Bloodmage

by Stephen Aryan

  Despite him having had some medical assistance, as Choss’s bandaging looked fairly competent, the dressings needed changing. Up close she could also see dozens of cuts on his face, blood seeping from a wound in his bandaged forearm and he favoured one leg over the other.

  “I’m calling for a surgeon,” said Munroe.

  “No, don’t,” said Choss. “One came out to see me yesterday. She left me all the stuff I’ll need,” he said, pointing at several packets. One smelled rancid but the handwritten label clearly indicated it was a herbal tea to reduce swelling. The other had dozens of long narrow seeds that were slightly sticky, coating the inside of the paper bag in a fine white powder. Rinna seeds. She took out six and held them towards Choss.

  “I’m all right. I don’t need them.”

  Munroe gritted her teeth to stop herself from screaming. “Choss, you’re a fucking mess. It took you forever just to walk to the front door. If you don’t take these I’m going to twist your nutsack until you’re sick and your balls turn purple. Then I’ll do it again. At that point you’ll beg me for these. Do you think I’m lying?”

  Choss regarded her for a couple of seconds before taking the seeds and grinding them between his teeth. By the time she’d filled the kettle and brought it to the boil, some of the lines of pain on his face had eased. She poured two small spoons’ worth of the stinky powder into a cup and made him drink every drop.

  Next she stripped off the sling, moving his arm as gently as possible. He winced a couple of times but didn’t cry out. When the old bandages came off she nearly wept at what was underneath. Part of her didn’t understand how he could absorb so much physical pain and keep moving. But then he’d spent years in the ring, night after night of smashing his fists into another man’s face and body. Perhaps you could become used to horrendous injuries after a while. You could become used to anything if it was all you knew. She understood a little of that.

  Munroe cleaned the scrapes and gashes as best she could, dabbing unguent on the worst, sewing up the longest and then bandaging his arm again. She managed to persuade him to lift up his vest, which showed purple ribs on one side and green on the other.

  “A couple are broken on the left. The right are just bruised,” he said in a way that told her this wasn’t the first time. Irritated at the tears that fell against her wishes Munroe angrily wiped them away.

  “What about the leg?”

  “It’s fine. Just a scratch.”

  Munroe raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”

  Choss started to answer but then just closed his mouth. “It’s pretty deep.”

  “Take off your trousers,” she said. Choss fumbled at his belt with one hand and she moved to help.

  “I can manage,” said Choss. She thought he was blushing but couldn’t tell for the bruises and blood on his face. She slapped his hand away and eventually he relented.

  “I’d hoped that one day I’d get your trousers off, but this wasn’t what I had in mind,” said Munroe, trying to keep the mood light. Choss didn’t even smile and her grin faded.

  Working together they managed to get his trousers down to his knees. Halfway down his left thigh was a gash twice as long as her hand. A comment about his thighs rose in her throat, but Munroe swallowed it, instead fetching needle and thread. Thinking of it as nothing more than a stubborn bit of embroidery, she slowly pulled the gash closed. It wasn’t neat or very tidy, evidence of another ladylike pastime she’d failed at, but at least it stopped the oozing. She smeared some more of the foul-smelling paste on top then wrapped his thigh in fresh bandages before helping him back into his trousers.

  Finally she tended to his face, cleaning the cuts and then holding a cold wet cloth over his swollen eye. Munroe fetched herself a normal cup of tea and made Choss another cup of his foul brew. He sipped at it without complaint despite the putrid smell and bits floating on the surface. That told her something about the level of his pain.

  “Tell me.”

  Choss sighed before speaking. A long deep sound that seemed to come from the bottom of his boots. “I was blind. I was so single-minded and naïve that I actually thought she wanted to help.”

  In all the time she’d known him, Munroe had never seen Choss look defeated. She knew his nickname from the ring, but it was his implacable spirit, not a talent with his fists, that she admired. Whenever obstacles came up he always found a way to get over or around them and keep moving forward. He was utterly relentless and had inspired her to try and find something at which she excelled, apart from drinking. Unfortunately none of her attempts had panned out yet, but it hadn’t stopped her from trying new things.

  “Dońa Jarrow told me the city would tear itself apart and that I could stop it. I never thought I had much of an ego until now. Part of me knew she was doing it for her own reasons, but I hoped I could help the arena in the process.”

  Munroe swallowed a gulp of her tea and felt it settle in her stomach like a stone. She already knew some of it, but needed to hear it from him. “What did you do?”

  Choss’s eyes were haunted. “We destroyed all of Don Kalbensham’s venthe farms. We burned them to the ground.”

  By the time she and Don Jarrow had returned to the theatre word had started to trickle in about fires in the meat district. It had taken the rest of the night for a clear report to come back from his contacts in the area. It shouldn’t have mattered, since all of the Families had planned to destroy the venthe farms, but something had changed.

  All of the venthe farms were gone but Don Kal was gathering his people for a fight. The war that they’d all hoped to avoid seemed intent on happening. When she’d left him, Don Jarrow had been busy arming his people.

