Sitting beside her, he unslung the pipa and waited, watching the door. Kalea’s eyes roved over the crowd again. She would have to shake her hips in front of all these men. Hopefully, Bowaen had a plan.
Elbowing her arm, Chandran pointed to the open door. “It’s happening. Get ready.” He stalled, hands poised on the pipa strings, and stared from under his hood like a snake under a rock.
Bowaen was unmistakable with the turtle-like box on his back, hidden under his cloak. He and Del pushed against the thick crowd to snatch a table as soon as its drunkards left. Bowaen’s eyes shifted as he spoke to his apprentice. The younger man’s long, heavy smoking pipe dangled against his back by a leather strap, which he removed to load with tobacco.
Chandran allowed them a moment to talk to a barmaid before readjusting his hands on the instrument. “Begin,” he whispered, and struck a note followed by a chain of up and down strumming.
The crowd hushed, eyes gravitating toward her and Chandran. Lightheaded and heart throbbing, Kalea rose up, her arms emerging from the cloak before the rest of her body. Her stomach lurched. Unless she could mentally block out the reality of the crowd’s many eyes, she might end this performance with a vomit. Would Bowaen even recognize her wearing the wig?
As she swayed and sauntered around the room, doing the variety of moves Chandran had taught her, the men cleared a path. She might’ve forgotten some of the routine, so she filled it in as best she could, trying not to freeze up at the individuals who eyeballed her body without reserve. Chandran had played for her a specific note and made her memorize its sound. The note told her to go five paces more. Because they couldn’t predict where Bowaen would sit or stand, Chandran would have to figure out as she danced where she should linger and hold the audience’s attention.
Chandran struck his special note, telling her to go farther. His song flourished, plucking single strings and swiping all four. The special note rang again and she increased her distance, going to the far side of the room where a slim patron with a white cloak sat by himself. A large, silver bird with a red tail and a black, hooked bill perched on his shoulder.
She swung close enough to spy youthful blue eyes under his white hood. He placed his hand on her naked waist when she twirled past him. His hand made a full rotation around her middle. She couldn’t bother to be mad in her concentration.
She remained swaying and shimmying her hips next to this patron because the special note remained absent. In fact, Chandran struck the hip-snapping note rapidly. Twang, twang, twang-twang-twang. The note increased in speed. Sweat dripped down her face. Some patrons’ mouths dropped open.
Twang-twang-twang-twang. She’d collapse soon, or at least lose the rhythm and look sloppy. Her buttocks jiggled, her chest jiggled, her belly dripped sweat, and nearly a hundred faces gawked at her. Hardly a week ago, she had taken her vows to become a vestal, covered head to toe in linens and silks.
Kee-erp! Kee-erp! The silver bird screamed and took off from the white-cloaked man’s shoulder. The bird’s owner gasped.
Chandran stood poised with a long pipe to his lips, ready to blow a poisoned dart into Bowaen’s neck. His weapon was painted to look like a flute. Dangling by his side from its woven strap, the pipa continued the hip-snapping note on its own by some enchantment so he could aim the shot.
Rising from his seat and flinging his arms forward, the white-cloaked man shouted, “Keelinga!”
A wire of lightning shot out of his ring and arced across the large room to zap Chandran. The flash stunned the crowd, and they dove out of the way in all directions. The lightning knocked Chandran to the floor.
“Sorcerer! Get out of here, everyone!” the white-cloaked patron yelled in a soprano voice, and the majority of the crowd took his advice and flooded through every exit in the tavern.
Amidst the tumbling confusion, Bowaen climbed to his feet, freeing the mysterious sword once again because his normal one had broken a few nights ago.
Chandran rolled away from his strike and threw a glowing glass object at the wall. After the crack of glass, a heavy steam spilled, out of which rose a glowing wisp with a skeletal face.
The white-cloaked man gasped and grabbed Kalea’s arm to push her toward the door. “Get out of here!”
The door gaped, unobstructed, after all the establishment’s patrons evacuated. She ran a few paces but couldn’t abandon Bowaen.
