Magience: second edition

by Cari Silverwood

  The green eyes blinked slowly at her from the darkened corner. Behind those eyes she knew there was a body coiled up with energy like a compressed spring. She swallowed. Knowing how the tuskdog would behave was not so useful when she had no choice and no way to back down. Given enough time, say an hour or two, she was sure she could make friends with him. There wasn’t that much time.

  Someone cautiously climbed up the railings of the stall – the court photographer. He unlimbered one of the box-like apparatuses he carried with him, resting it on the top rail and pointing the front nozzle at the tuskdog.

  “Need more light,” he grumbled. Ellinca was stunned at his audacity, although he seemed perfectly safe, as long as he didn’t slip.

  “Give the girl a lantern.”

  Someone shoved it into her hand and hurriedly stepped back. The sergeant’s face was puffed dark red with anger but he said nothing more.

  The rest of the men, she decided, were either too scared or unwilling to intervene.

  The lieutenant flicked his hand. “You two, take the youth outside. He needn’t see this.”

  See what? Then she knew – how little faith he placed in the crossbows and rope supposed to pull her out of danger.

  Pascolli’s grip on her arm squeezed painfully tight. He was white, his lips pressed in a flat line. She pried away his fingers, whispering from the corner of her mouth, “It’s okay.” It wasn’t. Fear crawled in closer somewhere just beyond the lantern light. “It’s okay.” She managed to smile.

  He took no notice and began to shake his head, slowly at first, before moving in larger, more forceful arcs. The two soldiers looked hesitantly to their commander. Pascolli’s hands moved furiously as he also signed the word, “No!” over and over.

  The lieutenant frowned.

  Pascolli stopped signing, hands falling bonelessly to his sides. He slumped to kneel on the floor. As the two soldiers moved closer, Pascolli slipped a slim knife from a boot sheath.

  She hesitated then lunged. One crossbowman, startled, brought up his weapon aimed squarely at her. She shoved Pascolli, sending him sprawling to the floor onto his face and hands and knees. The knife spun free.

  A crossbow bolt thudded into the ground next to Ellinca’s foot.

  “What is this?” The lieutenant smiled then with gloved fist he smashed Pascolli to the floor.

  Ellinca gasped and stepped between them. “Stop! Stop!” When the lieutenant looked as if he would strike her too she flinched but stood fast.

  “Stupid! You.” He gestured to a soldier. “Hold him outside with that Grakkurd sympathizer.” Pascolli was dragged out the door.

  “Now! Enough delays. Get into the stall with that animal or I will judge that you have admitted guilt.”

  She gulped, trying to slow her breathing, her heart. Calm. She uncurled her fists from where the fingernails had dug into her palms. She counted. Including their vicious commander and the sergeant, four men remained. Oh. And the photographer made five.

  “Go! Do you hear me, girl?”

  She could run for it, throw the lantern at the sergeant so he dropped the rope end. They were in heavy armor and slow. On the other hand, crossbow bolts flew faster than she could run and they were between her and the door. Even if she succeeded, that would leave Pascolli to take the brunt of this awful man’s rage.

  “I am guilty of nothing! Finder Frope did not order you to do this!” She couldn’t bring herself to say what they all thought – that she might die. Deliberately she spoke to the others in the room, in particular the sergeant. “Make certain every detail of this is told to him.” She thought the sergeant nodded slightly.

  With a faint shring the lieutenant half-drew his sword.

  “Hmph!” She bent and pulled off her thin leather shoes. The door creaked on its hinges, partly open. She waited, sure that her courage would come if she could just take enough deep breaths.

  Chapter 3

  Of Beasts and Animals

  If the men behind her spoke she couldn’t hear it over the thud thud thud of her heart and the very disturbing growl coming from the corner. The rope around her waist was heavy. The dry night air made her eyeballs hurt but she wouldn’t blink if she could possibly help it, maybe never, in case she missed something, like the tuskdog leaping for her throat.

  With the half-door open, the light from her lantern flooded the shadows, painting in the details.

