Spirit of Magik (The Dothranan Chronicles Book 1)

by Richard Cluff

  While she was no dog, only the tight muscles of her fit body made her stand out. With the patch covering her right eye, her weathered hard looking features could hardly be called pretty.

  “Why is she alone? Is she dangerous?” Cirrus asked one of the guards escorting him.

  “She took down three guards before Wizard Neron captured her, sir. We put her in a cell with a man the first night she was here, and she broke his back somehow. Bitch was just sittin' there waitin' for breakfast to roll around: she tied his arms and gagged him with his shirt, sir,” The Soldier looked into his eyes meaningfully. “The poor bastard lived, lucky for her.”

  Cirrus whistled at that, impressed. Well, she'll be about as dangerous as a child when we put her in irons. He nodded to himself.

  “Up prisoner. Step away from the door,” Cirrus commanded. She stood up and lazily stretched as if she had been woken from a good dream on a holiday. Just what I need, a cocky criminal to try to sell. Cirrus knew that the slave market's Master Barquin was going to give him a merry run around trying to sell this one.

  “Stand, and be ready, prisoner. You'll dodge the noose if you follow me,” he told her.

  “I've been told I'll dodge the noose if I swallow men's babies without biting too, Milord. Which is it?” She asked casually, not looking at all impressed by him or the guards with him.

  “You will dodge the noose if you follow me. My Mistress commands it,” Cirrus looked at her and said “Come with me, woman.”

  “No,” She said with a smirk. “Come and get me, coward.”

  Cirrus's whip struck like a snake striking in an underhanded blow to her knee. Her leather breeches were laid open much like her flesh. She screamed in agony, and fell to the ground, clutching it.

  “You broke my leg, you fucking cocksucker!!!!” She screamed, looking at him with murder in her eyes.

  “I've been whipping slaves since I was twenty, woman. I didn't break it; a lamed slave won't sell. Now get on your feet, bitch,” Cirrus said coldly. He knew his job well, and slave discipline consisted of the correct application of pain to motivate them. Let a slave challenge you, even once, and you could lose control of all of them.

  A cheer went up from the prisoners in the other cells. “Good show!” shouted one “Nice shot!” said another, “Near as good as watching her suck cock,” came a third.

  Cirrus glanced around the room with his “Which one of you uppity bastards wants one?” look. A Guardswoman called out: “Shut your holes, the lot of you!” cracking her whip. The clamor settled quickly.

  “Help her up and bind her,” Cirrus nodded to her.

  The guards entered the cage and pulled her roughly to her feet. Another dropped a set of irons on the straw floor and moved behind her, taking her shoulder in hand. Placing his boot on the back of her uninjured knee, he forced her to her knees easily. She winced in obvious pain but made no noise. The guard placed the shackles on her ankles and manacled her wrists behind her back joined by a chain to her shackles. They completed the job by fastening the iron collar to her throat joined to her manacles by the chain. When they finished, they checked to make certain all the bindings were properly secured.

  One guard attached the three yard woven leather lead to the iron collar and handed it to Cirrus. Cirrus took the looped end in his hand and gripped tightly. “I'll walk you to a carriage, to work out the stiffness in that knee. If you embarrass me at market, I'll tan your ass thoroughly, woman.”

  Limping on her bloody knee she cut off a nearly automatic comment that would have earned her another lash for sure. She kept her mouth shut by sheer force of will. Let me out of these shackles and we'll see which one of us would walk away. She thought.

  She walked in silence from the prison with her escort. He waved the guards off as he passed the walls, and they gave their respects before peeling off. Night had fallen outside. The cool air of the winter night filled her nostrils with joy after the awful closeness of that stinking hell hole of a prison. They walked past the gallows outside, in the execution square. Watching that go by was a firm reminder of how lucky she was in most things.

  She looked about at her surroundings: Vallad was much like the other Great Cities she'd been to. The buildings were crowded together, making narrow alleys that paupers and criminals like herself would skulk through. She could see two of the Dothranan Guard towers from where she was, and a few brightly lit taverns with a whore in front of one trying to seduce a customer.

