People say a lot of nasty things about outlaws. We’re criminals. Con men. Duplicitous double-dealing two-faced thieves who can’t be counted on for anything except betrayal. And okay, sure, that’s all true, but there’s something to be said for a little judicious treachery now and then. No doubt my failure to meet their fate alongside them would prove to everyone that Tournam had been right about me all along. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t be dead.
So, really, win-win.
Another shimmer in the onyx, and I could feel the road splintering beneath me. I had maybe five seconds before it faded away completely. If I fell through, would I just keep falling through shadow forever, or would I crash into whichever hell is reserved for craven tricksters who abandon their comrades?
Four seconds …
This was stupid. I didn’t even know these people, and what little I did know didn’t exactly endear them to me. That bastard Tournam had been ready to kill me. How long would it be until he found an excuse to finish the job?
Three …
The marshland to the left of the road was looking real good now. I’m no expert on geography, but I could’ve sworn I’d seen something just like it in the eastern region of the Seven Sands. I had friends in the borderlands. Friends who might be willing to supply me with a horse and enough money and supplies to make my way south to the Golden Passage.
Two …
I jumped across to the last two panes of shadow. The sounds from the other side of the fog had grown quiet. Maybe Diadera and the others had won. Maybe they were dead.
One …
An eerie, inhuman voice cackled triumphantly through the fog.
Guess that settles who won the fight.
I was just about to leap into the marsh when an entirely different voice stopped me short. This one wasn’t coming through the fog though. It was in my head, and all too familiar; that irritating, unrelenting frontier drawl that had a tendency to buzz through my skull at times like these. “The path ain’t just a destination, kid,” Ferius was saying. “The path is who you are and who you aim to be.”
Just as my feet left the onyx road, my body twisted awkwardly in mid-air, sending me not to the welcoming safety of the marshland, but through the fog to whatever awaited me beyond. It occurred to me in that moment that my Argosi mentor seemed to be intruding on my decisions a lot more now than she ever had when we’d travelled together.
Sometimes I hate you, Ferius.
32
The Mad Mage
They hung in the air, their wrists bound painfully aloft by twisting black vines. Diadera, Tournam, Butelios, Suta’rei, Azir and Ghilla swayed back and forth like cornstalks on a windy day, trussed up with shadowblack tethers thick as ropes and textured like spiked tree roots. Trickles of blood dribbled down the captives’ arms where the thorns pressed into tender flesh.
The man—if you could call the jeering, screaming lunatic who danced around his prisoners while tearing strips from his own skin that—taunted them in giddy delight.
“Thought you could hunt down Tas’diem, eh?” he cooed melodiously. Fingers with blackened nails too long and sharp to be human dug into his own cheeks. A thick, ebony sludge seeped from the wounds, spreading over the contours of his face. “But Tas’diem is too fast for you, children! Too clever! Too powerful!” As if to emphasise his point, the tattooed metallic bands around his forearms began to spark and shimmer.
Figures this jerk would be Jan’Tep.
He hadn’t noticed me yet, clearly too occupied with the very important work of announcing his infinite superiority while ripping himself apart. Diadera tried to get my attention with her eyes, signalling for me to get away. That was a very bad sign. Usually when people are in trouble, they expect you to try to help them, not flee. She mouthed a word to me: rabbit.
No, wait, that couldn’t be right.
Cabbage?
She rolled her eyes at me and mouthed the word again. This time I got it: abbot.
Sure. All I had to do was flee this place—with no idea where I was since the only landmarks consisted of dried-out greenery that withered more and more each time the dancing madman gouged his own flesh—and somehow get back to the Ebony Abbey to find the abbot. That should take only about, oh, say, forever, since the kid who’d brought me here was hanging from his wrists and no doubt soon to die. Sometimes other people’s plans are even worse than mine.
Not by much though.
“Hey, moron,” I called out to the lunatic.