  Straw swamped the stall. A tin bucket of water was propped against one wall alongside a full food bowl, the food so ancient it was squirming with maggots. The aforementioned head-holder sat in mid-floor. Green eyes stared menacingly at her. Straw humped up around them.

  Under her feet was cold bare dirt. She wiggled her toes. The dirt squeezed up between them. You could learn things from the earth, or so her dad had often said on hunting trips to the wilds, feel things, know things.

  The eyes were lower than they should be. The beating of her heart slowed as she began to think. Unless tuskdogs had eyes at the bottom of their heads, the creature had dug quite a deep hole. The straw was old and hadn’t been changed for at least a day, yet there were no signs the tuskdog had stirred from its burrow.

  The stench of old food and hay and droppings drifted up. The illness must be stopping him from walking. It would be a sore leg. Yes. The left one, she decided for no particular reason.

  Once she touched him all would be right. Animals didn’t bite once she touched them. Just didn’t. They sensed she was helping them, or something... She’d never worked out why, but that was it.

  Slowly she stretched out and hung the lantern on a hook. The growling went up in pitch then down again. Safe, and now she could use both hands.

  “Get in there, girl! You’ve got five minutes, no more.” The lieutenant was an impatient man. If she was lucky his stomach lining was crawling with ulcers. She looked sideways to where the photographer was poised dangerously with half his torso over the railing and his camera aimed her way.

  Ignore them. Slow and steady, slow and alive. She edged one foot forward, then the other. Nothing happened. Again, inch by inch, she drew closer and her confidence grew. She was a few feet closer.

  Something was different. The growling had stopped.

  Darkness leapt at her. Wrenching pain around her waist squashed the breath from her chest. “Oosh!” She flew backward so fast the walls went past in a blur. The only other sight was a rapidly shrinking set of teeth and the inside of a roaring throat. The door slammed shut.

  The rope had saved her. She struggled to her feet and loosened the slip knot then, with hands resting on knees, she recovered.

  “Back in, girl! Don’t think you can fool me that easily.”

  A soldier patted her back. “Get bitten a little,” he whispered near her ear.

  A little! She straightened. It wasn’t worth even glaring at the lieutenant. Something wet dripped from her left hand and she inspected it, thinking to find a dribble of saliva. It had been that close. A red bleeding streak ran along one finger.

  Like some sort of vibrating musical instrument her hand shook, and the shaking traveled up her arm, to her shoulder, to everywhere. Her whole body trembled.

  You’re not a set of castanets, she angrily told herself. Just because he wants to bite you! Stop it! The shaking slowed and ceased. Now if only she could hold herself back from sobbing out loud. This was suicidal. This animal wanted to kill.

  “No animal is evil. Evil is a human thing.” Those had been her mother’s words. Her vision blurred. She swiped at her eyes then walked back to the stall entrance. A soldier opened it.

  The tuskdog was in the burrow once more. There must be a way to trick him, make him think she was a friend.

  The full food bowl showed he’d be hungry, might judge her friendly if she carried food, but one more step and he’d shoot from his burrow, an avalanche of flesh and bones, teeth and claws. She wriggled her toes again. The smell wafted up. Smell... There were droppings down there, beneath the straw. Not somet
hing that pleased her, or her toes.

  But... She blinked. If a chick fell from the nest people said you had to be careful not to get your human smell on it or the mother wouldn’t take it back. Its own smell was good. Human bad. Hunters, when following the spoor of a wild animal, would cover themselves in the animal’s odor. It wasn’t that bad. Mucking out stables or a pigsty was the same. She’d done that on the farm lots of times. This just seemed worse.

  Funny, of all the things that worried her, it was what her mother would have thought of her getting her clothes dirty...

  She leaned over and picked up some of the smelliest straw. She grimaced, rubbed it partway up one leg then up the other. One arm, then the other. She paused. No, not her face. She wiped her hands on some cleaner straw.

  The crossbowman to her right spoke. “What is she doing?”

