“Okay, new plan.” Brendan waved for another huddle. He quite liked the way it felt when all ears were trained on him. “Epik,” he said, “why don’t you board the train with Todder? As soon as it comes out of the mountain, break him free and bring him back with you and Buster.”
Epik nodded. “All right.”
“And Millie,” Brendan turned to the girl. “Can you do the light as a feather spell on Corporal Shank? Amber will ride with a twin and pull Shank alongside.”
“Yes, sir!” Amber saluted.
“Oh, and Amber,” Brendan said. “You’re due a promotion. How does Aeronaut First Class sound?”
“Sounds classy.” She grinned.
“Do you think this is enough?” Brendan asked no one in particular. They’d gathered four coils of metal and enough pipe to cage a dozen demon wraiths.
“I think so,” Epik approved, “and if we need more, we won’t need to ambush a train to get it.”
The train whistled and began to move, slowly building up speed. Epik flashed Brendan a quick smile. Then the halfling ran to board it. In no time, the train had climbed up to the other side of the tunnel and was gone, leaving the rest of them there in the dimly lit cavern.
“I’d still like to know what happened to the dwarves,” Amber announced.
“A story for another time, I think17.”
Brendan mounted the broom behind Millie, and they set off through the darkness of the tunnels. The supply of mythraluminum dangled from a rope behind Brendan, weightless.
Epik waited just inside the cab where Todder worked alongside another man. The latter tended the controls, a network of valves and gauges, tiny wheels to build and release pressure. He sat on a seat on the left-hand side and mostly stared through a small window slot at the oncoming dot of an opening at the end of the tunnel.
It was Todder who did the real work, shoveling coal into a stove. The whole of the compartment radiated with heat, and both men poured sweat from their brows. Oddly, neither relieved himself of this sweat, and only Todder blinked at the sting when it dripped into an open eye.
Epik waited until the train was out in the brightness of day; the late afternoon sun was small overhead. He wasn’t sure how to rouse Todder from his stupor. So, like before, he tried the easy button first.
“Captain Todder?” Epik said. “Albert!” He waved his hand, jumping high so Todder could possibly see him. A moment later he realized, of course Todder couldn’t see him. He was invisible.
Epik hurriedly undid the spell, breaking the enchantment—the connection between Epik’s magic and his halfling tendencies. He said and did the same thing again.
“Captain Todder, it’s me Epik.”
Todder continued to go back and forth. He scooped misshapen black rock onto his shovel and steered it inside the narrow opening where a fire glowed red hot.
Across the compartment, the other man hadn’t moved. He stared out past the chimney billowing thick black smoke.
Todder bent down to shovel still more coal. This time, Epik waved his hand right before the Captain’s eyes, and they almost came face to face. For a moment, Epik was sure Todder had seen—sure that he’d caught a glimpse of recognition in the old man’s eyes.
But it faded.
Todder put more coal in the fire, but he left the shovel inside with it.
His mind must be fighting, Epik rejoiced, fighting whatever spell the Grand Sovereign has him under.
“Yes! Fight it,” Epik cheered. “I’m here to rescue you!”
After what seemed an eternity, Todder turned around. There was no outward sign the old captain had any control of his actions—no smile, no nod, no nothing. But Epik knew his friend was in there somewhere.
The shovel had taken on a white-hot hue at the sharp edges of the square scoop, the same as the brightness of the fire. It looked like something just pulled from a forge.
Todder came at him with it, the same way he would hold an axe. He swung the shovel wildly in the cramped compartment.
Epik’s instincts took over, and he vanished. The shovel sliced right through his invisible self. Despite being in the cocoon of the spell’s protection, Epik felt the heat.
Again, Todder swiped at the vacant air around him. Then he returned to his labor.
What type of spell is this? Epik wondered.
There was no way the Grand Sovereign maintained a connection—not for this long. If that was the case, Todder wouldn’t have quit so easily. They were set on a loop or a schedule or something but were allowed to interact with the world as needed. Yet, the spell did allow some reactions.
