A wonderful life they offered him . . .
Caldan gave Devenish a brief smile. “I hope to prove myself worthy. I want to be in service to the empire, whether as one of the Touched, or using sorcery.” A subtle reminder that he was also a sorcerer wouldn’t harm him, and it might just sway Devenish from deciding he wasn’t worth keeping around. Caldan guessed the warlock would realize his potential and want to take advantage of him in ways he couldn’t with a normal Touched.
“Ah, yes. We’ll talk about that once you return. But for now, we need your other talents. And yours, too, Kristof, my friend.”
Kristof gave Caldan a measuring look. Something flitted across his face for an instant, then was gone. Fear, or hatred?
“A sorcerer as well as one of the Touched . . .” Devenish mused. “In time, Caldan will be a force to be reckoned with. But as he is, untrained, untested, he’ll need guidance.”
Kristof’s face had gone dark, then he smiled with false brightness. “I hope you’re not planning on Caldan replacing me anytime soon, Devenish. Though a Touched using sorcery would be capable of much more than the rest of us, it’ll take years before Caldan is ready for some responsibility.”
Devenish gave an indelicate snort. “Kristof, my good friend, you are beyond value to me, to the warlocks, to the emperor.”
His blood is, thought Caldan. But I’d wager Devenish thinks his abilities can be replaced by any other Touched.
“Put any thoughts you have of retiring out of your mind,” continued Devenish. “We are as one on this. Rest easy.”
Kristof nodded. “Whatever you need. You know I’ll do my best.”
Devenish clapped Kristof on the shoulder. “Excellent. I can always count on you. But I’m remiss. How are you holding up? Are you keeping the pain at bay?”
“Barely. I’m still useful, though. I have to save myself for important missions.”
“You’ll be well looked after once it becomes too much for you. Don’t fear on that count.”
Lies and more lies, thought Caldan.
“Now, to business,” continued Devenish. “Recent events have caused me to rethink our plans. The Indryallans have proven stronger and more resourceful than we anticipated. The jukari horde is something we didn’t expect, and it is a massive issue. The Quiver commanders are stretched to their limits just dealing with the jukari. If the Indryallans come upon us now, we’re finished.”
Kristof frowned. “Where are they? Still holed up in Anasoma?”
“Apparently,” Devenish said. “Maybe they’ve realized they bit off more than they could chew. The emperor certainly gave them something to think about.”
“That he did. May he live forever.”
Caldan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The emperor had been afraid and had used the warlocks to prevent himself from being targeted by the Indryallan sorcery. They were so worshipful of the emperor that they didn’t realize he was a man out of his depth. But why would they? To them, he was almost a god.
And that’s who they wanted him to serve?
“Take Caldan and strike at the jukari and vormag. A small group, only a few Touched. This can be Caldan’s first test. I’ve another one for when . . . if he gets back.”
So, it was a test they wanted. As if I haven’t proven enough, with just cel Rau at my side.
Test me all you want. Knowing what impresses you only tells me more about what you all can’t do.
And with that, I can break free.
CALDAN RAN BESIDE Kristof. For the third time in as many minutes, he opened his well and sent his senses out, searching for any sign they were in danger; and for the third time there was nothing. The sun edged down toward the horizon, bathing the trees with orange, but there was also a shadowy darkness. As if chasing the sun, dark clouds swept in from the east.
Kristof set the pace, though Caldan could see how he favored one leg. They ran onward: Caldan, Kristof, and Florian and Alasdair, both Touched. A sister and brother from Meliror in the Sotharle Union of Cities.
Florian wore her shoulder-length red hair in a multitude of braids, each tied at the end with a leather thong. Her body was well muscled, trim but solid—probably an effect of being Touched. She carried a short spear in one hand and a dagger tucked into her belt, as did Alasdair. His hair was more brown than red, and it was hacked short, close to his skull. They didn’t say much, grunting and nodding curtly in response to orders from Kristof.
Caldan constantly scanned the area through the trees. He knew what they were about—hunting jukari—but at times he felt they were being watched.
