Black River

by Peter Fugazzotto

  MARKET

  THE ODORS OF the Fabric Market were almost more than Vincius of Xichil could bear.

  He tugged the perfumed silk handkerchief from the pocket of his embroidered vest and held it lightly in front of his nose. He should not have accepted the Master Chronicler's suggestion that Vincius escort the master's daughter to the perfumery shop at the edge of the Fabric Market.

  But the Apprentice Chronicler knew that it was not really a suggestion but rather an order.

  At least since this task has nothing to do with the Collegium, Vincius would not be shamed yet again by having to wear the uncomfortable hemp robe of the Apprentice.

  Attia, the daughter of the Master Chronicler, tugged at Vincius's arm. "Here is where I want to stop. This is the shop that Marita has been going on and on about."

  "It's suffocating," said Vincius, nose and lips hidden behind the compressed handkerchief.

  "Oh, what do you know? I imagine the stench of pigs and moldy hay is more appealing to a boy from Xichil."

  "Apparently I don't need to return to Xichil to find myself surrounded by crap and rot. Soon I will be free of this, and serving the Emperor."

  The market was stifling. Bodies of matrons and their half naked slaves pressed against him. Meandering lines of people shifted and surged as a creaking cart pushed through. A tall man with a whitish-blue blind eye muttered and cursed to himself, globs of spit launching from his lips.

  Attia smiled at the shopkeeper, pointed out a particular vial of perfume and then cast a glance over her shoulder back at Vincius. "Haven't your classmates ventured far afield already in search of the words of power? You, are you going to live in the attic forever? I hear you moving around there at night and it is unseemly at times."

  "I had to relearn what I was taught by Chronicler Cartaga."

  "I'm sure you did."

  "They were several years ahead of me by the time I entered the Collegium."

  Attia spritzed her wrist with the perfume and shoved it towards Vincius's face.

  He pulled his head back unable to hide his grimace nor avoid the scowl of the shopkeeper. "Jasmine, and what? Pepper? Who would ever combine those?"

  "He's from Xichil," she said to shopkeeper, who rolled his eyes. "Might look Vas Dhurman with that tight curly hair, though far too much oil, and that hawkish nose, and he plays the part with the velvet vest, but don't be fooled – a peasant of Xichil, skin naturally that dark, and an orphan on top of that. Gods only know what his lines have been. But father sees something in him. Took him in. Charity."

  "I'll be across the way," said Vincius and without waiting for her to respond went across to a bread stall. A squat woman of Xichil, dressed in black, ruddy cheeks hid in the folds of a hood, nodded to him. He ordered a small country loaf and a thin cut of sharp dry cheese and sat on one of the low rough-hewn stools that his country-woman had set in front of her stall. Hidden behind his food, he watched the market from a comfortable distance.

  A wagon piled with silks had foundered in the mud. Two cursing Northmen, thugs, pushed at the rear wheel while another, a giant of a man with an unsightly red beard, tugged at the rope tied around the old ox's neck.

  "Your mistress?" asked the bread seller.

  Vincius scoffed. "A burden is what she is."

  He remembered those first few hopeful weeks when he had been brought into the Master Chronicler's house, tagging after the white bearded man who had claimed Vincius as his special project, picking up the books the old man left on the floor, gladly running errands in the markets, and delivering scrolled messages to the Emperor's Chamberlain and the scholars of the Grand Collegium. Such promise there had been. In those first few weeks, he stole many glances at Attia, wondered at her golden curls, her lilting laugh, the wide open looks she would cast upon him. A world stretched out just beyond his fingertips. A world that could be his.

  But that was before the dream began to shatter.

  ***

  The odds had been stacked against Vincius's rise in the Chronicler's Guild before he ever entered the doors of the Grand Collegium.