  “Lumberger, you don’t want to know,” grumbled the sergeant. “Keep your trigger finger ready to get that animal.”

  She lifted one foot...listening...listening intently to the tuskdog’s growl. This was it.

  She shifted her weight forward...her heartbeat accelerated, his growl deepened...her foot felt the tickle of straw...in the corner more straw rustled...his legs bunched under him and the growling stopped. No, not again! The room wobbled, circled her for a moment...

  Blackness blurred the sides of her vision, her wide eyes seeing only directly before her, where the green eyes had been.

  Seconds stretched. She heard him snuffle and smack his lips, as if tasting the air. The mound of straw in the corner shifted, falling to the sides like snow sliding from the roof of a house at the break of winter. A large mouth of yellow-white teeth yawned widely as the tuskdog stood, his eyes narrowing to slits. He shook loose the remaining straw.

  “Get me some food,” she whispered.

  “Lumberger,” the sergeant barked. “Give her that cheese you’ve got hidden in your pocket!”

  “Aw, it’s my...”

  “Now!”

  Ellinca reached behind without turning and felt a greasy portion of cheese placed in her hand. She squatted low, held it out in front and began talking non-stop in friendly tones to get him used to her voice. “Here, boy, this should taste better than that old stuff, come on, you’ve got to be really hungry by now...”

  Dragging one leg behind him – yes, it was his left – the tuskdog approached first his food bowl, which he sniffed disgustedly before he came to her.

  She shuddered. It was going to be okay. She coughed and almost gagged at the smell. He was worse up close than the stuff in the bowl or the manure stench. First he licked at the cheese with a fat pink tongue then he began delicately nibbling off small pieces with his front teeth.

  His head was bull-like and the tusks his kind was named after were short, fat spikes on either side of the mouth. With no real neck on his massive cylindrical body, he was a mini battering ram. Except for his head and legs he was furless, for the rest of his skin was thickly armored with mottled brown and silver scales. The lame leg was swollen to three times the size of the other hind leg.

  Still holding the cheese she began to gently scratch him behind one ear. “Good boy. Gooo-d boy.”

  She put down the cheese and slid her hands down his body while shuffling sideways. He wolfed down the last bit of food then lay down on his stomach with the leg stuck out. Apart from a brief whimper when her hands reached the worst of the swelling on his left hock, he made no sound.

  Tears welled up at the thought of the pain he felt, and yet he trusted her. The trouble was she didn’t know if she could do anything at all to help. There didn’t appear to be any wound that might have caused all this swelling. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes, ignoring it. Concentrate. Perhaps there was a large splinter, a foreign body, something that could be removed.

  But all her probing fingertips felt were hard, knobbly lumps and her heart sank. She’d seen this before – cancer, uncontrollable growth.

  One of the lumps moved a little. She prayed silently, pushing on the lump with her fingertips, trying to imagine that underneath it was healthy tissue.

  She pressed harder, and harder, feeling a change in temperature. First heat then cold then nothing as her fingers became painfully numb from the pressure before they seemed to sink deep into the flesh. The lump squelched, softened and melted away. What was this? Liquid oozed over her fingers. Not daring to crack open her eyelids she felt for another lump. As she went from lump to lump, each disappeared until at last there was only soft swelling under her hands. She opened her eyes, frowning. What had happened?

  The tuskdog licked her. She drew in her hands, peering at them. What an alarming color – patchy white and blue, except where watery blood covered them. She jiggled her hands then, as if it were only pins and needles, feeling started to return.

  The leg was less swollen than before. With a groan the tuskdog regained its feet, gave her a final rasping lick and limped back to the burrow. Wriggling his bottom he sank back into the hole, rear end first. An enormous but contented sigh escaped him.

  “Come on, lass.” A man pulled her gently to her feet then backward out of the stall, closing the door once she reached safety.

  Reality soaked back in.

  Ignored by most and muttering something about developing his pictures, the photographer busied himself packing away gear into his pack. The men with crossbows unloaded the bolts then carefully wound off the tension.

  The lieutenant stared balefully at her.