Kristof carried an unusually long sword strapped to his back. A buckle on the harness would let him easily swing it to his hip—in order to draw it—at the first sign of danger. Two sturdy gloves were tucked into his belt, and Caldan noticed that the palms and inside fingers were padded with hard-boiled leather. A terrible design, if you relied on them for a firm grip. Caldan’s curiosity got the better of him.
“What are your gloves for, Kristof?”
Behind him, he could hear that either Florian or Alasdair stumbled. Alasdair cursed, and Florian laughed.
Alasdair, then.
Kristof’s brow furrowed. He lessened his pace until they came to a stop. They were almost atop a slight rise in the forest. “We’ll take a break here,” he said. “A few moments only.”
Florian and Alasdair separated, making their way to opposite sides of the rise from Kristof and Caldan. They were sweating only slightly, while Caldan was dripping. He was also breathing heavily, while the others hardly seemed to be straining. Either they were in much better shape than him, or they had greater control over their abilities, using them to augment their stamina somehow. Part of Caldan was eager to learn more about what he could do, what he was capable of. But . . . looking at Kristof and his injured leg, another part of him knew every time he used his abilities, he was gradually wearing his body down. Prolonged use would see him assigned to an early grave, after years of pain and debilitation. He understood the danger and the attraction. The sacrifice and pain adding up to more trinkets . . . a vicious cycle. And yet . . .
If the deteriorating side effects could be lessened by certain trinkets, could they be halted altogether? Was this another secret kept from the Touched?
“Not everyone can master a long blade,” Kristof murmured.
Caldan looked up. Kristof was leaning against the trunk of a moss-covered tree. He took one of the gloves from his belt and tossed it to Caldan. It was as he’d seen, thicker leather exactly where it was least useful.
Kristof continued. “The Touched come from all different backgrounds and have diverse talents. What are the chances every one of us is capable of becoming a blade master? Or master of other weapons?”
“Low,” answered Caldan. “But . . . we don’t need to be, if we have enough control.”
“Exactly! Fancy blade-work is all well and good, if you train every day and have a talent for it. And if your opponent isn’t armored. Or a sorcerer. Or a jukari or vormag. Against virtually any other man, you’ll likely be the victor. In most situations we encounter, though, your blade-work won’t be enough. Take me, for instance. I’m terrible with a sword.”
“So am I,” Caldan admitted. “I’m improving, but I’m only alive so far thanks to being Touched.”
Kristof nodded. “Like most of us. We’re all different, and only a handful of us are better than average with weapons. So I use an old technique.” He tugged the other glove onto his left hand and unbuckled his sheath, then drew the blade.
Lifting his weapon, Kristof gripped the blade with his gloved right hand about a third of the way from the tip, holding it as you might a stave. He ran through a few moves, making as if to block a strike coming toward him, and using the pommel to bash and the tip to make short, sharp jabs. His movements were fluid, and Caldan could see straightaway the advantage such a technique gave.
“I don’t think anyone’s given it a fancy name yet, so we just call it ‘shortene
d sword fighting,’” said Kristof. “It’s easier to block, to get in close and render a swordsman’s slashes ineffective. The glove protects your palm and fingers from the edge. It’s . . . effective.”
Caldan nodded eagerly. “You can change the direction of your blade much easier than usual. Your control is better.”
“Yes. Take a glove and try it. You’ll never go back to one-handed moves. Well . . . never might be too strong a word, but this technique will do the job. You’ll see. Keep that glove, and give it a try. We’ll practice more when we get back, but nothing is better than experience in the field, so they say.”
Caldan tucked the glove into his belt. Florian and Alasdair moved in to rejoin them, and Kristof sheathed his sword and buckled it back over his shoulder.
“Time to keep moving,” he said and broke into a jog once more.
Caldan followed, while the other two remained twenty paces behind. Trees flashed past, and the sun’s glow faltered. Kristof didn’t let the rapidly approaching darkness slow him and maintained his pace. As Caldan’s vision quickly adjusted to the gloom, he realized the others had no problems with the lack of light, either. A common trait they shared, it seemed. Kristof kept glancing at a piece of paper in his hand.