  The first impediment was that he was not from Vas Dhurma. He was not of the line of unpolluted blood that came from the founding of the Empire. He was an outsider, a foreigner. A further mark against him was that he hailed from Xichil, that most backwards of Dhurman provinces, the much maligned and conquered island where the peasants still held onto their magic. At first, Vincius had thought that the others in the Grand Collegium would accept him as a brother despite their different backgrounds, united in their common cause to capture words of power, but he soon learned that prejudices and elitism ran deep.

  In addition, Vincius did not learn the rudiments of his craft from an approved minor collegium as so many of his classmates had. Throughout the provinces of empire, minor colleges had been set up to filter out and train students. Most did not last the first month, but if they persisted, showed promise, and passed the rigorous testing held once a year in the capital, then they would be allowed to apply to the Grand Collegium. In those provincial schools, the students formed bonds, brotherhoods, tight knit groups that remained faithful to each other, more like gangs that anything else.

  Vincius had no such friends.

  Instead Vincius was the lone student of a wayward scholar, one Chronicler Cartaga, long exiled from Vas Dhurma proper and banished to the backwaters of Xichil for his unorthodox way of capturing of the words of power.

  Vincius would rather have studied in a minor collegium, but as an orphan he had learned to accept whatever opportunities came his way. So when Chronicler Cartaga hobbled into the orphanage and grabbed young Vincius by the elbow, he knew it was a pathway out of Xichil, or at least the shame that hovered over him in the orphanage.

  Chronicler Cartaga's methods ran counter to what the Grand Collegium taught, though Vincius did not know it at the time. Rather than bring an armed force to a witch or warlock's den, the teary-eyed old man over time became friendly with the witch or warlock. He was especially friendly with the witches who he pried with gifts and, according to some rumors, a warm and willing body. Once in their confidence, he would memorize the words that they had uttered for minor magic, such as speeding the healing of wounds or making a man feel drowsy, and then he would later scribble them into his precious scrolls.

  But his method was rather imperfect and Vincius, when finally sent to the Grand Collegium in the capital of Vas Dhurma, had to relearn nearly everything that he was taught. Chroniclers were taught not to memorize the words that they heard, but to transcribe them to paper using a complex system of writing to capture the archaic words and the confusing tones, and then to forget the words immediately.

  Vincius did not understand this at first. Then it dawned on him that the Emperor did not want the Chroniclers to be anything more than recorders. The Emperor alone wanted to be the one that controlled the words. A Chronicler who knew the words on his own was dangerous to Empire.

  The first several months at the Grand Collegium were difficult for Vincius. Alone and laughed at, he struggled. Fortunately, he applied himself hard and caught the eye of the Master Chronicler who made Vincius a special project of his to prove his point that even the uneducated from Xichil could be of use to Empire in its quest to control dark magic. The Master Chronicler pulled Vincius from the dormitories and gave him a simple straw mattress in the attic of his palazzo.

  Vincius at first had high hopes that this patronage would lead him far, but increasingly it became apparent that the Master Chronicler was looking for a servant in the non-magical affairs of his life: negotiating with merchants over the price of wine, helping clean the pigeon droppings from his rooftop of his palazzo and, increasingly, escorting the Master Chronicler's rather plain but exceedingly vain daughter on another one of her shopping "adventures" in the markets.

  ***

  "Why you leave?" The bread seller passed Vincius a small bowl of herb-marinated olives.

  He waved it off.

 
"Free for a countryman."

  He thought about his dreams of rooting out magic, of rising in the fabled story of Dhurma, and avenging what was lost. "Maybe I should have stayed."

  "Sickness here," the bread seller said. "Sweet at first, like sugar on your tongue, but then you realize bitter like poison. Then too late. Rotted from inside out."

  Vincius shrugged off the conversation and turned his attention to the market. He hoped Attia would not waste his entire day.

  Two dark-skinned Hophts, wrapped in white, paused at the edge of the perfumery shop.

  The younger one, his left eye twitching, fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the feet of the one with the forked and braided beard. The older one touched the head of the kneeling man and then disappeared into a narrow alley several stalls down. The younger man upon rising became noticeably agitated, sweat forming on his brow, his knees trembling slightly. He glanced at the perfumery shop again, at Attia with her gaudy silks.

