Bloodmage

by Stephen Aryan

  “It is.”

  “Important enough to disrupt my usual schedule. I had other appointments.”

  She’d tried to be polite and treat him with a certain level of respect but he was showing her none in return. Talandra decided to get straight to the matter at hand.

  “It involves the Chosen and the recent surge in their popularity in Zecorria.”

  Valkrish was taken aback but quickly covered his surprise. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Play coy if you want, but we both know the Chosen weren’t eliminated in Zecorria. Every other nation in the west managed it, but they’ve grown in the shadows of your country like a fungus.”

  It was a petty dig, but Talandra was annoyed by his arrogance.

  “I’m not sure what you’ve been told—”

  “I’ve read first-hand reports of the recent problems in the capital. It started a few weeks ago with the tragic events surrounding the former High Priest Filbin,” said Talandra, barely managing to keep the contempt from her voice. Filbin was a cunning and power-hungry deviant who she’d wanted to see deposed for years. Surprisingly he’d done it to himself in the end, having some sort of breakdown whereby he confessed all of his darkest sins to a cathedral full of people. This, combined with proclaiming to have received divine, and very specific instructions, from his God, earned him an early retirement to a special facility in the country.

  “The church of the Holy Light will recover,” said the Minister. “But I don’t see what that has to do with the Chosen uprising.”

  “So you admit they’re becoming a problem,” said Talandra. The Minister spluttered and looked around for a distraction, perhaps something to drink and buy himself some time, but she’d not offered him anything. “Filbin’s sins have smeared the church of the Holy Light in Zecorria, and around the world.”

  “The new High Priestess Robella is pure of spirit and without sin. People will return to the church.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Talandra. “But in the meantime they’re looking for an alternative and the Chosen are very outspoken. They don’t deal in vague scripture or centuries-old myths. Their God was a living, breathing person.”

  “Who is dead,” snapped Valkrish.

  Talandra shrugged. “All the old religions have something about resurrection and rebirth. The Chosen are no different.”

  “Did you ask me here so that you could gloat?” asked Valkrish.

  “Far from it, Minister,” said Talandra, offering him a gentle smile and using his title again to massage his bruised ego. “I’m here to offer you some help.”

  Valkrish smacked his lips and glanced around for a drink, but the room was bare of any bottles or decanters. A jug of water sat on the table between them and she poured him a glass, which he accepted with a gracious nod.

  “What sort of help?” he asked, after a long silence.

  “My people have some experience of rooting out the Chosen,” said Talandra. “They’re devious, and very clever people who hide in plain sight. But if you get too close they disappear.”

  “They’re like rats,” admitted Valkrish. “Every time we find one of them and eliminate it, two more take its place. Either that or they scuttle away and hide in a dark hole.”

  “I understand your frustration. It took my people months of patient work to gather all the names before we made a move and eliminated them in Charas.”

  Valkrish raised an eyebrow. “They’d made it all the way to your country?”

  “Right up to my doorstep. In my capital city.”

  “But you’ve dealt with them?”

  “Yes. They will not return,” said Talandra, feigning confidence. Shani had reassured her of this, but even so she still had a nagging feeling at the back of her mind.

  The Minister processed this for a minute, carefully sipping his water. Talandra poured herself a glass and mirrored the gesture. Somehow, despite a huge bowl of soup and bread, her stomach was still rumbling and she felt the first stirrings of hunger. It wouldn’t be long before she started to show and would need some larger dresses.

  “What are you offering?” said the Minister, bringing her back to the present.

  “A list of names. Not only key figures in the Chosen network in Zecorria, but also a list of locations. You said it yourself, Minister. They scuttle back to their holes, but if you already know where they’re going, it doesn’t matter. They’ll have nowhere to hide. My people have over two dozen names, which includes several recruiters who have been trying to increase their numbers.”

  “And what are you asking for in return for helping us with the Chosen?” asked Valkrish.