  She still had her reservations, but she knew it was now or never.

  Jirai purposefully stumbled over her shackles and fell to the ground, spitting the key from her mouth.

  “Up, woman!” Cirrus yelled impatiently, taking his whip in hand.

  She rolled over onto her back and took the small key into her hand as she did. The whip cracked near her, and she scrambled up quickly, rattling her chains. The few people that were on the street in the chilly night looked once and continued on their way.

  They resumed their march down the street and twisting her wrists carefully she felt for the keyhole in the manacles. She slid the key in and with a slow turn, the lock popped. Exaltation flooded through her. She wasn't lying! She switched the key to her other hand and unlocked the other manacle. Carefully she hung the manacles on the backside of her breeches, so they would make no more noise than they should, and put the small key back under her tongue. She held her hands behind her back as if they were still shackled.

  She took a good look at her surroundings, scanning for observers. The Hold of Great House Dothranan was the entire southern quarter of the Great City of Vallad, in the Vale of Light Winds.

  She saw the pair of Dothranan guards on patrol, watched them pass and decided it was time. She grasped the braided leather line lightly so as not to jostle it. She carefully slid her steps slightly more quickly upon the frosted cobbles. Jirai took the slack she was creating lightly and made large loops in her left hand, watching her escort intently.

  She steeled herself, eyeing the blade behind his whip. Within elbows reach now, she dropped the loops around his neck with her left hand and pulled tight. He stopped instantly, trying to grasp the cord around his neck. He tried to yell, and only a croak emerged. Bringing her right knee up as sharply as she could with the shackles, she thrust it firmly into his manhood. The shackles bit painfully into her legs at the jerk of her knee.

  He gasped sharply and went to his knees. He was feeling for his missing blade and found it, his eyes wide, protruding from the bottom of his jaw buried to the hilt.

  Jirai whispered in his ear, “My employer says this to you: You were always sorry, but you never stopped,” whatever the customer wants was her motto, even when it seemed stupid to her. It's not like he was going to be able to think on it.

  Cirrus's eyes crossed as if trying to look at the tip of the blade lodged behind them. His shaking hand touched the pommel, and his body went limp.

  She lowered him down and dragged his corpse hurriedly into a nearby alley. Is it here? Jirai mouthed, as she patted his pockets efficiently and found the heavy leather pouch filled with gold. With a grunt, she pulled the blade from his jaw and wiped it on his tunic.

  She looked about, quickly undoing the shackles and collar with her key. She dropped them where she stood and promptly went down the alley. She ran as quickly as she could with her injured knee. She held the dagger in her teeth and jumped; she caught a frosted water pipe and shimmied up with practiced ease. She caught the building's gutter in her hands and pulled herself up.

  She laid on the cold roof for a moment to catch her breath. She felt the weight of the pouch and looked inside. Two gold crowns, just as the mysterious woman had promised her. Standard for a simple kill, but now she would likely be a known killer.

  That was bad for business. Not being slaved or hung made up for that she supposed. At least murderers sometimes get the headsman. Beats hanging she thought.

  She crept quietly, making her way across the Hold by the rooftops. She he
ard the bells of the alarm and decided to slide into the nearest attic. Why nearly every idiot had a shuttered window on their attics, she couldn't fathom. But it was good for business.

  Whoever had hired her was powerful; obviously a Wizard, considering how she'd just disappeared after their talk. The tall woman had come to her three nights ago in her cell. When she had asked who she was, the woman laughed darkly and said, “I am the daughter of pain.” Wizards were always artsy assholes like that. She spat and began quietly rummaging through the boxes in the attic.

  * * *

  Ari felt the tingle on the back of her neck as the new spirit connected. She looked behind her and smiled, “It is good to see you. I wasn't sure you would come to me,” she laughed mockingly at what she saw there.

  Tuesday April 30th 1624th year of the First Great City

  The Great City

  The cart trundled down the paved woodland road, loaded with onions and turnips. The pair of asses pulled their load without complaint.