He turned. It took a moment for his wildly shifting eyes to locate me. Streaming tendrils of his shadowblack darted out at me, the ends splitting apart like the mouths of snakes, hissing an ebony mist into the air in front of me.
“Diadera, now!” I shouted. “The binding spell!”
The mage spun, his hands coming up to form a defensive somatic form. He muttered the incantation and the Jan’Tep bands around his forearms sparked briefly as he tried to summon the magics of iron and sand. But the glyphs didn’t produce the grey and gold light that they should have. Instead the sparks turned black.
So when the shadowblack takes over, it blocks Jan’Tep bands from drawing on the other forms of magic. That might be useful information some day. If I survive today.
I sent a pair of steel cards spinning through the air at Tas’diem. One caught him in the chest, embedding itself for just a moment before falling to the ground. More of the black ichor seeped from the wound.
This must be how the demon takes over, I realised then. The shadowblack turns the body’s internal fluids into some kind of etheric essence that reshapes flesh and bone.
My second card had struck him in the forehead, and that’s when I noticed the three protrusions pushing through his sallow skin. He screamed in pain, yet continued—as under an irresistible compulsion—to tear at himself.
His tendrils came for me a second time and I dived forward, rolling under them and bashing my shoulder on the hard, knobby ground in the process. I wished I’d kept up with my dancing practice after I’d left Ferius. I came back up just a couple of feet from Tas’diem, jumped up and then kicked out with both legs. He went stumbling backwards, but soon regained his balance, shaking his head in disbelief. “You think you can defeat a lord magus with tumbler’s tricks?”
Okay, so arta eres wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Screw it. For all the Ferius’s training, I’d never been much better with my fists than with magic. I’d always, however, been an outstanding liar.
I put my hands up, palms out in what any Jan’Tep mage would recognise as a gesture of submission. “I just needed to get your attention, My Lord Magus. Are you calm now, Tas’diem? I can’t help you otherwise.”
The mage looked at me as though I were the insane one. Diadera was giving me the same look. Actually so was everyone else.
“I have what you need right here,” I continued. Very slowly I reached into the pouch at my right side, scraping the crevice in the leather with my fingernails. My ancestors must’ve been smiling down at me because a pinch worth of the black powder slid out from one of the folds. I held up a few grains to show Tas’diem.
“What is that? Why would I want it?” He spread his arms wide. “I will soon be more powerful than any mage in the history of this world!”
“I know, my lord, but the pain … It must be beyond belief.”
That right there was one of the foundations of my hastily constructed plan: the assumption that screaming and insane gesticulations were evidence that whatever was happening to Tas’diem was, at the very least, uncomfortable.
“You can blunt the torment?” he asked. “I thought it was impossible … My own spells have proven ineffect—”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “The Black Blessing grants us a thousand wonders, but each comes with its price. That’s why I’m here, to help you as you join—” I paused dramatically for a count of three—“the Order of Onyx.”
Tas’diem stared back at me through narrowed eyes almost as full of suspicion as
they were of black ichor. I was making up the stuff about onyx orders and the black blessings and, well, all of it. Here’s the thing though: in all my travels I’ve never found anyone other than the abbot who knew much of anything about the shadowblack, so who’s to say I wasn’t right? Maybe there really was some kind of brotherhood of shadowblack demons. Either way, someone going mad from agony is going to be highly predisposed to believing there might be a remedy for their suffering. I say this as someone who’s spent six months being suckered by every snake-oil salesman on the continent flogging cures for the shadowblack.
“Show me,” Tas’diem commanded, his ebony tendrils swaying as they reached out to me.
I gave a small bow. “Of course, my lord.”
Time to peddle my own miracle cure.
33
The Miracle Cure
The three protrusions on Tas’diem’s forehead were beginning to push through his skin. A trickle of black ichor slithered its way down from the wounds, dripping into his eyes. He blinked furiously, anxiously holding my gaze with a hunger that only someone in agony who realises they haven’t even begun to hit the limits of their pain can convey.