  “I don’t want anything,” said Talandra, twisting her mouth into a snarl that she hoped was convincing. “They’re parasites and their twisted beliefs are an abomination. Their crimes during the war were horrific. Seeing them eliminated is enough of a reward.”

  Valkrish didn’t seem moved by her passionate display. In fact it seemed to have the opposite effect she’d hoped for as Talandra sensed him withdrawing into himself. She’d been told he was a devoted patriot and had hoped to appeal to his national pride, but it hadn’t worked. Either Valkrish was more astute than people realised or he was more paranoid.

  “If I were to ask how you obtained these names, would you tell me?” he asked, but before Talandra could answer Valkrish pressed on. “What else are your spies feeding you? Perhaps the names of Ministers with secrets? Those with debts or mistakes they’d rather remain buried?”

  “Of course not,” Talandra managed to say, but he was just getting started and would not be stopped.

  “How could I possibly trust your information? For all I know you’re making the Chosen a similar offer! To sow seeds of despair in my country and keep it off balance.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Minister.”

  Valkrish slowly rose to his feet, the haughty sneer returning. “I will not be manipulated or led around by the nose. We will take care of our own problems, without outside interference. I will not be beholden to you.”

  With that he stormed out, but the display was spoiled when he yanked open the door and walked headfirst into Alexis. The little man rebounded off her chest and would have fallen if she’d not caught him by the arm.

  “Get your hands off me, you great oaf!” Valkrish snapped, yanking himself free before stomping away down the stairs.

  “Should I even ask?” said Alexis, and Talandra shook her head. “Your next visitor is here. Do you want a minute?”

  “No, send him in,” said Talandra, standing up to greet her guest.

  It had been over a year since she’d last seen Ambassador Mabon from Zecorria and the plump man had changed little during that time. Even so it took Talandra a moment to recognise him as she wasn’t used to seeing him with his clothes on. Last time they’d met, in a rather special boudoir in her capital city, he’d been hanging naked from a cross while a madame whipped him across the buttocks. A little colour crept into Mabon’s cheeks as they shook hands. Clearly he’d also not forgotten about their previous encounter.

  “Ambassador,” said Talandra, offering him a warm smile, which he mirrored.

  “Your Highness,” he said, bowing over her hand.

  “How are you? How is the family?” she asked, taking her seat. Talandra was pleased to see that Mabon waited until she’d settled before sitting down opposite.

  “We’re all in good health, thank you. I believe congratulations are in order.” For a second Talandra thought he was referring to her pregnancy. “How is your husband?”

  “He’s fine, thank you,” said Talandra, taking a breath to calm herself. She would have to be careful about that in the future. “I just had the distinct pleasure of meeting the Zecorran Minister of State.”

  “Ah. Him,” said Mabon. “A prickly and annoying man at the best of times.”

  “Arrogant and paranoid too, it seems. I’d heard he was a loyal patriot.”

  “I take it your
meeting didn’t go well.”

  Talandra sighed. “No. I made him an offer, which he refused. Now I’m going to make you the same offer.”

  She repeated what she knew about the Chosen and their growing popularity in Zecorria. Mabon didn’t deny their existence, which was a good start, and he took a moment to consider his reply when she’d finished speaking.

  “You’re right about Valkrish. Despite his brusque manner, he is a patriot. He just won’t accept help from outsiders.”

  “How about from one of his own ambassadors?” asked Talandra.

  “It will take some convincing, but it’s possible,” conceded Mabon.

  “Do you remember what happened in Charas, Ambassador? Do you remember the favour I did for you?”

  Mabon swallowed hard and braced himself. “I remember.”

  “I’m collecting on your debt. I want you to make sure either the Minister, or someone else with equal influence in your government, uses the information I’ve supplied. I want to see the Chosen eliminated from Zecorria.”

  From his surprised expression Mabon had been expecting her to ask him to do something dangerous, disloyal or even commit a crime to clear his debt.

