“I was told coercive sorcery required many more strings,” Caldan said. “But this doesn’t.”
“Ah . . . that’s true to an extent. Performing coercive sorcery on yourself is far easier than on others and requires less effort to maintain.”
That made sense. His well needed to remain open but required only a trickle to keep his coercive crafting active.
It was a fortuitous encounter, meeting this Mazoet. This was an incredibly useful piece of sorcery that the man had simply given him for nothing. And yet it meant a great deal, seeing how invaluable it would be if he was going to escape from the warlocks.
“Caldan.”
He looked up into the eyes of a man he’d just noticed standing to the side. Quiss. The sorcerer had come up to them without him realizing it. Caldan dropped his gaze to his feet. He was scared, he admitted to himself. His boots were damp, covered in dew from the walk through the grass, as were Mazoet’s and Quiss’s. A similar cold wetness had crept inside him since he’d woken. He was taking a step there could be no returning from until Kelhak was dead.
Or Caldan was.
“Is it time?” he said.
Quiss smiled pleasantly. In one hand he carried a cloth bag. “I see Mazoet has taught you how to obscure your power. There is much we can show you when we have the chance. But for now, yes, it’s time to go.”
A morsel of knowledge. Either shown out of friendship, or they were trying to manipulate him. Caldan regretted doubting them, but such was his existence now. Doubt everything. Trust no one.
“But,” continued Quiss, “I must warn you—it is dangerous, and though you’ll see what we do, you shouldn’t try to replicate it yourself. Mazoet has a talent for this, so he’ll be taking us through.”
“Do you want me to promise?”
Quiss shook his head and smiled thinly. “No. I won’t extract any more promises from you. You do what you think is best.” He handed the cloth bag to Mazoet, and the sorcerer opened it and drew out a long, thin chain of gold links. At hand-length intervals along it were set faceted stones the size of his thumbnail—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds. Caldan had never seen so much wealth before. Beside each gem was a small flat disc of beaten silver covered with runes.
Caldan swallowed at the sight. The gold and gems that went into the crafting shocked him, the sheer expense of it. He watched as Mazoet unraveled the chain, making sure it wasn’t tangled. It had to be thirty feet long.
“The crafting will be destroyed after we’re through,” Mazoet said. “We can’t risk it falling into someone else’s hands.”
Caldan blinked. “That’s . . . a waste.” With such a chain, he and Miranda wouldn’t have to worry about ducats for the rest of their lives. And their children’s lives. He paused. Where had that thought come from?
Mazoet shrugged. “We don’t place much value on wealth.” Carefully he began laying the chain in a circle on the ground. When he was done, he was standing inside the crafting. The circle was about ten feet across.
“I thought you didn’t know much about craftings?” Caldan asked. The golden rope said different.
“Mazoet is the expert here,” replied Quiss. “And he finds it easier to delegate some of the task to the crafting.” He shrugged. “It’s crude, but it works.”
Quiss turned his attention to the mercenaries and the two sorcerers. He waved a hand, beckoning them over. “Come. Everyone step inside.”
Caldan expected questions from the mercenaries, but they obeyed Quiss’s order without hesitation. They’ve done this before, he realized. Interesting.
A ten-foot-wide circle wasn’t a lot of room, and Caldan, Quiss, Mazoet, the other two sorcerers, and the five mercenaries jostled one another until they were all inside. Caldan could smell the mercenaries’ sweat, and the scent of steel and oil. They were big men, but he couldn’t help noticing they flicked the occasional glance his way. No doubt wondering what Caldan’s purpose was in all this.
As he was.
Caldan took up a position on the edge.
“Be prepared for anything,” Quiss said seriously. “Keep inside the circle until it’s over.”
One of the mercenaries looked at Caldan. He wore a metal-scaled breastplate, and there was a huge sword strapped to his back. He sported a braided beard and a scowl. “When you throw up, boy, turn away from us!”
His companions laughed, and Caldan was surprised he didn’t blush at the gibe.
“My name’s Caldan.” He held out a hand.