“Give me the cure,” he groaned, punctuating his words with a sob. Tendrils of shadowblack erupted from his chest and arms, then split apart into even more threadlike appendages. They reached out for the grains of powder in my palm.
Here’s the secret to a good grift: it’s not about confidence like you might hear in the shouts of market hawkers trying to fleece their marks with curative ointments and virility potions. You don’t even need the near-religious exuberance peddled by roadside preachers swearing that their stash of finger bones will bring salvation in the afterlife and increased virility in this one (don’t ask me why, but virility is pretty much always part of the package). No, the real key to a successful flimflam job—as I’d learned over the many months of being swindled out of my hard-earned coins—is denial.
I closed my hand over the paltry pinch of black powder. “Forgive me, My Lord Magus. I see now that I was in error. The sacred dust is not for you.”
Tas’diem’s upper lip curled, showing his teeth like a dog about to bite, but his eyes betrayed his desperate longing. “You would refuse me?”
I nodded sadly. “It is too powerful, my lord. In your present weaken—” I cut myself off. A touch theatrical perhaps, but screw it. As Reichis generously said to me once, some skinbags are even more gullible than I am. “The transformation is especially difficult … for some.”
The mage let out a howl of pain as the middle protuberance pushed further out from his skull. “Give it to me!” he screamed. The tendrils of his shadowblack wound around my wrist. They dragged me off my feet towards him. I kept my hand tightly closed. “Lord Magus, no! The sacred dust will kill you! The only way to survive is to … But no, it is too dangerous.”
The shadows holding my wrist snapped upwards, yanking me into the air and holding me there by one arm. It hurt a lot more than I’d’ve expected. “Tell me!” the mage howled.
“The dust relies on the shadowblack itself to turn the torment into pleasure. You must draw the energies back into your body and then swallow the powder.”
See how I threw the word “pleasure” in there? Why sell someone a fake cottage when you can offer them a make-believe mansion instead?
For all his pain, Tas’diem wasn’t an idiot. His eyes narrowed. He glanced up at Diadera and the others, hanging in the air by the tendrils of his shadowblack. “You seek to trick me into freeing them?” He jabbed a thumb against his chest, the claw at the end piercing his robes and the skin beneath to wound himself further each time. “I am the trickster here! I am the one who skilfully deceived the war coven!”
“Clever indeed, My Lo—I’m sorry, deceived the who now?”
He twirled around, enthralled by his own cleverness and, evidently, the presence of an audience. “That fool Ke’heops called me his finest hunter! All the while I hid deep within the very army of mages that crosses this continent executing lesser shadowblacks!” He proudly displayed his arms, the skin bloated from the black fluid underneath. “Each time I stay behind to drain the dead, taking their shadows from them as I ascend step by step to perfection!” He stopped whirling when he came back round to me. “But you think Tas’diem a fool, don’t you? Luring me in with false promises to get me to free the black binders?”
How on earth had this nutjob tricked my father and the entire Jan’Tep war coven?
I shook my head vigorously. “No, my lord. I was sent from the Onyx Order to infiltrate the Ebony Abbey and uncover its location. Soon my brethren will be swarming their lair, destroying each and every one of them. We will make of their foul monastery a grand temple for ourselves.” I gestured to the others. “I only came here because I feared these few, weak and dull-witted as they are, might catch you unawares. But now I see you are fine, so I should go back and—”
“I am not fine!” Tas’diem bellowed. The bones of his shoulders were starting to stick out, the jagged edges piercing his robes. “The pain, it is too much!”
Considering how badly my arm was hurting from just hanging in the air, I could almost sympathise.
Almost.
“I have an idea, my lord! What if you were to bring most of your shadow back into your body, and use only what you must to keep these enemies bound? If we are lucky, you’ll have still have enough within you to endure the sacred dust.”
The tendril attached to my wrist lowered me back to the ground. “And you say this will turn the pain into pleasure?”