Epik racked his brain. Nothing in his books had mentioned any spell of this sort. The witches hadn’t either.
Schmilda’s other book, though, it might have something. It held the keys to telepathy and sprit casting, after all. Epik bit his lip in frustration. He could easily summon Buster to the side of the engine. But how was he going to get Todder on the pony’s back?
Todder’s body returned to the backbreaking labor of shoveling coal. But his mind, his mind was his own, and it was reeling.
He’d seen Epik. He was sure of it. And then, of course, he’d attacked him. Todder wished he could explain to his friend. It wasn’t really him who attacked. In fact, he’d fought to gain control of his body, of anything—his eyes, his pinky—hoping to help thwart his own actions.
But Todder gained hold of nothing. And Epik had disappeared as quickly as he’d come. Todder cursed.
“Dammit to hell,” he said. And heard.
Even the conductor cocked his head. Todder had spoken.
Hello, he tried.
Nothing.
“For Avalon’s sake.” The words flowed freely.
“Todder?” Epik’s voice. But the halfling was nowhere in sight.
“I can’t bloody see you,” Todder said. “I can’t bloody move my eyes anymore either.”
“Well, what can you do?”
“It seems I can bloody well curse,” Todder cursed.
“We can work with that,” Epik said. “I need to get you back to the Coven. They’ll be able to figure this out. If I reappear, will you attack me?”
“I damn well might.”
Throughout the exchange, Todder continued shoveling coal. The conductor’s eyes backtracked. Around them, the land spread, a snowy plain for as far as the eye could see.
The word Coven stirred something in the recesses of Todder’s mind. It was a word he hadn’t heard in a long while, not since his granny was around. Back then, she’d chat about them regularly. And like with everything else his granny loved, some days she spoke with reverence and others with venom in her words18.
“Where the bloody hell are you, Epik?”
“That’s of no concern right now,” Epik said. “Hey, did you just wiggle that finger?”
“I, uh, I think so,” Todder confirmed.
“And you didn’t have to curse that time. That’s wonderful.”
Todder set the shovel on the coal and attempted to drop the handle. They wouldn’t budge. “Why won’t my arms move?” he asked.
“I don’t know. How you’d get this far?”
Todder’s hold on himself was slipping, and he couldn’t answer.
“If you’re wondering, I didn’t do anything,” Epik said. “No magic, I promise.”
Epik had done something, Todder thought—he’d appeared. And what else?
“Just try what worked before,” Epik encouraged. “Think about what you just did to move the pinky.”
What had he been thinking about? Gran?
This time the scoop stayed buried in coal. Todder’s body stumbled backward. He righted himself, narrowly avoiding a burn to the tochus.
“Yes! Keeping thinking those thoughts!”
Todder pictured the old hag—her wrinkled face, her square and manly jaw, her vivid green eyes. Gran never did want Todder to dabble in magic. She sent him away when she was brewing her potions and anytime an old friend came over for t
ea. Gran had caught Todder spying once—and once was more than enough. A whole day as a toad hopping around her garden, Todder was almost a snack for a hawk—had his granny not come running out of the house to shoo it away. But she’d thought better of that, as well, turning the bird into a chicken. She’d wrung its neck there on the spot, and served it for supper.
Todder finally understood. Magic wasn’t a trifle. It wasn’t a fun game wizards liked to play. Magic was power. Todder felt as if it’d taken all these years for his granny to teach him that lesson.
His joints eased, and he could move freely again, though the movement was painful.
Epik appeared before him and waved. “Is it really you? Are you all there?”
“Sorta,” Todder grumbled.
Epik eyed him warily. “We’re going to have a long talk about how you just did that.”
“Just did what?”
“Overcame the spell.”
“Oh right,” Todder nodded, “that.”
Todder turned to check on the conductor and found the man’s eyes never left the track.