  “Why? What do you get out of it?”

  “Do you remember how the war started?” asked Talandra.

  “It was Taikon and his black wizard.”

  “They came later. Long before people flocked to Taikon’s banner, the seeds of chaos were being planted. People whispered in corners about getting rid of his father, the old King, and nothing was done. A cult, based on a twisted reading of scripture, began to flourish, and nothing was done. Dozens of people in your capital city went missing and then turned up dead, their bodies misshapen and blighted by dark magic.”

  “Who?” asked Mabon.

  “The Warlock, conducting his experiments.” Getting detailed information out of Zecorria had been difficult during the war, but since then Talandra had read dozens of reports from her people. “Those murders, and a dozen other threads, were ignored long before Taikon killed his father and took the throne. If we do nothing about the Chosen they could fade away in time, or they could fester and infect more people. You asked me what I want,” said Talandra, sitting forward and pinning him in place with her stare. “I want to prevent another war. The people here in Yerskania are nervous and jump at their own shadows. A violent outbreak seems unavoidable. Civil war still rages in Morrinow and Shael is a wild land, without law and order.”

  “And my country is being poisoned from within,” added Mabon.

  “The war may be over, but we’ve not even begun to heal. It feels as if the west is covered with kindling and a spark could set it all alight,” said Talandra. “You’re a moderate at home. People will listen to you. Will you do this?”

  “Yes, your Highness,” said Mabon, giving her a seated bow. “I will see that it is done.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Sweat trickled down Fray’s face, making him itch, but he didn’t try to wipe it away. Drauk, his red-faced opponent, was also suffering in the summer sun. It wasn’t even noon and the heat was already unbearable. The air was sticky and there wasn’t a whisper of a breeze to give the city some relief.

  Despite their discomfort neither of them looked away, both doing their best to ignore their surroundings and focus only on each other. Fray had to work very hard to ignore the way Drauk’s sweaty shirt stuck to his chest and arms.

  He’d heard the other novices mocking Drauk for his dedication to the rules, but as three generations of his family had been Guardians, a great deal was expected from him. Fray could understand the pressure of not wanting to sully the family name. They both had a lot to live up to.

  Drauk would do well in the Guardians. Apart from being clever and driven to succeed he was also handsome, which wouldn’t hurt.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Fray’s mouth. Drauk frowned, over-thinking the situation, and quickly took a step back. When Fray didn’t attack he came forward, striking with precision towards Fray’s shoulder. Fray sidestepped the attack and his riposte flicked towards Drauk’s face, forcing him to sway backwards. They moved back and forth, their wooden blades clacking together. Drauk fought with superb control. Fray knew his own style was far less elegant, more duck than swan, but he still kept Drauk’s blade at bay.

  Finally he saw his chance when Drauk overextended. Perhaps he was tired from a long morning of training, or maybe he wasn’t as good as Fray thought. With a flick of his wrist Fray knocked the point of Drauk’s blade aside, slid inside his reach and jabbed the point of his sword into his opponent’s armpit.

  “Point,” shouted Kenzo, their instructor. “You’re dead, Drauk.”

  Their gruff trainer’s voice snapped Fray out of his trance and he became aware of his surroundings again. The other novices were still half-heartedly practising, but many had been watching their bout. Drauk wiped the sweat from his face, saluted Fray with his blade and stomped away to get a drink.

  The others watched him go, glanced at Fray and then went back to work. All of them had heard about his run-in with the Khevassar. Apparently no one had seen the Old Man that angry in years. His plan was starting to work as Fray had been met with sympathy from most of the other novices. A few still thought he’d achieved his position as a novice Guardian because of his name, but he suspected that would fade over time.

  “You fight like a horse with three legs,” said Kenzo, a short, bald and barrel-chested Drassi with grey hair. His legs were a little stiff and his body bore many old scars from years of wearing the mask in service, but his skill with a sword had not diminished. When he held a blade and moved from one form to the next his body flowed like water.