The white wraith from Chandran’s glass ball set its empty eye sockets on Bowaen and hissed. It sucked a strong pull of air into its howling mouth, which generated enough wind to make Kalea’s hair fly.
The wind blew off the stranger’s hood, revealing the white hair native to Sharr, the island south of the Lightlands. Under his cloak, he wore a uniform tabard similar to the Wistaran Grey Knights, but he didn’t carry a sword. His bird perched on the second floor banister after a few passes around the room.
“Kalea!” Chandran called as she gawked at the white-haired stranger. “Stop him! Distract him!” He pointed to Del, who, being closest to the wraith, had ducked under a table to escape the sucking wind and now emerged with his heavy smoking pipe gripped in one hand.
“Get down!” the white-haired stranger yelled as the wraith spun, sending a reverse wind this time.
She ducked under a table, mimicking Del. Tap, tap, tap-tap! When the sound stopped hitting the tabletop, she chanced a peek. Pale, glassy quills were lodged into the wood. They vanished within seconds, leaving splintery notches in the table. Those things would’ve turned Kalea’s flesh into chewed meat if she hadn’t listened to the stranger. He ordered her to stay low. She stood anyway to check on Bowaen, who fended off Chandran’s aggressive strikes. She darted to the next table, making her way closer to Chandran.
The white-haired man snatched the pipe out of Del’s hand when he rose from his hiding place. “That’s mine!” Del grabbed for his pipe, and the young man held it away.
“Get down and stay down!” he responded in his soft, yet commanding voice.
The wraith began to suck the air again, and Kalea’s hair stirred stronger than before. Her feet slid along the floor—she’d ventured too close to the spirit.
As soon as the wind died, she was tackled. She screamed, but let herself fall below the table. The white-haired man had grabbed her. He pulled her under with him, Del’s smoking pipe in his other hand. The sound of clashing blades rang on.
“Are you a Grey Knight?” she asked.
“I’m a Grey Mage.”
She’d never seen a Grey Mage patrolling around before.
Thok, thok, thok-thok! The hammering sound of larger quills muffled her reply.
“You have to sprint for the door,” he said, “before the sprott’s quills grow large enough to obliterate these tables.”
“Sprott?”
“Yes, the spirit. Go now!” They both stood, and he pushed her again, though she refused to leave.
“Kalea!” Chandran called again.
She ran toward him, lifted a stool which used to stand by the fire but had been sucked across the floor, and threw it at Chandran. It banged his shoulder and he roared, his eyes blazing in anger.
Bowaen took the offense, and Chandran dodged and parried his swings.
The sprott sucked again, and Kalea squealed as she fell and slid toward it. She crawled to another table at the next opportunity.
Slam, slam-slam, slam! The wood splintered above her head. The tip of a glass quill glinted through. The tables wouldn’t stand against the next wave of quills.
The Grey Mage righted one of the tables close to where the sprott hovered, climbed onto it, took a long drag of Del’s pipe, and blew a large puff of smoke at the creature. The tobacco smoke made it fade and separate into wisps which drifted back together within a moment.
It sucked in again, but so did the Grey Mage. He also raised his hand, decorated with a few stone rings. The mage blew the smoke before the sprott finished its pull. With the introduction of tobacco smoke into its being, it lurched and p
ut off red sparks as it disappeared for a few moments.
The mage took the moment to release another charge of lightning toward Chandran. “Keelinga!” The bolt arced across the room and hit him again, but this time branched and touched Bowaen’s extended hand as well. The two collapsed.
Kalea sprinted that way, hurdling over disarrayed tables and benches. Bowaen groaned, on his back, the sword out of his hand. Chandran sprawled in about the same condition. She crouched over Chandran.
Another pull of air stirred. “Damn it, I need more tobacco!” the mage yelled behind her.
Del yelled to her, “Kill him! Kalea, kill him!”
The wind picked up hard. She grabbed Chandran’s clothes to steady herself. There weren’t any blades within easy reach she could use to slit his throat, but she had no intention of killing anyone anyway. She ripped open the button at the top of his vest and found Dorhen’s moonstone.