In the distance, the shroud of King’s Way—a dark cloud—enveloped over the city, exactly as the day Epik had left.
“We should probably get going. We have a long flight ahead of us.” At the open door, wind whipped through Epik’s curls, and beside him, Buster was struggling to keep up, flailing his legs in a failed attempt to look as if he was trotting on the breeze.
Todder grimaced. If flying on a horse was anything like riding on one, the trip wouldn’t do his aching body any favors. And he wasn’t a quick healer.
Epik quietly did a spell, and Todder managed to mount the horse. He felt as light as a feather, and Buster seemed to think so, too. Epik eased on and took the reins with one hand, but he still held his wand with the other. Buster performed a midair turn and burn, jetting back for the mountains with speed.
“My head,” Todder yelled into Epik’s pointed ear, “it feels all tingly. But no matter where I scratch, I can’t find the itch.”
“Well, that’s probably normal. You’ve been mostly dead for months.”
Todder couldn’t help but notice the slight turn of the halfling’s head. He gave Todder a quizzical look. “What is it?” the old man asked.
“I’m not exactly sure…”
25
Witches Contained
Down the track and through the underground tunnel that, well, tunneled beneath the Bludmud River to below the castle, Gerdy might’ve felt the click-clacking of the train as it shook the wall—had she not been deep in her own head.
But it wasn’t in her own head Gerdy wished to be.
She tried to make heads and tails of Epik’s instructions—all of them. But as it usually went with magic, one instruction contradicted the next, and so on, and so forth, until it all read like a backward tale of woe.
Epik had glossed over exactly how the whole telecommunication thing worked. Sure, he listed the steps, but mostly, he’d dug in on all the points about soul casting and its dangers. And Epik wasn’t sure it would work with Myra in her dream state.
It seemed he was right.
She tried telecommunication, then she tried spirit casting, as he’d called it, and finally when things got dire, she attempted to communicate with Myra while inside a lucid dream. But the combination of the two magical principles didn’t prove to be a good equation. Two plus two, in this combination, must equal five.
Gerdy was missing something—and unable to figure any way to speak with Myra.
Across the cell, Catarina snored softly. And the more the two of them talked, the more Gerdy found she actually had in common with her one-time foe.
Cat was an outcast in her society across the ocean—a wretched place19 where witches were burned. But their mother instilled in both girls how truly special magic was in the world.
Gerdy felt an inkling of shame, realizing she now thought of Cat as Cat and not Catarina or lemon-eyes. This time in the cell was really doing a number on her, both physically and mentally.
Any day now she would be summoned to the Grand Sovereign’s parlor, and he would attempt to force her to do the one thing she now knew she couldn’t—betray Epik.
No matter what it meant for Myra, Gerdy couldn’t—no, she wouldn’t—betray her friend.
She had to find another way out of this cell, another way to save Myra. What point was this magic inside of her if she couldn’t put it to use?
Catarina’s eyes flickered open, their yellow hue visible in the darkness. After rubbing her right eye with a knuckle, she pinched the bridge of her nose so hard it might have moved those eyes closer by a fraction.
“Myra, do you ever sleep?” she asked.
“Some,” Gerdy said. It was hard to hear Myra’s name. Gerdy wished she could take back that lie.
“Well, I’ve never seen you.”
“That’s cause you sleep like a cat, all hours of the day.” Gerdy smirked. A cat. The thought lingered a moment.
“I can’t help it,” Catarina said. “It feels better to sleep, better than to paw at thoughts out of reach.”
“See, you are a cat.”
Catarina smiled. “It was a joke. We know how to joke where I’m from, too. Kavya was always joking—part of why she was my mother’s favorite.”
There was a long silence before she whispered, “I miss her.”
Gerdy didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything. But she remembered something she’d meant to ask Epik.
Asking Epik was one thing. Asking Catarina required tact. She had to find an angle. “Can I ask you something, something personal?”
