She recognized the paunchy Longdog. The one who killed Phille. Put a sword right through Phille’s chest and left him laying there in the street outside the prison.
That was less than two weeks ago. She could still remember Phille laying there, his life-blood leaking out, one hand stretched toward Norrine as if begging her to come back for him. He had told her to run after he tricked the Longdogs and helped her escape. Said he would distract them.
She watched him die from the safety of the tall grass a hundred yards away.
He probably thought they would put him in prison for a few years. Maybe cut off his hand. Stupid Phille. He’d always been more heart than brains. He’d helped a powder mage escape. A quick death was mercy for him.
The sound of Erika sniffling brought Norrine back to the present. She watched the noblewoman—the Forsworn—for a moment, puzzled. Were all nobles so squeamish? Norrine was used to blood and bodies. Da was a woodsman. The blood on his pants and jacket belonged to animals, but the blood of a fox or a beaver was no different than that of a human. Erika seemed slightly shocked by it all.
She thought about taking Erika’s hand. That’s what Da would do for her when she was scared. But Ma had said nobles didn’t like to be touched by commoners. “I’m Norrine,” she said.
“Erika,” the noblewoman responded faintly, though she had already introduced herself. She turned her attention away from the dead Longdogs and knelt next to Norrine. “You don’t have to be scared.”
“I’m not,” Norrine said, though she was. Of course she was scared. She had done everything she could to throw off their scent. She had blown up a powder barrel not far from the compound, using only her mind—the thrill still coursed through her—and then doubled back past the compound itself to throw them off. She’d lost the dogs by taking the river upstream, heading south, before doubling back once more. She had avoided roads, towns, and even isolated farms. Somehow the Longdogs were still on her trail.
‘Think like a critter,’ Da had always told her, teaching her how to be a woodsman. How to track game, trap beavers, trick foxes. Even how to avoid the cave lions that would sometimes come down from the mountains.
It wasn’t enough. Now this noble had killed two mage hunters and offered to help her go north, to Adro, where Phille had promised her it wasn’t illegal to be a powder mage.
Santiole took the men’s pocketbooks from their jackets and then tossed them in the mud and stepped away from the bodies. “It’ll look like a robbery,” she said. “And the villains ran when they realized who they’d attacked. Good shot, by the way. It could have been an inch higher, but good nonetheless.”
“I hesitated,” Erika responded.
“Everyone does on their first,” Santiole said. “If you hadn’t, there’d something wrong with you.”
Santiole barely seemed to acknowledge Norrine, which made her uncomfortable. The older woman didn’t seem to like the idea of helping a powder mage. Then again, who did? Norrine had been taught since she was little of the evil within powder mages. Only the memory of Phille’s murder kept Norrine from giving herself up.
Norrine studied Erika. The noblewoman might have been twenty or twenty-five, but Norrine was no good at judging age. She had a pretty face, clear of blemishes and with a slightly-upturned nose and blue eyes, and dirty-blonde hair. Could Norrine trust her? She had the brand, and Norrine had heard her name before. The Forsworn heir of the Leora duchy.
It could be a trick. Da always said that people were far more cunning than animals, because their cunning could be cruel whereas an animal, even when playing a trick, was always honest.
Norrine reached out with her senses. She could feel the powder that Santiole carried. A full powder horn, along with several prepared powder charges for her musket and pistol. Norrine could ignite it with her mind, killing both Santiole and Erika, and run for the mountains. If this was some kind of trap, it would be safer than going with them.
Norrine’s senses touched upon something else. More powder. But Santiole wasn’t carrying it.
Erika was.
Not much. Certainly not more than a couple charges worth. But she had it on her person. It gave Norrine a little thrill. Erika was already breaking her oath, it seemed, which would put her at odds with any more Longdogs they happened across. Maybe Norrine could trust her.
Erika’s voice cut into Norrine’s thoughts. “Let’s see about getting you to Adro.”