  No one could understand why Don Kal was doing it. She’d heard the other Dons say the Morrin was normally so calm. So why had he suddenly had a change of heart?

  Given the odds it didn’t seem like he could win. All Munroe knew was that Dońa Jarrow was involved in some way. She had manipulated Choss and somehow persuaded Don Kal that going to war with the other Families was the right course of action.

  “Who did you have with you?”

  “Just Gorrax. Munroe, what have I done?” asked Choss. There was such terrible loss in his voice that she held him tight, trying to offer some comfort.

  Part of her didn’t want to know, but she needed to ask and could see Choss needed to tell someone. “What happened?”

  Choss stared in the distance and the tension returned to his battered features. “I’ve seen people die. Seen men killed in horrible ways. Found bits of people washed up on the shore weeks after. By then you can’t really tell what it is, just a hunk of meat and a bit of white bone. But last night, there was so much blood.” The haunted look in his eyes was starting to scare her. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve always known, part of me at least, but I lied to myself. I believed he was different, but he was just hibernating, like a bear in winter.”

  “Who was hibernating?”

  “Have you ever seen a Vorga fight? I mean really fight without restraint?” Choss shivered and then groaned in pain, clenching his fists. Munroe started to reach for some more rinna seeds, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her close. He felt so warm and his body heat seeped into her. Her body started to respond to his touch and the terrible ache in her heart resurfaced.

  “I saw it once before, when I beat Gorrax. But I was so arrogant. I was blind to what they really are.”

  A creeping sense of horror started to spread out from the dull weight in her stomach. The tea had turned bitter and her tongue felt fuzzy. “What did you do?”

  Choss’s eyes stayed locked in the past. “We found the first venthe farm and burned it to the ground. A few tried to fight but they died so quickly. Gorrax seemed to dance between them and they fell like toy soldiers. By the time we reached the second farm they’d seen the fire and were ready for us. It didn’t matter. We hit them like a hammer striking an anvil. After a while, Go
rrax started to show his true nature,” whispered Choss. He gulped down the last of his tea, absently chewing the bits at the bottom of his cup. Munroe felt him start to shake and she held him tighter, but didn’t know if he felt her.

  “It’s how I beat him, all those years ago,” he said, suddenly coming back to the present and staring at her. “I became Vorga.”

  Munroe shook her head. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

  Choss struggled for a minute but eventually spoke, his words halting as if he were still trying to unravel it.

  “In every previous fight I always fought to win, but never relished my opponent’s weakness. I celebrated my victory, but never my dominance over them. People think the Vorga are savages who love to kill, but they don’t. The strongest lead their people. Vorga want to be challenged and they relish a good fight, because it tests them, their heritage and lineage. They are born with knowledge of the sword, the spear, the axe, so many weapons. It’s passed down in the blood. Even before they know how to speak, they can fight. To reject combat is to reject the heart of Vorga society. I tested myself against Don Kal’s men as a Vorga would, using my heritage and history with my fists and sword. I fought without restraint and killed because I found them weak and I was disappointed.”

  Choss looked away, suddenly afraid of what she might see. He tried to pull away as well but she held on tightly, unwilling to leave him alone in such a dark place.

  “We killed them all and then moved on to the next farm, and the next. As the night progressed I barely felt my wounds, only a rising sense of disappointment at my opponents. They came at me in twos and threes, but just got in each other’s way, which only made it easier.”

  “Where is Gorrax?” asked Munroe, suddenly afraid the hulking Vorga was lurking nearby.

  “He was badly wounded, worse than I’ve ever seen, but he’ll live. I thought to bring him here, but he needed salt water to heal, so I dropped him in a river and he swam out to sea.”

  “Have you heard the news about Don Kal?” asked Munroe.

  His grimace spoke volumes. “Everyone always said Don Kal was slow to anger. Why would he declare war on the other Families? He can’t hope to win.”

  It was the one question being asked over and over and no one had come up with an answer. It would be suicide for him to try and fight all of the other Families at the same time. Perhaps Dońa Jarrow had done it to manipulate the other Families into wiping out Don Kal. Or perhaps she was intending to separate from her husband and claim Don Kal’s territory. Whatever her motivations they were not known to Don Jarrow, who was having to do a lot of fast talking to avoid sharing the blame for the upcoming war.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Choss, his voice thick with despair. “You were right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  When he looked at her Munroe felt her resolve waver and something tightened in her stomach.

  “A few years ago you warned me about getting involved with the Families. You told me what would happen, but I didn’t listen. All I could think about was myself and the arena. We should have just walked away together.”

  Much to her surprise Choss kissed her, pulling her close and encircling her with his strong arms. She resisted for a second but then her hunger rose up and she kissed him back.

  They had held back from each other for so long. Munroe straddled his hips and gently held his battered face between her hands before seeking out his mouth again. Her heart began to pound and she pressed herself again his body, making him wince in pain but his hands didn’t stop exploring the curve of her hips and back. She ran her hands across the thick muscles of his shoulders and arms before gently touching his chest.