The mercenary looked at it for a moment, then shrugged and clasped it in his. “Selbourne. Captain of the Forgotten Company.” He leaned closer to Caldan and whispered in his ear. “You hurt Miranda, and I’ll find you and kill you.”
Caldan’s blood pounded in his ears. He stared into the mercenary’s eyes. Hard eyes, used to violence and getting what they wanted. How does he know her? Maybe a better question was: Who was Miranda, really? He knew so little about her past. Not just a sailor, that’s for certain.
“I wouldn’t hurt her,” he said. “I’d lay down my life for her.” As he said it, the certainty of his statement rocked Caldan to the core. It was the truth. But this man, this mercenary, couldn’t be left thinking he’d cowed him. He’d had enough of being pushed around. He kept his face as stony as he could.
“But if you come after me, it’ll be your death.”
Selbourne scowled at him and then guffawed with laughter. After a moment, the other mercenaries joined in. Selbourne’s mirth settled down and he stopped.
“I’ve dealt with sorcerers before. I’ve a few tricks of my own.” He paused, narrowed eyes drawn to Caldan’s sword. “Not many carried a blade, though. None, actually. Can you use it?”
“I’ve been trained, but I’m not a blade master.”
“Then you’re outmatched.”
Caldan merely shrugged, letting his gaze wander to the trees around them.
Mazoet moved his bulk closer to them both. “A gold ducat on Caldan!” he exclaimed.
Quiss snorted. “Enough, Mazoet. Don’t encourage them.”
Mazoet ignored him and looked to the other mercenaries. “No takers? Oh, well.”
“So sure of him, are you?” asked Selbourne, voice filled with amusement.
“Not only is he a sorcerer, and an adept one, he’s Touched.”
At his words, the mercenaries let out wordless exclamations. Almost as one, they turned to stare at Caldan. A few of them made hand gestures he hadn’t seen before. Superstitious, probably. A warding or a blessing, he couldn’t be sure.
Selbourne took half a step back before catching himself and grinning wryly. He met Caldan’s eyes and nodded formally. “You’re welcome among us.”
Another mercenary barked a laugh. “Leave some jukari for the rest of us!”
Caldan offered them a sardonic smile. “I have a feeling there’ll be plenty to go around.”
“Aye,” Selbourne said. “That there will be. Ready weapons, men. Quiss here’s waiting.”
“Thank you, Selbourne,” Quiss said wryly. “Everyone inside? Good. Mazoet, if you please.”
Caldan opened his well and linked to his wolf simulacrum. It came toward them, sleek and fast, bounding across the uneven ground. There were gasps of surprise as it slowed to a stop and sat beside Caldan, just inside the circle.
“Don’t worry,” Caldan said. “It won’t bite.”
Quiss snorted, while Mazoet raised an eyebrow at him.
There was no warning. Caldan’s head felt about to split in two. He spun, feet leaving the ground. Reality bent. There was a sharp cracking sound and a scent of lemons and hot metal so strong he retched. Everything went gray. His vision blurred. He reeled and stumbled, fearful he’d step outside the crafted circle. Except he couldn’t feel the ground. There was nothing there. There was another crack. And another. Sparks blossomed before his eyes, sprinkling the gray with color, then faded.
He landed on something soft with a thump. He opened his mouth to
breathe but couldn’t draw any air in. His hands clawed at the ground. He managed a short breath. Then another deeper one. He gasped. Somewhere close by, someone was vomiting. Caldan levered himself to a sitting position. He was lying on a carpet of sodden dead leaves. There was no sign of the river, or the ships, or Riversedge. They were in a dense forest, the trees abundant enough to block out the light.
Mazoet stood beside him, regarding him with a calm, nonchalant expression. Selbourne was on his knees, doubled over, clutching his stomach. The retching came from one of the other mercenaries.
Thin streams of smoke rose from a charred circle in the ground. Caldan snorted air though his nose in an effort to remove the stench of sorcery. His eyes caught on tiny fragments of color around the circle. The gems, he realized. That’s what the cracking sounds were: the jewels fracturing from the heat, the sorcerous forces destroying them.