Erika left Santiole and Norrine in the forest about an hour from the Leora family manor and went on ahead, knowing that the servants would already be clearing the dining room table by the time she arrived.
That was the least of her concerns. The whole lawn was in shadow, the sun almost gone behind the trees, as she rode down the gravel drive to the great manor house and she worried that someone might have already spotted them with the girl.
It would only take one errant word, a peasant mentioning that he’d seen Erika and Santiole with a child, or a visiting relative noticing Santiole’s absence, and this whole endeavor would fall apart. Erika couldn’t let anyone know that the child was here—a difficult task in a manor full of gossiping servants—and she couldn’t afford to make a single mistake.
She left her gelding with one of the grooms and headed in through the front door, returning the servants’ greetings and taking a small scolding from the head butler with a smile.
Sweat trickled down the back of her neck as she slipped past her grandfather’s study and started up the staircase in the grand hall. Santiole would bring the girl onto the manor grounds by one of the riding trails and stash her with some food and bedding in one of the lesser-used stables. She could stay there until morning, by which time Erika would have thought of a reason to go visit her parents in Adro.
“Erika, is that you?”
Erika froze half way up the staircase and cursed under her breath. “Yes, grandfather.” She returned to the door of his study.
The old man sat in his favorite wingback chair with his feet up on a hassock and a fire burning in the hearth. He set his book facedown on his stomach and gazed at her from over his reading spectacles. “You missed dinner.”
“Sorry, grandfather.”
“Your grandmother will give you an earful.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Fine, fine.” He made a dismissive gesture. “She’s too protective anyway. Where do you think your mother got it from? Where’s Santiole?”
“Just tending to the horses.”
“Isn’t that what we have grooms for?”
“You know how she is,” Erika said.
“Oh? How is she?”
“Just, um, fretting over everything,” Erika muttered.
He watched her for a few moments. “Is something wrong?”
Erika forced a smile. “Not at all, grandfather.”
“You bag anything?”
She shook her head. “Santiole had me shooting squirrels.”
“Hard buggers to hit. Oh well. You’ll get them next time. You can shoot at them from the window for all I care. The damned things keep getting into my garden.” He lifted his book and scanned the page for his place. “Get cleaned up and look in the kitchen for your dinner. Daphnie has kept something warm for you.”
Erika bounded up the stairs, happy to be away without any more questions and eager to avoid grandmother for at least an hour or two. She bathed and changed her clothes, then went back down to get her dinner from the cook. The quail was tender, the potatoes smothered in butter, and the beans roasted in garlic. Daphnie explained that the raspberry tart would be the last of grandfather’s berries for the season.
“Daphnie, have you seen Santiole?” she asked the cook as she finished off her dinner at the servants’ table.
Daphnie was a sturdy woman of about thirty-five, wearing an apron that always seemed covered in flour. She cracked a pair of walnuts in one hand and picked the flesh out of the shell, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Came in a little wh
ile after you did,” the cook said. “I think she’s with the master.”
“Thank you.” Erika left the last few bites and snuck out into the back hallway, stepping gently, avoiding the creaky floorboards, until she was within hearing distance of the servants’ entrance to grandfather’s study.
She could hear grandfather’s voice, but not what he was saying. Was he talking to Santiole, or one of the servants? Or grandmother? If it was grandmother, Erika needed to stay clear but if it was Santiole...well, Erika had to know if everything went smoothly with Norrine.
She took one more step and cringed as the floorboard creaked loudly under her slippered foot.
“Erika,” grandfather’s voice said. “Come here.”
How the pit did he know it was her? She let out a soft sigh and stepped around the corner, plastering a smile to her face. “Yes, grandfather?”
The smile slid off just as quickly as she’d put it there. Grandfather stood beside the fire, his book abandoned, Santiole beside him. The mistress-at-arms looked serious while grandfather’s forehead furrowed and he drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece thoughtfully.