  Thorel watched the woods pass by, keeping a sharp eye out. He was a tall, well-built young man of eighteen summers with a thick mop of brown hair. He held the leather strings of his sling in one hand, and the stone that was loaded in it in the other.

  Korin sat next to him. His late father's best friend sat at relaxed alert watching the woods on his left. He held a knocked arrow in his long bow. He occasionally flicked the reins to keep the asses moving.

  They had been on edge since they had found the doe's corpse just off the road this morning. The poor animal had been gutted, and there was no arrow wound.

  “Wolves?” Thorel asked.

  “No, boy,” the retired Legionnaire scanned the woods for danger, looking up as well. “Look at her. Think.”

  Thorel looked carefully, confused at first. Then he saw it. There were no wounds on her legs. That was how wolves worked; they would strike quick to keep from harm and lame their quarry. When the beast could no longer run, they would take the prey down. He looked at the doe's neck; there were no bites. But the head was turned completely around on her body. “What kind of animal does this?” He asked.

  “No beast did this. A corpse that walks like a man did,” Korin whispered.

  Thorel's eyes widened. The Kryss were what he meant; the same monsters that killed his father twelve summers past.

  He turned to look behind him and saw the ethereal image of his father standing in the cart behind him. He had been there since Thorel was six. It was strange, but he had learned to accept it. He remembered when he first saw it.

  He told his Mother, “Dad's home!” innocently pointing at the apparition. His Mother looked where he pointed, and then looked to him. She'd put her hands on her face and screamed. “He's gone!” She wailed, “Oh no, my husband! And now my son, too!” She'd broken down completely into a screaming crying fit unable to utter a single coherent word. Thorel was more scared than he'd ever been, thinking he'd done something wrong, or something was wrong with her. When she recovered her wits hours later, she admonished Thorel never to speak of what he saw. Not ever.

  He never did. He was afraid to, and Korin would strap him if he disobeyed her.

  Over the years, some animals of Korin's farm had added themselves to his father's apparition. Thirteen all counted. Like the chipmunk that he used to roll nuts back and forth to when he'd been young. And the lamb who had only lived for three days outside of her mother. He'd tried so hard to nurse that little lamb back to health, but her weakness overcame her. At first he thought he may have been touched by the mind sickness that had begun claiming his mother since his father passed. But over time it somehow became normal for them to be there. He did not talk to them, and he heard no voices. He did what he needed to do, and the ethereal apparitions did nothing to interfere.

  It had been a tense ride since that grisly discovery. He had gone beyond the nervous energy of fear hours ago and felt as drained as if he'd been splitting wood all morning. “Korin, if a Kryss is a person bitten by a Kryss, how was the first one made?” He asked, morbidly curious.

  “Beats me lad. Might as well ask if the chicken or the egg came first. Maybe one of those fancy scholars at the Academy knows,” he breathed, watching the woods attentively.

  Thorel swelled with pride. The Academy of Vallad was their destination; Thorel had been accepted. He had the gold his mother had saved from his father's death toll to pay for the first two years. He had done extra work on the farm for the last three summers to get the rest of his money, for necessities until he had found a job there so he could continue his education. His mother had insisted that he go to the Academy. She wouldn't have her son join the Legion that took her husband from her. She had taught him his letters at an early age so he could pass the entrance exam with ease.

  Since it was his eighteenth summer, he would either have to join the Crown Legion for two years, (unless he had been a married woman or a slave) or enroll at an Academy. It was the law, punishable by slavery, to all of common status or less.

  Thorel watched the woods pass by and wished he knew more about what happened to his father. He knew that he had been killed at the battle of Vox, along with many others. When he had asked Korin about it over the years, he'd refused to talk about it.

  The last time he asked Korin had said, “I'm not going to relive the worst horror of my life just to give you nightmares, boy,” he was too respectful of Korin to pry further. He'd taken him and his mother in after his father's death. Korin, his wife, and two daughters were the rest of his family as far as his feelings were concerned.

  Korin spotted the gleaming Legionnaires first. It was a patrol of six, on horseback. Three held short bows nocked but not drawn, the other three held spears with wide steel blades.