The wind sucked stronger. The mage cursed. “Where’s another pipe?”
Chandran’s eyes opened and focused on her. The pendant’s thong was caught under his straps and garments.
“You have to get out!” the mage screamed. “All of you!”
The next wave of quills wouldn’t be kind. Kalea gave up on the pendant and dragged Bowaen toward the hearth, now cold because the fire had long been sucked away. He came to enough to finish dragging himself. She huddled beside its stonework. Bowaen couldn’t quite fit beside it with her, so he crouched, using his strongbox as a shield.
Clink, clink, clink-clink! The hearth stones sprayed chips as the quills ricocheted off of them. Afterward, Bowaen’s box showed scars under his shredded cloak. Its surface had remained intact because of the iron reinforcements.
Chandran must’ve prepared himself for summoning such a dangerous creature, because no quills stuck out of his body. He slowly came to with fluttering eyelids and grunts. He turned over and crawled toward the sword on the floor.
Kalea lunged and beat him to it, swung the blade in an arc, and stopped it short over his head. “Lie flat, Chandran!”
He scowled at her from the floor, balling his fists as the blade pointed at his face. “I should’ve known…”
“You should’ve! Give me my stone now.”
“Kalea!” Bowaen called.
The wind stirred again.
Chandran fumbled the stone out from under his shirt. “There!” He threw it, and she chased after it.
The mage found someone’s abandoned tobacco pipe and hurried to suck its smoke into his lungs and hastily expel it into the sprott’s ingoing air.
Del, in possession of his own pipe again, slammed it atop Chandran’s head before he could rise to his feet and engage Bowaen hand-to-hand.
The pendant bounced off the wall and Kalea tracked its path, diving for it as the vortex of wind died. Another burst of quills would happen in a moment. The moonstone didn’t break when it hit.
“Kalea, take cover!” Bowaen called.
No table stood nearby, and most of them were full of holes anyway. The wind blew. She couldn’t run up the stairs; they were too far away. She crouched and covered herself. She put the sword over her head, hoping its wide blade could stop a few quills.
The wind roared. Stinging grains of sand brushed Kalea’s hands and arms like sleet. Red sparks fired off, crackling and popping and intensifying until the sprott vanished in a loud inward zip.
Kalea lowered the sword from over her head.
“Is everyone all right?” the mage asked.
Chandran had fled.
“Been better,” Bowaen answered.
“I’m alive,” Kalea mumbled. She inspected her naked torso and arms. The little grains in the wind had made tiny red streaks on her skin, but that was the extent of the damage. She smiled and put the stone around her neck where it belonged.
The mage whistled, and his parrot glided down from the upstairs on wide silver wings. Kalea made her way over to thank the young man and ask his name.
“You didn’t see me. Tell no one,” he said.
She stopped and frowned as he put his hood back on, now full of holes, and rushed out the door with his bird’s wings flapping to keep balance. After gawking at his behavior, she held out the sword to Bowaen.
“Here. This is meant to be with you.”
Bowaen cocked his head and hesitantly reached out to receive it. “I don’t think I want it anymore.” Nonetheless, he sheathed it and motioned to Kalea. “Did he hurt you?”
She shrugged. “It’s over now.”
He took a moment to study her face, which she kept as level as she could. “Well, here we are again. We found you with him two days ago. We were trying to figure how and when to make a move, but at the same time we had to play dumb. We kept traveling to make him think he was following us instead of the other way around. I guess I’m…well, sorry we couldn’t free you sooner.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It was a difficult situation, but we made it in the end, didn’t we?”
After a sharp nod, he turned and called Del’s name. “Let’s go!”
Outside the tavern, a huge silver bird rose into the copper sky. A man, tiny in the distance, rode on its back with a white cloak flying behind him.
Chandran sat in a dark alley, listening to the whisper stone the kingsorcerer had granted him. The groaning voice echoed inhumanly off the shining facets.