Caldan checked that his automaton had come through unscathed, which it had.
In the distance, an animal-like howl sounded.
“Jukari,” Selbourne said. He wiped spittle from his mouth and stood. “To arms, men! No time for sightseeing!”
Weapons were unsheathed, some more quickly than others, and the mercenaries fanned out in a line facing the direction the howl had come from. Shields were presented, while Selbourne stood to one side, presumably to give him room to swing his massive sword. The men’s expressions were grim, but they didn’t look nervous at all.
Quiss spoke to Selbourne in apologetic tones, voice raised slightly so everyone could hear. “We need to avoid using sorcery, if we can.”
“So we’re on our own then?” Selbourne didn’t look impressed.
“No. If things get tough, we’ll help. But we need to keep the element of surprise. There will be vormag about as well. We can take them out, and hopefully anyone who notices will think it’s just another Quiver raiding party with a warlock or two.”
“Right.” Selbourne raised his voice. “You heard the man. If you have a shot at a vormag, take it. Otherwise, leave them for the sorcerers. You know the plan. We punch through and keep going. No looking back.”
Caldan undid a buckle and swung his weapon to his hip. He took a breath, unsheathed the sword, and opened his well.
Mazoet placed a hand on his shoulder. “No shield. The vormag and the lich will sense it.”
Reluctantly, Caldan used the technique Mazoet had taught him to disguise his well. He kept part of his awareness close to it, however, in case their situation deteriorated.
“Which direction?” asked Selbourne of Quiss.
The sorcerer pointed to the south, the direction the howl had come from.
“It figures,” muttered Selbourne, then to his men, “Look lively now. I left a woman in my bed, and I mean to get back before she wakes.”
One of the mercenaries chuckled. “Nothing you could do would wake her up.”
Selbourne affected a look of hurt. “I’m only a man, and she is a demon.”
“If Charlotte catches you talking about her like that, she’ll have your plums.”
“She already has them!”
More laughter, albeit slightly strained. Caldan knew they were attempting to make light of their situation to relieve the tension. They didn’t know where they were and were about to go up against an unknown number of jukari and vormag and, from what they knew, a powerful sorcerer. He had to admire their gruff confidence and bravado.
But Charlotte . . . does he mean the captain of the Loretta? Is that why he warned me about Miranda? And does Miranda know the captain is here?
The mercenaries began moving through the trees, always keeping close, hardly leaving a gap between their shields except to pass around trees. Selbourne walked alongside them, the blade of his sword resting on his shoulder. Caldan trailed behind them, followed by Quiss and Mazoet and the other two sorcerers. Their feet brushed across the spongy leaves, scarcely leaving a trace of their passing.
The first jukari had its back to them. They’d been climbing a slight rise for a while, and it stood at the top, looking down the other side. Luckily, they were downwind of it.
Selbourne motioned for them to halt, while he crept toward its exposed back. Even as he stood behind it and raised his sword high above his head, it didn’t stir.
Something had its attention. What?
Steel rent flesh, cracking bone and spilling black blood. The jukari toppled without a sound, skull split in two. Selbourne crouched beside the corpse, looking down at what had caught the creature’s attention. He swiveled and crept back to them, surprisingly quiet and nimble for such a big man.
“There’s a camp of them down there. There’s some sort of commotion, but I couldn’t see what. I saw a few vormag, as well.”
“Anyone else? A man?” Quiss’s voice was strained.
Selbourne shook his head. “No. But there’s a tent, which is strange.”
“In what way?” asked Caldan.
“Jukari and vormag don’t use tents. They travel light. Whatever’s using it, it probably isn’t one of them.”
Caldan looked to Quiss. “That’s him, then.”
Quiss frowned. “Maybe. We need to be sure.”
“There were at least a few dozen jukari. We can’t handle that many without sorcery. If you mean to keep hidden, then we can’t do much.”
Caldan fingered his ring and shield crafting. He also had his wolf, and his beetle . . . the trickle of power the beetle used shouldn’t alert any vormag.
“I can scout the tent,” he said. “To see what’s inside.”