  “Put the sling down, boy,” Korin said as he put his bow down. “Why?” Thorel asked. “They'll kill you, boy, put it down. It's how they're trained,” Thorel put it down quickly.

  The three Legionnaires drew their bows and took aim, and the other three rushed forward encircling the wagon as Korin brought the asses to a halt with the reins.

  “Who are you, man?” One of the Legionnaires asked.

  “I am Korin Quedesham, sir. And this boy is Thorel Tangarth,” Korin replied calmly. The Legionnaire started to speak again. Korin held up his hand and said, “We're heading to Vallad to sell these onions and turnips, and deliver this young man to the Academy to begin his education, sir.”

  The Legionnaire looked nonplussed by the interruption but nodded to one of the others, who used his spear to flick back the blankets covering the baskets in the wagon. They examined the innocent cargo for long moments.

  “Very well man, on your way. Go with caution though. There is a Kryss near here,” he looked at them meaningfully.

  “I know. We found a doe this morning, killed by one. A quarter day with ass and cart,” he gestured with his thumb to the road behind them.

  “Likely wolves.” A younger Legionnaire said.

  “It wasn't wolves, sir,” Thorel said with certainty. “There were no wounds on her legs; everyone knows that's how wolves work, sir.” He said looking at the man seriously.

  The Legionnaire opened his mouth to disagree, and Korin cut him off again. “It was a Kryss, sir; there is no doubt. They'll lunge right at you and aim for the neck. I've seen one twist a horse's head around. The doe was taken that way, sir.”

  Thorel was wide-eyed, trying to imagine the strength it would take to do that.

  “I've never heard of this,” the Legionnaire said flatly.

  “I know what I'm saying. I have proof, sir,” Korin said.

  “Show me your proof, man,” the Legionnaire said roughly. Korin pulled back the blanket that covered the sheathed short sword sitting between him and Thorel. He had only seen Korin pull that blade from the locked box under his bed when he was going on a trip, or if there might be trouble. He had always told Thorel never to touch it under any circumstances.

  He picked it up and presented it to the L
ieutenant with both hands. The Lieutenant took it carefully in the same fashion.

  The Lieutenant admired it appreciatively. “An exquisite blade. But-”

  Korin cut him off; “Draw the blade, sir. The proof is there.”

  He drew the blade slowly, admiring the workmanship and read the inscription out loud, “To Commander Korin Quedesham, hero of the battle of Vox.” He took a deep breath and continued; “Your service is recognized by the Crown and he who wears it, Goral Andel Corwinthius. May any who take this blade without your leave burn to ash, and their spirit be remanded to limbo for eternity.”

  Thorel breathed sharply: he had never known what was written on the blade before now.

  The Lieutenant exhaled slowly and sheathed the blade. He handed it back to Korin with both hands and bowed his head. He then saluted with his fist to heart and said: “Commander, my apologies. We will depart immediately.”

  “I no longer serve, sir. You are doing your duty, and doing it well, Lieutenant,” he said returning the salute with respect.

  The Lieutenant held his hand up to the mounted archers signaling them to stand down. They relaxed their bows and came forward. When they did, Thorel was surprised to see two of them were women with armor of glittering scale instead of the heavy plate the men wore.

  “As you say, sir. We will depart immediately to find this monster and slay it,” the Lieutenant replied.

  “Of course. Be cautious, Lieutenant. They are cunning. Mad, but cunning. Don't forget to look up,” Korin said in a deadly serious tone.

  “Yes, sir!” The Lieutenant saluted. With a quick hand gesture, the Legionnaires reformed their line and proceeded down the road at a trot.

  Thorel watched the Legionnaires disappear over the rise on the road behind them and then babbled excitedly. “Hero of the Battle of Vox! I had no idea! You met the King?!? Now I understand why you told me never to touch it! Is it Magikal?”

  “Yes, I met our King. The day he gave me that blade. I mustered out the next day and went to Surundi to get you and your mother.” He took a deep breath and continued, “I'm not sure if it's Magikal, boy, but I'm not gonna take any chances with you or my girls.” He turned his attention to the road ahead, flicking the reins to urge the asses forward.