark eyes regarding her with careful attention. The thin beginnings of a beard had formed along his jaw and chin. His light brown hair was ruffled, barely combed. Her instincts told her he’d not slept well in some time, but he was far from weakened by it. In fact, a tireless energy seemed to radiate from him, a glow of determination and urgency. Something, including this mission, was extremely important to him, and Stena knew she’d better take it just as seriously.
“I’ve seen it all, General,” she’d replied, standing at attention before him. And she
had
, or close enough to it: capering mermaids—more fish than woman—on the rocks off the coast of the Iron Islands; monstrous serpents that bumped the keel of her ship as they slid beneath; curious bands of serpentine brawn driving fear into the hearts of everyone on board. Even hers. And the most dangerous of them all were pirates, preying on weak merchant vessels, the kind of men, dwarves, gnomes, and elves who’d taken up a life of thieving and murder. She’d even faced the famed pirate king, Bras’vri Klarva across three hundred yards of ocean, taking pleasure in his scowl as he turned his ship around in the face of Stena’s cannons.
One of Dale’s eyebrows had raised, flashing her a confident yet hard smile. He was a serious gnome, a true precisor general, but there was a playfulness to his demeanor, as if every event in a gnome’s day could be added to a pile of simple life’s lessons.
Dale had placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “What do you know about what’s happened in Hightower these past few months? And have you ever heard of the ultraworlds?”
Stena had shaken her head.
The bulbous, bulging vessel was struggling to rise, waddling back and forth, pushing its nose toward
Swinger
with great swallows of air. Stena smiled. Overall, the thing’s propulsion systems seemed vastly inferior to their own. Whatever strange creature wormed and worked inside that ship, its sloshing, gurgling, wind-sucking system was no match for gnomish steam power.
Suddenly it coughed a spray at them that seared the air with the sound of grease spattering off a frying pan. Linsey deftly keeled
Swinger
to port with a slight upward bank. Blobs of steaming liquid hurtled past. One smoking bubble ran up the starboard side and off the rail, leaving charred wood in its wake.
Stena winced as she felt the heat where she stood.
Damn but that was close. And you’ll not get a chance to do it again.
She’d show them what it meant to draw the ire of Stena Wavebreaker.
As soon as Linsey leaned
Swinger
in again, Stena slammed her hand on a copper button next to her right-hand shifter and unleashed the ballistae with a collective
whoosh
. The thick, three-foot-long bolts zoomed through the air, peppering the enemy ship. Shells exploded, and the crew dodged and ducked.
“A hit,” Stena hissed, clutching her fist and bringing it down like a hammer. But her excitement waned as she realized just how little damage she’d done. The vessel kept spinning, getting its nose out ahead of
Swinger
. Stena’s brow wrinkled, eyes squinting at the strange maneuver. It appeared they were positioning themselves to…
“You’re going to ram us from way down there? Now that’s a laugh.”
A sudden release of gaseous fumes broke from the rear of the enemy vessel. The thing lurched and began to rise. Surely, it couldn’t…
But it
could
. The thing rode a gout of exhaust, almost shooting up from the clouds like a rocket. It was then that Stena realized her mistake. She’d seen a hundred ships in her lifetime, each built for various duties: trawling, fishing, ocean skirmishing… ramming. In her excited preoccupation with targeting the thing, Stena had failed to register the blunt, craggy block of shell jutting from the bow above the air-slurping mouth. The effigy of some ultraworldy
god was carved into it, and the dangerous ram was coming at them with alarming speed.
“Evasive maneuvers!”
But Linsey was well ahead of her, backing
Swinger
up and sideways in an attempt to draw them out of the path of the rushing ship. The enemy vessel had just enough maneuverability to match them. They were going to collide.
Linsey, you should have turned
into
them!
Stena thought about correcting their course, but any change of direction at this point would likely play to the enemy’s favor. They could only soften the blow by retreating. The starboard ballistae had reloaded themselves, but
Swinger
’s starboard side had risen too high, and she’d lost sight of the enemy even though its noise could be heard tearing through the gray sky.
“Brace for impact!” Stena tried to shout over the enemy ship and gusting wind, but she wasn’t sure if anyone heard her. As for herself, the aerostat captain kept her hands on the ballistae controls, hoping to get a chance to loosen another volley.
Swinger
’s stern lifted, her bow dipping dangerously into the sky. Stena fell against the observation deck rail, her belly crushed against the firing controls, as the world tilted. Dizziness rushed over her, yet she fought to keep a clear head. There was no sign of the enemy, but Stena seemed to have lost her sense of location. Suspended as they were in the gray and white sky, it was difficult to gauge where Linsey had put them. The grotesque vessel could be just below or perhaps had already passed by their stern. Stena couldn’t even turn her head to look.
Suddenly, the enemy was there. Its ram blasted by, crunching across
Swinger
’s starboard side with a shattering of wood and metal. Pieces of propellers and ballistae snapped and flew through the air. The side rail pressed in and cracked. Stena was thrown back and forth, and if it hadn’t been for the cozy quarters on the observation deck, she’d have gone over the side to tumble through the sky.
The body of the enemy vessel glanced against
Swinger
’s hull, pushing them up and sideways in a stomach-turning lurch. Stena couldn’t see what was happening down there, but it seemed the ripping, crashing noises lasted forever until the ships finally separated in a groan of wood and squeal of shattered shell. A cloud of noxious exhaust had caught up with them, filling Stena’s nose with a scent reminiscent of manure and skunk. Her eyes burned. Her lungs, too.