The Forgotten Magic

by Kelly Peasgood

  "Filthy whore," he swore, wondering what she had done, and how. He drew back a fist and slammed it into her face, both appalled and satisfied by the meaty sound and the arc of red that sprouted from her nose as her head snapped to the side. He raised his hand again, sneered at her narrowed eyes when she stared up at him, then swung his fist down again.

  It didn't connect, halted mere millimetres from her face at the last moment by some invisible force. He gaped at her, unable to comprehend how she stopped him, why he could do no more than physically assault this woman.

  "What are you doing?" he demanded, hating the slight whine that had entered his voice. He coughed it away harshly and tried to hit her again. This Girl who had murdered his father, hurt him, then fled into the night seven years ago. This Girl whom he had hunted, who should lie under his control. This Girl who somehow wrapped him in unseen hands, holding him motionless.

  And what power do I have? he suddenly wondered. He looked around in consternation, met Marcus' impassive stare as the man he had grown to adulthood with stood watching him. Then, with utter bafflement, Nathan witnessed Marcus' features melt away, leaving a thin, wiry foreigner with an olive toned complexion and dark eyes that matched his chestnut hair suddenly standing in his place.

  "What magic is this?" Nathan marvelled, forgetting for the moment the woman he straddled who stared up at him with eyes so like his own.

  "What magic indeed," the strange man said. He took a step forward and kicked Nathan full in the face.

  Nathan slid off Girl with a grunt, then, after another boot to the head despite the breathy protestations of Girl, he slipped into utter blackness.

  ***

  Em didn't know quite what she had expected when she'd leapt at Tyrandel and thrust the amulet around his neck, screaming the word Destiny had given her to trigger the spell to make him forget he had powers, but it certainly hadn't involved a meaty fist slamming into her face. Tyrandel clutched her tight, holding her close as she lay limp in his arms, stunned by the blow. He stared down at her, a cruel and twisted smile of pleasure lighting disturbing pale eyes and transforming his child-like face into a nightmare.

  Em blinked rapidly, both trying to regain her senses and remain conscious. Her head lolled, giving her a brief glimpse of the fighting around her. Ambrose, Prichard, and Bartok had engaged three of the maroon-and-black clad guards who had stealthily approached with the two wizards, swords flashing, faces grim, sweat and blood flying as her friends fought against men enhanced by magic. The fourth enemy soldier struggled against silvery-blue bands of power that slowed him to a crawl, as though he swam through some viscous substance, the only conjuring Norbert had to spare as he flung out incredible bursts of strengthening and shielding spells to aid King Stefan's troops. It looked to Em's strange sight as though tendrils of green and blue snaked from Norbert's fingers, streamers of gold and red twining and twirling from head, heart and hands as magic erupted from the disguised Bakaana wizard. The light and colour of his wizardry echoed in her head, almost keeping time with the throbbing ache in her face from Tyrandel's fist.

  Em pulled her scattered wits back to the thick arms squeezing her. Tyrandel grinned when he caught her gaze.

  "Here I thought a scrawny lad wanted to take me on," he purred. "Only to discover a slight lass wants to play instead. The games I could teach you, wench."

  He eased his hold only enough so that, when he slapped her, his punishing grip on her arm kept her upright. Em tasted blood, tried to brace for another strike as she fumbled for the knife Ambrose had made her wear at her belt. Her efforts only make Tyrandel laugh, a truly frightening sheen of lust beginning to cloud his eyes.

  "Struggle, girl," he whispered, pulling her close enough that she felt his breath on her abused face. "Your little weapons can't touch me."

  Em had to believe that Destiny's amulet had worked, that not only had it stolen Tyrandel's memory of how to touch his magic, but that it also broke his connection to the spells that prevented blades from penetrating his flesh, spells which Norbert had surmised required an active link to that magic in order to function. Else she would die in this demented wizard's grasp. She would likely die anyway, but she refused to do so without a fight. She had travelled potentially perilous paths with the King, had fled through dark tunnels and forests to escape fire and madmen, had even taken a sword thrust meant for Stefan, but never had she faced the prospect of death so keenly as she did now, locked in the crushing embrace of an unstable wizard hopefully cut off from his magic. Terror transformed into desperation, and Em determined to survive as long as possible against those who walked her land with impunity, impartial to the deaths of her friends and countrymen.