HEAPS OF RAGS gathered into a pile. Patchy grass. A wooden chest with a heavy lock. And . . . Caldan squinted in the dim light. An automatic response, which didn’t help this time. He could see only what his beetle saw.
There, over by one wall of the tent: another larger pile of rags, from which hung dried bones and metal objects. But this pile clothed someone . . . something. It was too tall to be a man. Leather-bound feet, and clawlike hands clenched into fists, nails digging into palms. Its decapitated head rested a few feet from its body. Its face . . . Far away, just past the crest of the hill, Caldan shivered. He urged his beetle closer to the figure. It scuttled along the side wall of the tent, sharp claws digging into the canvas. Sightless violet eyes stared from a bestial face. It looked like a jukari or vormag, only bigger, more formed somehow.
Caldan had to wonder: If jukari were soldiers, and vormag sorcerers, what then was this creature’s purpose?
A shadow in the corner moved. Out of the darkness, Amerdan appeared. Caldan halted his beetle where it was and held his breath.
Amerdan stopped and frowned. He tilted his head to the side, and his gaze roved around the tent, as if searching for something.
He was different, to Caldan’s eyes. The odd shopkeeper was completely absent, and in his place was something far more assured, far more . . . dangerous. But then, the shopkeeper guise had disappeared long ago, almost immediately after they’d left Anasoma. Amerdan’s face was blank, but his bearing was straighter, and there was a sardonic twist to his mouth.
Abruptly, Amerdan shrugged one shoulder and removed something from under his shirt: a rag doll—the same one Caldan had seen on a shelf in his shop. He placed it atop the wooden chest, arranging its legs and body so it appeared to be sitting there, watching the inside of the tent. Amerdan knelt in front of it and placed a kiss on its cheek. He sat back on his heels and for a time didn’t move. He shook his head, then waved a hand.
He’s speaking to it, realized Caldan. Too softly for him to hear through his crafting. He sent a pulse to his simulacrum and made it move slowly across the canvas to a position where he could better see what was happening, but before it got there, Amerdan stood. The shopkeeper turned, and again his gaze roamed around the dimness of the tent. He looked directly at Caldan with empty eyes.
Ancestors! Caldan knew that he’d been found out. He directed his power through another sorcerous pattern on the beetle and blinked as a
multitude of flashes in Amerdan’s mind shone brightly in Caldan’s sorcerous awareness. Wells. And a lot of them.
Caldan felt a clawing at his linkage to the beetle. He cursed and drew as deeply as he could in an attempt to cement his anchor. A sorcerous thread curled about his link and tried to force him away. Caldan’s control slipped. It was as if he held a ball in his hand and someone was prying his fingers off one by one. He resisted with all his might, groaning with effort. Sweat dripped from his face, and he tried to fly his beetle out of there.
To no avail. Amerdan had wrested command of its movement from him. It would take moments for him to complete his control—and perhaps follow Caldan’s strings back to him.
Caldan severed his links, and the forces assaulting his beetle faded. His threads whiplashed back and struck his mind like stinging slaps. He clutched his head, wincing at the pain.
Standing next to him, Quiss placed a stork-thin hand on Caldan’s shoulder. Caldan realized he was on his knees.
“What did you see?” Quiss asked.
Caldan shook his head. “I lost control—”
“I know, I felt it. What did you see?”
“He was alone . . .” Quickly, Caldan recounted the details inside the tent, along with Amerdan’s strange discussion with his rag doll.
“It was like . . . he was mad,” continued Caldan.
“Are you sure?” Quiss asked. “What if the doll was a construct of some kind? What if it was ensouled?”
“No,” Caldan said. “If it was, I’d have sensed it. It was just a doll. Then, at the end, when I knew he’d found me out, I tried to measure his well, so we’d have some insight into what we faced, but . . .” He looked up at Quiss. “There were so many.”
Quiss’s eyes narrowed. “How many? How strong were they?”
Caldan recalled the image in his mind and counted as best he could. It was a jumble, and he had trouble separating out the various wells. And there was something wrong with most of them. “At least fifteen,” he said eventually.
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