After a while, the trees thinned and the undergrowth became thicker. They skirted around large boulders strewn across the ground as it transitioned from fairly flat to rocky and uneven. They slowed slightly, the uncertain footing lending itself to injury. A short time later, Kristof indicated another halt. Caldan sighed with relief and bent over to massage his thighs. His legs and lungs were burning. Kristof and the others might be able to keep this pace up, but he was struggling.
Without speaking, Kristof indicated for Florian and Alasdair to come closer. When they did, he brought his face near to theirs.
“In and out. No messing about. You know what to do.”
The brother and sister nodded. Kristof turned to Caldan.
“There’s a jukari force not far from here.”
Caldan frowned. He hadn’t seen any signs, and there were no campfires in the night. “How do you know?”
Kristof pointed to the paper he held. “The warlocks have been tracking them. Whoever is leading the jukari sent a portion of their forces in a wide arc in order to surprise us. What their purpose is, we don’t know, but it’s not a large group. Perhaps a specific target?” Kristof shook his head. “We can only guess, but right now it’s unimportant. What we have been tasked with is stopping them.”
“How many are there?”
“Thirty or forty. Around that number.”
“You’re serious? There are only four of us.”
“Yes. We hit and move. Take some out and leave them in disarray. Then hit them again. It’s dark; jukari don’t see well in the dark. We have the advantage.”
Caldan rubbed damp palms on his pants. He wasn’t as confident as Kristof appeared to be. Four of them against forty jukari? He’d killed a few before, but not many at a time. And even then, he’d somehow been able to push his sorcery to heights he’d never dreamed possible, maintaining threads without thinking.
“I . . . I’m not in control of my abilities like you and the others are. I don’t have trinkets to help me, nor your experience.” Caldan made sure the hand wearing his ring was out of Kristof’s sight.
“That’s fine. You’ll do well. You’ll eventually earn yourself trinkets. But that’s not why you’re here, right now.”
“Then what am I—?” Caldan paused. “Vormag,” he said, and Kristof nodded.
“Just in case. If we surprise them, they’ll be dead before they can craft anything. If not, they’ll have shields and destructive sorcery. That’s where you come in.”
So they trusted him enough to bring him along and see how he fared. But he’d be left out of the fighting and held in reserve to counteract any sorcery. If Caldan was honest with himself, he was a little relieved. He’d killed the jukari before out of necessity. Ambushing and slaughtering as many of them as he could didn’t sit well with him. But this was what the Touched did, wasn’t it? If he couldn’t defeat the vormag and their sorcery, what would Kristof and the others do? Leave him there? No, Devenish wouldn’t allow that. Restrain him and bring his body back, most likely. Then the warlocks could do what they wanted with his body. Once more, he was in a lose-lose situation.
All he did was nod his readiness to Kristof, who slapped him on the back.
“Let’s go,” Kristof said.
They moved through the darkness until they came across a narrow trail trodden into the short grass among the rocky ground. A snarl sounded ahead, and they paused. When no other sound reached them, they continued, this time with more stealth. They crouched low and slowed their pace.
With trepidation, Caldan opened his well. He followed Kristof’s lead and took out his own sword, pulling the leather glove onto his left hand. There were three other wells out there, somewhere in the night. He had a sense of them, but not their exact location. Two were drawing power, while the third was quiet. But from what he could sense, it was larger and smoother than the other two. Possibly the leader, and as such, more dangerous.
He picked up his pace and tapped Kristof on the shoulder.
“There are three vormag out there.”
“You’re sure?”
Caldan nodded firmly. “Two of them don’t have much power. Barely able to shield themselves, I’d say. But the third . . . could be troublesome. Depends on their training and experience, and their craftings.”
“Assume they have craftings as good as our sorcerers can produce.”
Caldan grimaced. “Three sorcerers might be beyond me.”
“You’ll have to manage.”
Kristof turned his back to Caldan and continued ahead.
Caldan blinked and shook his head. He hoped they weren’t trying to get him killed. And then, almost as one, three pinpricks of power pulsed from the Touched. Trinkets, realized Caldan. They’re readying themselves. Two more trinkets pulsed, from Kristof and Alasdair.