  Her fingers found the hilt of the knife, then Tyrandel's great bulk took her hard to the ground, and she feared she might not last long as her breath fled from her under his impressive weight. Her hand, though, held tight to her little weapon, Fred's voice an urgent admonishment in the back of her mind: If you lose your sword in battle, you limit your defences. Em struggled to breathe even as she fought to make her hand obey her wishes. The knife moved far too slowly, and Tyrandel leaned down, his face pressed to hers.

  "I'm going to enjoy this," he whispered against Em's whimper, then he turned his head and bit her cheek. Em shrieked, her fist spasming, threatening to lose her hold on her weapon. As tears of pain and shock trailed down her face, she forced all her strength into her hand, turned the blade, and jabbed it into Tyrandel's side. No magical shield hindered its progress, yet the gross flabs of flesh cushioned much of the blow, turning something potentially lethal into a painful annoyance.

  Tyrandel jerked back with a snarled curse, his hand enveloping hers where it gripped the dagger. Fury lit his pale eyes as he pulled the blade free, grinding her fingers against the hilt. Em screeched as unrelenting torment tore into her. She spared a moment to wonder if he had crushed the bones in her hand, then had little presence of mind left for coherent thought as the corpulent beast straddling her viciously let fly with his fists.

  Em heard the strike of Tyrandel's blows on her face and body, but she no longer felt anything through the screaming agony that had become her existence. A bellow of outrage rang across the Fields, somehow overpowering the cacophony of warfare to her dwindling senses, but she couldn't identify the source or see anything past a narrowing tunnel of grey and black.

  In utter defence, she retreated deep within ... and ended up somewhere completely unexpected.

  ***

  Malcolm Prichard knew how to wield a sword better than most, yet these men who had ridden with Nathan and Tyrandel fought as though possessed. Prichard knew magic aided them, and he found himself hoping that the amulets Destiny and Emily had managed to fling around the wizards' necks would reduce the man he faced to normal human strength. Alas, that didn't happen, the powers augmenting his foe obviously not linked to the current state of those who had crafted the spells that gave strength and speed and a certain amount of invulnerability to the enemy. Those of Dalasham and Bash could inflict harm to these foreign invaders, but it took an enormous amount of effort.

  Prichard forced his mind away from worry over the rest of the battlefield and concentrated only on the man in front of him. He put all his effort into keeping himself alive and doing what damage he could against a tremendous adversary, enduring an endless progression of thrust and parry, evade and attack.

  He didn't know how long he crossed swords with the burly man, nor how many snarls and insults, nicks, cuts and bruises they had inflicted upon one another (he could bring to mind at least three instances where fists had joined swords, and had likely lost track of other times), but he finally saw the opening he needed. Perhaps Norbert had assisted with a well-timed spell, or Prichard had merely encountered a stroke of incredible good luck. Either way, his sword penetrated the soldier's defence, slicing the man from sternum to navel, much to the man's wide-eyed shock. Panting with exertion, sweat and blood hindering his sight, Prichard pushed the body of
f his blade and peered about in exhaustion, amazed no other had engaged their little group. He suspected Norbert had deflected more than a few sword strikes, both those aimed at him and those intended for the King's men, but even that mighty wizard could only spread his attention so far.

  That attention currently rested with Destiny and Nathan. Prichard hungrily sucked in air and swiped at his forehead, watching as a profusely perspiring Norbert, his visage and form just returned to his own as he dropped the disguise of Marcus, casually moved to stand over the brother-sister wizards grappling on the ground. He said something to an astonished Nathan, drew his boot back, and kicked the enemy wizard in the face. Prichard gaped at the man, then grinned as Norbert felled Nathan before reaching down to help Destiny to her feet.

  A shriek rose over the din of battle and snapped his head around. Prichard found his feet moving even before his mind had fully recognised Emily as the source. Tyrandel's great weight held the little librarian pinned to the ground, and his meaty fists smashed into the distraught girl.

  Prichard hadn't managed two steps before a bellow of outrage and heartache shattered his concentration. Ambrose, downing his adversary with a brutal thrust, leapt over the still twitching body of a maroon-and-black clad soldier to Emily's side, his gore-encrusted sword shoved with a desperate fury into the unprotected back of Wizard Tyrandel.