You’ve wasted too many valuable spells, Chandran. I’ll give you one more chance. Say your chants and your prayers to Naerezek. Abort the process if you manage to get the sword.
Chandran clapped his fist around the stone as its vibrations faded.
Chapter 25
A Use for the Monster
Wikshen serves no one, you fool! Wikshen serves no one, you fool! Wikshen serves no one, you fool!
“Are you listening?”
A tremor rushed through Wikshen’s body and lingered across his back. They had hit him? The blur coiling around in his vision separated and settled into discernible shapes. He closed his eyes.
“He’s not even as useful as the dunces, eh, my lord?” Harn said, standing beside the tall oaf with blue hair who stared into oblivion. He hadn’t even reacted when Harn hit him with the cat o’nine tails.
Lamrhath rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m going to kill Daghahen when I catch him again. Not a word will be shared. The moment I see him, or anyone like him, their head will come off.”
He lowered his hands and glowered again at the lumbering, incoherent monster his nephew had become. Dorhen was the wrong candidate. After the last few days spent reading the only book at the outpost to mention Wikshen, hardly pausing to eat or even alleviate his sexual malady, and holding a few long communications with his followers at the tower through the whisper stone, Lamrhath had learned much.
First of all, Dorhen was an uneducated idiot, yet only one past Wikshen was said to be particularly intelligent, so that couldn’t be the issue. And Dorhen had possessed a potent ability in transitional magic—a phenomenal coincidence which should’ve been an enormous help. But after poring through a list of traits, histories, facts, and myths, Lamrhath settled on one important trait Dorhen didn’t seem to have: aggression.
The very first Wikshen—recounted several hundred years after the fact in history books because the historians had gone around listening to word-of-mouth tales retold in the Darklands—had been a vile brute, full of anger and piss, who led a misfit army around the grasslands raiding for fortune and women. The man Wik had freely chosen was neither magically talented nor smart. He was aggressive, and so were the following six Wikshen-candidates. That trait was the one Dorhen seemed to lack. Although he had tried to escape and killed sorcerers here in the outpost as well as in the convent on the night of the collection, he had still lacked a certain level of grit typical to other Wikshen-candidates. Another remarkable thing was his docility, considering the fact that saehgahn were typically more aggressive than men in their natural instincts—they were jus
t more apt to control their instincts than men were.
The problem Lamrhath faced was that there was no good fix for their dilemma. If they destroyed this Wikshen, Wik might be too weak to perform any more feats for another few centuries. According to the books, it took a lot of a pixie’s energy to perform pixtah, even though breaking the sphere had forced him to do it. The pixie naturally drifted around, collecting energy from its environment. As Wikshen, he would use transitional spells to absorb minerals and a much larger cache of energy from the earth.
Sadly, Wik had spent the past six hundred years or more cooped up in a glass ball, unable to collect any energy. If they released Wik from its current host now, the pixie might devolve to a minor fairy form. The better choice would be to let him live as he was and see if they could use his special Wikshen talents to suit their faction.
It was time to go home. They had a larger library in the Ilbith towers from which to glean more information. Who knew what secrets waited to be uncovered?
Lamrhath approached the blue-haired oaf. Numerous red streaks wound around Wikshen’s naked torso. Some of the older ones from this morning had sealed up and faded already; the books had said Wikshen healed fast.
He still wore the long, black sheet they’d found him in the day after the incident. They couldn’t remove it from him. They had tried to so he could wear their faction’s uniform, but the sheet would not budge. A thick cord, made from a material they couldn’t place, was strung through it, trailing from the side of his hip diagonally to the front, where it ended at the open slit above his knee. The knot at the end of the cord wouldn’t come undone, and they couldn’t cut it or the fabric. In their persistent fight with the fabric, it even began to move, avoiding their hands as if it were…alive.
So there Wikshen stood, wearing a black shift draped around his waist, with no shirt or leggings or shoes. Every once in a while, they found him wearing black fingerless gloves and matching toeless socks, but those garments came and went mysteriously.
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