“Have we shared anything that wasn’t personal?”
“Good point.” Again Gerdy’s lips unwittingly creased at the edges, a smile. “Your mother, where did she learn about magic? Was she a witch, like you?”
“No, no,” Catrina shook her heard forcefully, “she thought my magic must be from my father’s side.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No,” Catarina said. “I know where it came from.”
“And where was that?”
“I never told anyone this. Not even Kavya—I don’t know why.”
Gerdy inched forward.
“When I was a little, I went walking in the woods outside the city. Just walking as little children do, trying to get out of chores and without a care in the realm.
“I came upon a clearing and a stream. But it wasn’t right. I had been in that wood a hundred times and never seen a stream like it. And never saw one again.
“There was a woman there. She was beautiful. Pale and white, but beautiful nonetheless. Her brilliant red hair flowed more than the bubbling stream—which was also picturesque. She greeted me with a curtsy, and she told me that if I drank from the stream I would find a gift in the morning.”
“A gift?” Gerdy rocked back against the wall. “I bet you were disappointed when you woke up.”
“Not really,” Catarina said. “When you’re young magic is just like a toy. Better than a toy.”
“Like a toy? Use it, abuse it, and then it’s thrown away?” Gerdy asked.
“Maybe not thrown away, but lost for a time. Yes. I abused my power often enough. Oh, how my mother scolded me so. And Kavya and I grew apart…”
“How does it work?” Gerdy asked. “Why can’t you just unlock the door and get us out of here?”
“Oh, is that what you want?” Catarina stood up and shook her hands in preparation. Then she twisted her hands in the air as if conjuring a spell. She thrust the empty but twisted air at the door.
And nothing happened.
Gerdy sprang up and made for the bars. She pulled against the cell door to find it was still very much locked.
Catarina laughed. “I told you I know how to joke.” She slumped back on the floor, chuckling.
“I don’t get it,” Gerdy said, bemused. She, too, found she was back against the other wall.
“Some magic,” Catarina
explained, “well, most magic, needs a conductor to interact with the world. Certain metals, stones, and woods have the necessary properties to transfer magic from inside to outside.”
“Right,” Gerdy nodded, “like a wand.”
“Or a knife… Or a sword. The man up there, he wears a ring.”
“I never noticed,” Gerdy said.
“I don’t think I was meant to,” Catarina whispered. “But it’s the reason they don’t allow us a spoon for that slop they feed us. And the guards, they probably wear protection.”
“Protection?”
“A spell sheath—you know, a glove or sock or boot, something woven to counter black magic. Something that wouldn’t allow us to enter their minds.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Gerdy admitted.
Catarina shrugged. “It’s limited use, doesn’t work if the sorcerer has your blood or hair.”
Gerdy felt uneasy again, remembering how much of the darker arts Catarina knew.
“So, you have tried to get out?” Gerdy finally asked.
“A few ways,” Catarina said. “And I’ll try again tomorrow. There’s always someone who forgets their socks in the wash or takes off a sweaty glove.” Catarina rested on her side. “I’m getting tired again,” she said. “Time for another catnap.”
Gerdy laughed.
“It’s funny cause it’s my name, too.” Catarina closed her eyes.
“Yeah, I get it.”
Gerdy, too, closed her eyes for some rest but spent time reflecting on the things Cat had told her. She realized there wasn’t time to wait for Wallack to forget his socks. She needed a conductor. And Gerdy thought she knew where she could find one.
If only she had someone outside to talk to, or even someone to cast her soul inside. Epik had urged caution, but Myra’s soul was already in jeopardy. And the whole point was to keep Myra safe.
Epik’s voice rang in her ears. Focus on emotions—cast them aside, don’t bind them with magic, especially if that emotion is linked to someone.
Sight Beyond Epik Sight: A Steampunk Fantasy Romp (Epik Fantasy Book 3) Page 11