“Close the door, child.”
The door to the main hallway was already closed. Erika shut the one behind her and felt a sheen of sweat in the small of her back.
“I understand you had your first real kill today,” grandfather said.
“I don’t....”
The lord of the Leora duchy snorted. “Don’t lie to me, girl. Santiole may be your tutor, but she’s my mistress-at-arms. Do you think she’d keep this from me? I know about the mage hunters and I know about the girl.”
Despite his gruff tone, grandfather kept his voice low. He always said that in a nobleman’s house the walls had ears and that even loyal servants might be spying for another noble family.
“Come here.”
Erika crossed the room to stand before her grandfather, trying to look as ashamed as possible. What would he do now? Turn the girl over to the mage hunters? Maybe even turn Erika over? The idea that her own grandfather would betray her had never crossed her mind, but Erika found her nerves suddenly frayed at the thought.
“Chin up. Look me in the eyes,” grandfather said.
She looked up at his face in time to feel the sudden sharp blow of the back of his hand across her cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to make her stumble, but sharp enough to smart. The shock of it was worse than the pain—her grandfather had never been a violent man, even to the boys in the family.
“There’s a consequence for every action, my dear,” grandfather said. He took her chin in her hand and gently rubbed her cheek.
She forced herself to not flinch away. “Yes, sir.”
“No ‘sir,’ my girl. I’m still grandfather.” He gave her a fond smile, but his eyes seemed tired. He turned away to look into the fire. “You did the right thing killing those Longdogs. This won’t be the last time you bloody your hands and Santiole tells me that you barely hesitated. I’m proud of you. Life is cheap in Kez. You have to earn the right for yours to be costly.”
“You’re...proud of me?”
“You came home alive. I know the king’s mage hunters, girl. They’re an unscrupulous lot of murderers and thieves. They would have killed you without hesitation if they thought they could get away with it.”
He still hasn’t brought up the girl. Oh pit. What has he done? Has he ordered Santiole to kill her? Grandfather was not heartless, but he had a reputation for ruthlessness when the safety of his family was concerned. He was a pragmatist first and foremost.
“This never goes beyond this room,” grandfather said.
Erika nodded. A Kez noble is taught many things as a child. Among them, the value of silence.
“What do you have on tap for Erika tomorrow?” Grandfather asked Santiole.
The mistress-at-arms cleared her throat. “Fencing in the morning. Riding in the afternoon, and mathematics in the evening.”
Erika groaned inwardly. She hated mathematics.
“Cancel the arithmetic tutor. I have business in Norport and Erika has decided she would like to return to see her parents in Adro a little earlier than she’d initially planned. We’ll travel light with just a few men and leave tomorrow after my meeting with Lord Sibil in the afternoon.” He pointed at Erika. “When we get to Norport I’ll put you on a schooner across the Adsea to Adopest.”
Erika swallowed. “And the girl?”
“She’ll be going with you. There are people in Adopest who will take her in, and once she’s there you’re to wash your hands of this whole business. Do you understand?”
Erika let out a soft sigh and said a silent prayer of thanks to Kresimir. “Yes, grandfather.”
“Get some sleep. We’re going to ride hard tomorrow. I don’t intend to stop anywhere long enough to get caught with a powder mage runaway.”
Erika arrived at the practice yard behind the main stables at dawn to spar with Santiole. The morning air was brisk, her breath visible in the early light. Her arms felt heavy and her head throbbed from a restless night. Couldn’t they just skip all of this and head to Norport immediately? The sooner she took the girl to Adro, the sooner this would all be over.
Yet despite her nervousness, she felt a thrill at the idea of outsmarting the Longdogs. This was so far beyond her small rebellion of taking hits of black powder from time to time.
“Norrine?” Erika asked quietly when Santiole joined her in the practice yard.