  Vincius was sure the man was up to no good. A cut purse most likely. Well maybe Attia deserved to see this side of her beloved Vas Dhurma.

  But rather than turn towards the Master Chronicler's daughter, the Hopht shouldered his way to the middle of the road and lay down in a large pool of mud. Vincius was about to burst out in laughter when the warlock's song unraveled through the clamor of the market.

  Vincius stood so quickly that he knocked the stool over.

  "Vellum and ink," he called to the bread seller.

  But she cut her fingers at him.

  He patted his sides, checked the pockets of his vest, but nothing, not a quill, not a piece of chalk or charcoal. He was a Chronicler. He was supposed to be prepared at all times to capture the words of power. Here they were nearly indistinguishable in the racket of the market but he could hear them and pick them out. Could he capture a single sound? But the words were oily, in his ears, clear, resonant one moment, but then slipping away through his fingers. What is a hard "G" or a "C" and was that a rising or arcing inflection? Chronicler Cartaga's method would have worked here, for this is what he did: catch the words as they were said and store them deep in his mind to capture by pen later. But Vincius had lost too much of the method, given up the arcane practices of focus and meditation. The tools of the Grand Collegium were quill and ink, capturing the words without processing them, immediately seizing them as they occurred and transcribing them, which is why they often were so full of errors.

  "Chalk, charcoal, anything to write with," he cried to his country-woman.

  The bread seller too had heard the words of power. Her eyes narrowed. "You are one of them, the destroyers of the old ways. I have nothing for you." She spat at him.

  He cursed her and was about to run across the road to see if Attia had any writing implements, when he saw the Hopht rise out of the mud, only he was not simply a man anymore.

  What rose from the mud was a monstrosity, a creature formed by the steady song of the warlock.

  The mud, stones, fragments of metal, bits of stray cloth, and discarded wood had layered over the small Hopht, creating a second and third and fourth skin, broadening his chest and arms, giving him three feet of additional height, and with each step he took, more of the mud and refuse gathered to him.

  A guard from the perfumery crashed through the curtains, halberd in hand, and he swung a mighty stroke. But the mud man parried the blow, dropped a fist on the man's head and absorbed the halberd into his arm, now giving him a bladed hand with which he whirled and beheaded another market sell sword.

  At this point, chaos erupted in the market. Women screamed, men sprinted off, and horror widened the eyes of all who were witness to this monstrosity.

  Beneath the shouts and the sibilant song of the warlock, Vincius heard a single word gurgle out of the mud man's mouth. "Attia." The strength drained out of the Xichil's legs and for a moment he thought his bowels would loosen. The mud man was coming to kill the Master Chronicler's daughter and there was nothing to stop him. His hands trembled. He did not think of running, his legs powerless, his stomach tying knots about itself.

  Then he remembered he had a stiletto, the sharp killing blade of the Xichils.

  But what could he do? To drive it into the heart of the mud man, he would have to nearly be within its embrace, and even then what guarantee would he have that a stilled heart would stop the mud man? He knew that if the magic was layered deeply enough that it would support the animation of the dead. He had heard of such magic in the lectures in the Grand Collegium. The only solution was to find and kill the warlock, the fork-bearded Hopht who had disappeared into the hidden recesses of the market. The Hopht warlock had to be close – close enough for his song to carry and close enough to ensure that his creation killed Attia.

  But was that even something that Vincius could do by himself? He had been barely able to hold the witch's struggling daughter in his arms the other day in that apartment by the docks. He wished he was a full Chronicler bolstered by an escort of armed men.

  The mud man turned to the perfumery and Attia screamed when she heard her name.

  Vincius was still frozen with indecision when the ox struck.