  “But I still won,” said Fray.

  Kenzo grunted. “Ugly, dirty, but effective,” he said, conceding the point. “I will teach you to forget all of the bad habits you have picked up. From tomorrow you will practise without a blade. I will teach you how to stand and walk. When you have mastered those, I will return your weapon.”

  Fray wanted to argue but knew better, so he just smiled and nodded. Kenzo glared, perhaps thinking Fray mocked him, then grunted and moved away. Despite sharing a common language Drassi people sometimes had difficulty understanding their neighbours.

  Fray moved into the shade and took the offered cup of water from Drauk. His opponent said nothing but that was just his way. He’d talk when he had something to say. Instead they stood together in companionable silence and watched the others spar.

  “I’m ready to lie down and sleep until tomorrow,” muttered Fray, more to himself than Drauk. The other man glanced at him and slightly inclined his head. It was good to know others were equally tired from their gruelling schedule.

  “Stop, stop, stop,” shouted Kenzo and the sparring pairs quickly stepped away from one another. “That’s enough for today. You can all go and get some rest. But first, one small task that remains.”

  “The Bridge of Tears,” whispered Drauk and Fray groaned.

  “You must run to the nearest bridge at the edge of the district and back. Whoever arrives last will receive a special task.”

  While the others quickly moved to put their weapons away in the racks, as failing to do so would earn them an even worse task from Kenzo, Fray and Drauk set off at a fast jog. The novices had nicknamed the innocuous footbridge over the river the Bridge of Tears, since many were often close to crying by the time they made it back.

  Fray knew that unless he had a good head start he would be among the last to return to the barracks. All of the other novices had gone through years of service as members of the Watch before applying to become a Guardian. None were seriously overweight, but a few had become a bit soft and indulged a little too much while in the Watch. Nevertheless they were used to discipline and their bodies had gone through an extensive period of conditioning. Fray didn’t have the same experience and his exercise had consisted of walking around the city. The gap between them was slowly decreasing, but he
wasn’t at the same level of fitness yet.

  Drauk didn’t wait for him and soon disappeared around a corner. By the time Fray reached the bridge Drauk had already gone past him in the other direction. Several others had also caught up and passed Fray as well. A pack of seven novices reached the bridge at the same time. They all touched the iron post and then span on their heels and set off again in the baking summer sun.

  There was still a month until the summer solstice and then the blissful slide into the cool air of autumn. Fray tried to imagine it as itchy sweat soaked into his clothes.

  Thankfully he wasn’t the last to make it back to the barracks. His knees were shaking so badly he almost collapsed, but managed to stay on his feet. Kenzo made sure everyone drank two cups of water before letting them leave the training grounds.

  After a quick shower alongside the other novices, men and women, he slipped into his clean uniform. Mixing the sexes didn’t bother him but he could see it made some novices uncomfortable. They showered quickly and covered their nakedness as best as they could while getting dressed. He’d known about it from his father and Byrne, but even so experiencing it first-hand was different.

  Over the years his father had told him many things about the Guardians, no doubt in the hope that one day Fray would join the Watch and then progress up the ranks. His father had also spoken about his magic and how he used it, but Fray had rarely seen him doing so. As with everything else, poring over his father’s journals would only teach him so much.

  Fray had been using his power more frequently in recent years, to contact the lingering dead, but it was always with a very specific purpose in mind. His father had done all sorts of things with his magic, but now he wasn’t around to explain how. Fray was a beginner in every way. With practice and training he would get fitter and better with a sword, but who would teach him how to use his magic?

  Taking a deep breath Fray focused on the immediate problem. First things first, his dad always said. Break down the problem. Solve it in small pieces one at a time. First they had to find the killer and he wasn’t doing this alone. Byrne had years of experience and Fray couldn’t think of anyone better to teach him how to be a Guardian.