  While his mouth explored the nape of her neck she arched her back and her mind started to go blank. The only things that mattered were the feelings surging through her body and her rising passion. Choss made a wet coughing sound but soon resumed kissing her neck and exploring her skin with deft fingers. But his brief sound of discomfort was enough to trigger something deep in her brain and Munroe quickly scrambled off his lap.

  “Stop, just stop,” she said, fresh tears welling up. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “That night at the Emerald Dragon. I should have taken you upstairs and forgotten about the rest of the world. I want that now, more than anything.”

  “Please, please stop,” said Munroe, her heart aching as she tried to control the surging emotions that raged through her. She desperately wanted to rip off his shirt and kiss him again, to live in that place where nothing else mattered but the feel of his body pressing against hers. Sobs wracked her and she tottered backwards, knocked something off a table, slowly edging out of the room. The look in his eyes sent fresh waves of pain surging through her heart.

  “I can’t, I can’t,” she said, over and over, her vision blurring with tears.

  “Please don’t go,” he begged.

  “I’ll come back soon. I promise.”

  Before he could say another word she ran out the door. If he’d asked her to stay just one more time she didn’t know what she would’ve done. Her lips were still tingling with the feel of him and she could smell him on her clothes and skin.

  Half blind with tears Munroe stumbled on, walking and running until she was far enough away that she didn’t consider going back.

  As her ardour faded, hatred for Dońa Jarrow began to burn inside like a hot coal. She’d preyed on Choss’s trusting nature and had fooled him. She didn’t care about him or the arena. She’d used him for his own ends and now, because of her, the Families were going to war. No one knew what she was really up to but now it didn’t matter. Countless people Munroe had known for years would die because of Dońa Jarrow and her scheming.

  All other thoughts were pushed aside as Munroe stormed down the streets towards the theatre. Dońa Jarrow needed to pay for what she’d done.

  CHAPTER 32

  Despite the news of a pending war between the crime Families flooding every bar and tavern across the city, the hallways of Unity Hall were surprisingly quiet. After another gruelling morning of training, Fray made his way to the Khevassar’s office.

  Rummpoe, the old man’s assistant, looked up from his paperwork with no apparent sense of urgency. No one else sat waiting for an appointment so Fray was shown in almost immediately.

  The paperwork on the Khevassar’s desk seemed higher than the last time he’d been here, but the Old Man appeared no more daunted by it. Fray waited until Rummpoe had closed the door before speaking.

  “Sir, can I speak freely?”

  “This isn’t the army, Fray. Speak your mind.”

  “If I’d never joined the Guardians, would you have given me those pages from my father’s journals?”

  The Old Man took his time before answering. “The short answer is no. I thought about it, many times, but knowing what you do now is not a burden I would wish on anyone.”

  “My father wrote that over two hundred people died because of the first Flesh Mage. How many died because of the second?”

  “Four hundred and seventeen.” The Khevassar didn’t even have to think about it. “Most of those died on the same night as your father.”

  “How did you cover it up?”

  “We didn’t, not really,” admitted the Old Man. “Just like the first time we told a range of convenient lies. Tainted meat coming from overseas. Poison in the water. Ergot blight in the bread. An infestation of rats in a food warehouse.”

  “How? How could anyone believe those stories?”

  “Fray, you’re forgetting that most people just want to live a quiet life. They don’t knowingly put themselves in harm’s way. When violence or crime comes into their lives it’s a rarity, and it can take them a long time to recover. Over the years I’ve become immune and now there’s little that upsets me. Most people don’t know how to cope. At first some didn’t believe the lies, but after a while when things settled down t
hey began to forget the small details. People told themselves they’d imagined seeing their neighbours biting each other or perhaps it had been ergot poisoning. Perhaps what they’d seen had been hallucinations.”

  “That’s it?”

  The Old Man shrugged. “What do you want me to say? People want to feel safe. If we tell them something, they’ll inevitably believe it. They need to believe we can protect them. We try our best, but sometimes we will fail. Most people can’t live with that knowledge every day.”

  Fray could see that revealing the truth about what had happened at this stage would only do more harm than good. Over six hundred people had died because of the previous two Flesh Mages. Their friends and families had been given an answer and hopefully they had now moved on with their lives. They may not have found peace with what had happened, but at least they had some form of closure. To take that away from so many people wasn’t something he even considered. At least they’d had the opportunity. He had been unable to rest or move on, as he’d never known why his father had died.

  “If I ask, will you tell me everything about the night my father died?” asked Fray.

  “I will,” said the Old Man, who suddenly looked his age as he sagged in his chair. “But how much do you really want to hear? Do you want to know about some of the horrors that people witnessed from that night? Do you want a description of the bodies and their wounds?” The old Guardian took a long deep breath and stared intently at Fray. “I know that when the city began to tear itself apart your father tracked down the Flesh Mage. He and Byrne were able to disrupt the spell and stop the Flesh Mage from opening the rift. But there was a terrible backlash and it killed your father. Byrne’s memory of that time is patchy and he doesn’t remember the lies we told the people.”