  The ox, eyes wide in terror, bolted down the street, the blades of two of the Northmen directing it straight at the mud man, while another pressed the hot orange end of a smithy's tongs into the tail end of the beast. The pain of the fire made the beast, unburdened from the wagon loaded with silks, charge forward in blind panic, and as the Northmen planned, the oxen bellowing and with horns lowered barreled over the mud man with such impact that the small Hopht was thrust out of the skin of mud and debris.

  Before he could get up, the blades of the Northmen dropped, stabbing heart, severing limbs, and when the body no longer moved, the biggest man smashed the Hopht's head with a war hammer.

  "I hear the song," said one of the Northmen, a middle-aged warrior in a chain link vest and wearing a crude dented helm. "But where is he?"

  Vincius found his voice and his legs. "There," he pointed at the narrow alley. "He went through there. I am a Chronicler. I want his words."

  The Northman laughed. "Boy, the only thing you'll get is his head." And with those words, he led his two companions into the back recesses of the market.

  Vincius wanted to follow, to demand that they let him capture the words and the prize of the tongue. It was his charge after all, a priority for Empire and they would have to yield to his demands or answer to the Master Chronicler or even the Emperor. But his legs again drained of all intent.

  Suddenly, Attia's arms were around him, hot breath against him, tears wetting his cheek and neck, blathering on about how scared she was and how she wanted to go home. "Take me home to Papa, Vincius. Please get out of here. I am so scared. I saw you coming. I will never forget. Papa will know of your bravery."

  The song of the warlock ended abruptly, and suddenly everything ceased, and Vincius felt as if silence swallowed the world and he was no longer in his body but looking down at it above, looking down at the orphan from Xichil, alone in great Vas Dhurma.

  RETURN NORTH

  SHIELD STARED PAST his scarred fingers into the wine cup, where the reflection of his face bobbed in the dark red liquid. He tilted his cup and watched as his image stretched, broke apart, and struggled to come back together.

  "And then Shield grabs the tongs, red fucking hot, you know," said Patch, "and shoves it into the poor ox's asshole."

  The other men in the tavern – toughs, bodyguards, outcasts and crippled former soldiers – tore open their mouths above their cups, laughter tumbling about in the dark subterranean hall.

  "Wasn't his asshole," mumbled Shield. "Was his balls."

  The gang of drinkers fell over themselves, cup sloshing, backs slapped.

  Harad's cheeks and nose were bright red, the color they always turned when he got into his cups. He rarely drank anymore, and had not for the entirety of the Hophtian campaign, though more often now that they had returned to Vas Dhurma.
Tonight he swayed over his elbows.

  He leaned in close to Shield, cradling his captain's head close to his. "Shield Scyldmund, the man I gave up my homeland to follow. Moments like this, days like today, it is worth it. I forget everything and realize that the most important thing in the world is to be with my true brothers, my blood brothers, my littermates. Close my eyes, let the room spin and you'd swear we were beyond the Black River in a mead hall of old, wrecking benches, warriors gathered against the darkness."

  Shield planted a kiss on the big man's head and then shoved him away.

  He could almost let himself be carried away by the day like Patch and Harad. After all, it had been a thing of legend. The Northmen, slogging through the market of Vas Dhurma with a wagon overloaded with silks and a recalcitrant ox that had been at them since first sight, the mud man rising and going after the girl, their clever trick with the ox (coupled with a touch of payback), the death of the creature of magic and the pursuit of the warlock.

  The dandy Chronicler had pointed them in the right direction. Maybe they should have stuck with the script and allowed the little scribbler to capture a few words, words that most likely would have been misspoke and resulted in another piles of ashes.

  But what did Shield owe to Dhurma any more? If the city and Empire had no need for him, then he would do as he pleased.

  And it pleased him at that moment in the market to track down the warlock, through the billowing curtains, up the rickety stairs and onto the balcony filled with caged birds. After a few moments, the warlock's blood painted the white clay walls and the blue and gold tiles. Some servant, a refugee from the provinces most likely, would have spent the afternoon bent on knee, amidst the unsettled squawking of the birds, cleaning up what the Hounds had left behind.