The mistress-at-arms held her small sword out to one side and bounced lightly on her toes, limbering her body. Her long brown hair was tied back behind her head in a bun, reminding Erika that she had forgotten to do the same.
“Checked this morning. Fresh as a fiddle. A little food did her well.”
“You gave her my old shoes?”
“Yes,” Santiole said, her tone cross. “Every little kindness you show like that will come back to bite you. If they catch the girl, they will find out who gave her those shoes. Longdogs are relentless.”
Erika tightened her jaw. “Then I’ll have to be sure they don’t catch her.”
Santiole hung her jacket on the barn door. “Kindness will get you killed in Kez.”
“Or maybe it will make me powerful friends.”
“You speak like an Adran. On guard!” Santiole leapt forward without any warning, the tip of her small sword flashing in the morning light.
Erika couldn’t help the squeak that escaped her mouth as she backpedaled, trying to bring her own sword to bear. She parried once, twice, and then the point of Santiole’s small sword leapt forward to whisper past Erika’s ear.
A minor shift of her fingers and Santiole could have put the blade through Erika’s eye.
Santiole lowered her sword. “Not every fight is a duel. Not every enemy will let you prepare yourself before going on the attack.” She returned to her jacket and removed a wooden blossom from the pocket, fixing the bit of round wood to the end of her sword to act as a foil.
Erika did the same with her own sword, scowling at the mistress-at-arms’ back. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms, and then attacked as soon as Santiole had turned around.
They battled back and forth across the practice yard, coating their pants and boots with dust and soaking their shirts with sweat. Santiole scored the first two touches, and then Erika scored the third and fourth.
And then the fifth. And sixth.
She had scored eight in a row when she saw Santiole’s stance change. The mistress-at-arms loosened the collar of her shirt and dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief. “By Kresimir, you’re getting good at this. I suppose I should stop going easy on you one of these days.”
“I’ve been practicing with father,” Erika said, catching a thrust and turning it to one side. Santiole followed it up with another, quicker and more forcible.
“He’s been teaching you Adran fencing, eh?”
“A little. Their form is sloppy, but he says that Adrans fight
with less technique and more heart,” Erika said. She skipped back, but not quick enough, and Santiole scored a touch against her inner thigh.
“Far be it from me to correct your father,” Santiole said, “but Adran duelists are shit.” She attacked again, and Erika adjusted for the greater speed and strength that Santiole was putting behind her advances.
It wasn’t enough. Santiole scored three more touches before she fell back and gestured for a stop.
Erika gratefully bent over with her hands on her knees, panting hard from the fight. She knew Santiole was considered a fine duelist even by Kez standards, but she’d not seen the mistress-at-arms fight like this before.
“You’re progressing well,” Santiole said.
It was meant to be a compliment, but she couldn’t help feeing bitter at those last four losses. Erika spat into the dust.
“I’m serious,” Santiole said. “You’re already better than most Adrans I’ve faced. A few more years and you’ll hold your own with most fighters throughout the Nine, I wager.”
“Flattery.”
“Well,” Santiole sheathed her sword and gave Erika a thin smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a shout from across the manor yard. Erika crossed to the edge of the stables to look toward the manor and saw a trio of figures heading their way.
“Who is that?” she asked.
Santiole squinted. “Looks like your grandfather and...I’m not sure.”
Erika recognized the man on grandfather’s right a moment later. “Pit,” she swore. “It’s Nikslaus.”
Duke Nikslaus was a short man a couple of years older than Erika, with a slight frame and an over-large head that looked too big for his delicate neck. His hair was so blonde it was almost white and he wore it curled just above his ears beneath a fine felt bicorn. He wore white gloves covered in crimson archaic runes that would allow him to summon elemental sorcery into this world. At twenty-two, he had the distinction of being one of the youngest Privileged sorcerers to complete their training in full. And he was certainly the youngest Privileged to join the ranks of the mage hunters.
Forsworn: A Powder Mage Short Story Page 2