  “Sir!” The sergeant took a step forward and saluted. “I would swear before our Imperator that there was nothing strange involved in this. I mean...there was no hocus pocus to the operation...sir. Nothing at all!”

  Slowly, careful not to touch her jerkin, Ellinca lowered her hands. They were shaking again, twitching even. “It was...just abscesses. I need water to clean myself,” she said to the lieutenant, too tired to think past the necessary. “Please.” She was sure he was grinding his teeth.

  He blinked. “Very well. Sergeant. Find her some water.”

  “Sir!”

  “After that, come outside and supervise the punishment of that idiot.” He smiled thinly at her as the sergeant walked off. “Six lashes for attempting to prevent an officer from performing his rightful duties. I am being lenient. I hope you understand. I could have him executed.”

  Ellinca blinked then forced herself to nod. “Yes.”

  Pascolli had meant to stab the man, or so it would be argued – an imperial officer at that. Death was a common penalty for such a crime, but why was he being so...kind?

  Of course, she was innocent of being a mage and he must be wondering if the Finder had truly not meant harm to come to her. He was afraid he had gone too far. She licked her dry lips and tried to summon some clarity. Could she, should she, try to turn this to their advantage, perhaps even have this man punished? Or better still – stop Pascolli being whipped?

  “Yes.” His smile turned wolfish. “I find a good lashing so much more satisfying. When you’re dead you can’t feel pain.” He clamped his hand on her upper arm, fingers crushing down. “You may have squirmed out of it this time, but I know what you are. I know! And I won’t forget!”

  While he marched away the blood drained from her face. She stood there, stunned, grateful he had now left her alone. What was this man?

  Standing here was doing Pascolli no good at all. She followed after him, to the door where sweaty-faced Lumberger barred her way.

  “Sorry, miss. You’re to stay there until it’s done.”

  Beyond, in a circle of torch light, Pascolli knelt, shirtless and bound to the posts of a fence.

  The sergeant drew her back. “Miss, it will do nobody any good. Don’t look.”

  “I’ve got to stop this! You can stop this!” She pried away his fingers. The sergeant had seemed a good man, reasonable.

  “No, I can’t, though I’ll do my best to lighten the whip. Here’s the water. Understand.” He stared straight into
her eyes. “If you interfere he will make it worse for your friend.” He plonked the bucket at her feet and pushed past.

  “Lumberger,” he grated, “keep her here or I’ll have your guts for breakfast.” The door slammed in her face.

  She battered at the door then slowly leaned into it, folding her arms over her head, the timber cold against her skin. The first lash sounded. She shuddered. Blow after blow after blow. Six was not a large number but the whip, the one used by the army, would be barbed with wicked metal spurs. She could do nothing.

  Chapter 4

  Blood Will Tell

  A leaden tiredness overcame Ellinca, her limbs heavy, her mind so slow to make sense of the easiest task.

  With eyes closed she listened as the captain summoned his men and announced they were leaving immediately for the camp. When the sergeant argued that the boy needed medical attention he was grudgingly allowed to stay until morning. The craziness of that came through the syrup her mind swam in – maim them then fix them.

  Once she knew Pascolli would be tended to she allowed herself to be led to the house and tucked into a bed. Near her people murmured, someone groaned and water gently splashed as if a rag was being wrung into a bowl. A thick fur cover was thrown over her. Her eyelids closed and she sank toward sleep, only remembering at the last to untie the glass perfume vial, bring it to her lips, mutter a prayer and kiss it once. The nightly ritual brought comfort when all else was utterly wrong.

  More than on most nights whispers entered her dreams, although by morning nothing of any sense remained in her memory.

  When she awoke, strands of daylight already struck though the curtains. Pascolli lay in the bed opposite, watching her through sleep-drugged eyes.

  “I’m afraid to move,” he signed. “My back is on fire.”

  “Serves you right, trying to rescue me,” she said, feeling angry with him and not certain why. “Anyone with sense would know not to attack a bunch of soldiers with a knife. You might have died!”