A rock clattered to their left, tumbling down a slope. Kristof, Florian, and Alasdair stopped immediately. They scanned the darkness, turning their heads in a constant sweep. For long moments, no one moved.
A howl came from their left, where the rock had moved.
Jukari appeared out of the night, charging them.
Caldan had time to raise his sword and link to his shield crafting before the first of the beasts was upon them, slavering and snarling through its fanged mouth. Towering over the smaller form of Kristof, it hammered a rusty axe down toward him—only to miss completely, as Kristof stepped aside and battered the axe away with his sword. He jerked the blade forward, and before the jukari could recover its balance, it was bleeding from a thrust to the stomach. Kristof yanked his sword to the side and eviscerated the jukari. It fell to the ground, clutching at a coiled mass of intestines, and Kristof leaped over it toward another.
Caldan glanced frantically at Florian and Alasdair, both of whom were darting and weaving between a few of the beasts. Spears flashed faster than Caldan could follow. Black blood splashed across rocks and stained the grass.
A jukari loomed large in Caldan’s vision. He dodged desperately as a wooden club the size of a log crashed toward him—too late. It thundered into Caldan with the force of a falling tree, throwing him backward. He landed hard on a rock, shoulder erupting in pain. His shield saved him from severe injury, but it didn’t stop momentum.
Caldan caught sight of more jukari rushing toward them. The surprise Kristof had relied upon had been lost. Instead of facing a few at a time, they were outnumbered and fighting for their lives. He staggered upright and caught a flash of the assault. Kristof, a blur of steel, eliciting wet gurgles as he chopped and thrust. A shrieking Florian, stabbing like a maniac, leaping and cavorting among the jukari. Alasdair wheeling from a blow to his shoulder, teeth bared. Everywhere, jukari were injured and dying.
There was no time for th
ought, for suddenly they were in front of him. A wicked spiked club plummeted toward him. Caldan pivoted and parried just in time, holding his sword with both hands as Kristof had demonstrated. He moved forward and shoved two feet of blade into the side of his opponent. His leather-gloved hand stopped it from penetrating farther, and he quickly loosened his grip and shoved harder, the blade pushing deeper before he jerked it out.
“Legs!” Kristof shouted over the din.
And Caldan understood. The jukari were too tall. He stepped away from the creature he’d just killed and confronted another. It barked a gruff exclamation and slashed a sword down toward his head. He parried, again with both hands, then chopped into its thigh. With a howl, it sank to its knees. Caldan finished it with a thrust to its throat, and it fell down, gushing black, viscous fluid.
Where were his Touched abilities when he needed them?
He searched inside himself for the feeling, the heat of his blood, but found nothing other than his own gasps for breath and a drumming in his ears.
He ran for Florian, who was struggling against three jukari. Boots slipped on footing made treacherous by blood and bile, and he stumbled toward her. A wounded jukari lying close to Florian clawed at her ankle, and she cried out in pain. She hopped away awkwardly. Snarls erupted around her, and jukari closed in. Caldan yelled and stabbed one in the back. It slammed an elbow into his shield, and sparks flew. He staggered but stayed upright, leaping at it. Steel penetrated gray flesh, again and again.
Florian fell to her knees, spear gripped in one red-covered hand, while her other clutched at her ruined ankle. Three jukari loomed over her.
Caldan cursed, running again for Florian. Where were Kristof and Alasdair? Somewhere out there, he caught a fleeting glimpse of trinkets burning with power. He drew from his well and dived for Florian. He latched onto her arm. Clawed hands and weapons reaching for the woman met his impervious shield and skittered above her skin. Dismayed howls bayed from animal mouths. Florian looked at him, lips twisted into a grimace. Her teeth were covered in red blood. Her own, then, not jukari.
Bladed and blunt weapons hammered into them. Caldan’s shield held, motes and sparkles erupting from the blows. He ground his teeth and pushed. As with his construct in the tunnels under Anasoma, his shield bulged outward. Only, this time, it went from a tight skin covering him and Florian to a dome in an instant. Jukari were thrown aside, like drops of water from a shaking dog. One slammed into a boulder, bones cracking. The other two tumbled across the ground, trailing clouds of dust.
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