“Most assuredly, my lord. I have seen it used by others, and I am told the feelings are wondrous.” I glanced around. “Though it would be better if there were a tavern or village nearby.”
“Why?”
“Because …” I did my best to look sheepish. “My brethren tell me that one of the effects of the sacred dust is a pronounced increase in … sexual desire and potency.”
You would think that someone in agony being offered a release to their pain wouldn’t care about such things, but, like I said, increased virility is pretty much a necessity in any miracle cure. Tas’diem grinned with fiendish excitement. The tendril holding me unwound itself from my wrist. “Yes. Yes! Give it to me!”
I reached into the pouch of black powder and took out every last speck that remained. “Here, my lord. Quickly. I see your time of change is almost upon you. Draw the energies back into yourself and place the dust on your tongue.”
His brow—what was left of it that wasn’t flaking off to reveal the horns on either side rising up to join the one at the centre of his forehead—furrowed with deep concentration. The rope-like shadows withered as they slithered back into his body. The tendrils holding Diadera and the others shrivelled and faded, though there was still enough there to hold them captive no matter how much they struggled against their bonds. Tournam, who I guess didn’t have much faith in my abilities as a con artist, shook his head as if to say, “See? You failed, dummy.”
Tas’diem approached me, his movements stiff and jerky, as if his muscles hadn’t yet learned how to make sense of his changing bones. He started to reach for the powder in my hand. Then he stopped.
And smiled.
“You first,” he said.
Remember what I said about denial? “No, my lord … I must not. The dust is sacred—not to be used until the appropriate time. You can see my own shadow markings are too small and weak. The dust would have no effect on me.”
“Then you shouldn’t be afraid to swallow some.”
Having been caught in his unassailable logic, I gave a small bow. “As you command, my lord.” I took about half the powder from my palm and placed it on my tongue.
Then I swallowed.
Everyone—I mean, everyone—was staring at me, waiting for me to fall dead or grow horns or something equally horrific.
Morons.
The only consequence of swallowing the black powder is a bad case of constipati
on. “You’ll need to place the sacred dust on your tongue, my lord,” I told Tas’diem as I held the rest of it out to him.
With remarkable restraint he’d held out against the pain a long time. Now that he saw the grains on my palm though, apparently safe and so close, he could resist no longer. He grabbed at my wrist and licked my palm clean. Disgusting.
“Good, my lord,” I said soothingly. “Now, don’t swallow. Keep the sacred dust there on your tongue as you utter the incantation—hold it as long as you can!”
He stared at me, confused.
I slapped my right hand against my forehead. “Forgive my stupidity, Lord Magus. The incantation is the first shadow syllable. Allow it to vibrate from your throat.”
Again he looked at me blankly, no doubt wondering what the hell a “shadow syllable” was.
“It’s ‘ah,’ my lord.” I gestured with my right hand to beckon him to speak.
“Ah?” he said tentatively.
I nodded, waving my hand even more. “Open wide and say, ‘Ah.’”
Somewhat surprisingly, he did. “Aaaaahhhhh,” he intoned.
“Just hold that a second longer, my lord.” The reason I’d been using my right hand to gesticulate whenever possible was so that he wouldn’t notice my left, that was now in my other pouch, scraping for every grain of red powder I could find. I tossed it all into the air, then, with both hands formed the somatic shapes: ring and little fingers pressed into my palms—the sign of restraint. Thumbs pointed to the sky, for whatever that was for, and middle and forefinger aimed straight at the crazy bastard’s wide open mouth. “Carath,” I said.
Normally I let the powders collide and then channel the explosion at my enemy, but I can guide anything light enough through the air—there just isn’t much force behind it. Fortunately that didn’t matter right now. Propelled by my spell, the red grains of powder flew right into Tas’diem’s mouth, where they met up with the black powders. The push of breath magic sent the mixture deep down into his gullet.
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