  "'Ware behind!" Norbert suddenly shouted, voice hoarse and weary hand rising in a complicated gesture. Prichard checked his advance and spun to meet the charge of the remaining men who had come in stealth with Nathan and Tyrandel. One limped badly, his right arm hanging bloody and useless at his side, a blood-stained sword held awkwardly in his left hand. Behind him, Bartok lay unmoving, a gaping wound trailing his innards to paint the picture of his final battle. The second man moved with more vigour, engaging Prichard with enthusiasm.

  It took only a handful of heartbeats for Prichard to defeat both. He stared amazed at his fallen foe, then met Norbert's brief nod. Understanding dawned as he realised that the Bakaana wizard had restored the pair to merely human strength, eradicating Nathan's spells of enhancement. When Norbert staggered forward and dropped wearily to his knees beside him, Prichard didn't dare hope the wizard had managed to spread that spell further afield to those embroiled with Stefan's other troops, but given Destiny's intense scrutiny over the King's men, he suspected that battle wouldn't last much longer. Indeed, a hasty count of the numbers remaining in each force gave Prichard hope. He saw more horsemen than he recalled Stefan assembling, but realised with further elation that additional troops had arrived to bolster the Dalasham forces. By their dress, and the broad form of the man directing them―not to mention the signature red braids flying like flames from one of the other agile riders, thundering side by side with Jo―he knew Milos and his mercenaries had answered Stefan's plea.

  Leaving them to it, Prichard returned his attention to those nearest him. Most specifically, to the very still and battered form of the slight woman cradled in Ambrose's arms.

  "She won't wake up," Ambrose despaired, his pale blue eyes desperate as they rose to meet Prichard's. It didn't surprise Prichard, given the blood and discolouration marring Emily's pale features. Had he not known whom Ambrose held so tenderly, he might not have recognised his protege. His own heart felt heavy as he stared at her, the slight rise and fall of her chest the only indication that Emily still lived. He gestured impotently, not knowing what to say, what to do.

  He turned as someone else joined him, standing at his other side. Destiny stared down at Emily, her expression unreadable, even to a master spy so versed in deciphering what others didn't want known. After a moment, she moved closer to Ambrose and Emily. Crouching down, she reached a slightly shaking hand toward Emily's abused face, hopefully to attempt some form of healing rather than bid a final farewell.

  A speculative hum from the man kneeling next to Prichard brought his attention back to Norbert. The small man had taken some kind of biscuit from the pouch at his belt, chewing it absently as he watched Destiny. Prichard recalled the wizards instructing Emily about the importance of refuelling when using magic, and wondered how such a small morsel could possibly repay Norbert for the powers he must have expended to have taken him to his knees in sallow-faced exhaustion. Perhaps he had a small feast tucked away in his pack, the biscuit merely an appetizer.

  "Can you do nothing to aid her?" he found himself asking the foreign wizard, surprised at his own audacity. After all, Norbert had already done much for a country not his own; to ask more seemed unforgivably presumptuous. Even as he opened his mouth to beg forgiveness, Norbert sent him a wan smile and gentle shake of his head.

  "I know you speak from concern and mean nothing untoward by it, Lord of Secrets," Norbert answered in a soft voice, shocking Prichard. "But perhaps you might refrain from exerting any of your magic upon me just now."

  Prichard's jaw dropped and he stared wide-eyed at the dark man studying him in return from eyes sparkling in amusement. Lord of Secrets? My magic? Prichard didn't know what disturbed him more; that Norbert obviously knew something of Prichard's clandestine role in Dalasham, or that the wizard thought Prichard had his own Lesser Magic of some sort. He suddenly remembered Emily's words in the sitting room when they had tried to convince Norbert of the existence of Lesser Magics in the first place. Three people sit or stand here now who have Lesser Magics, she had said, including in that list herself, Darien, and ...

  "Ah," he managed to garble out. Then, clearing his throat with a quick glance around to see if anyone else might hear the exchange, he tried again. "What―"

  Norbert presented him with a crooked grin.

  "Your Chief Librarian Darien may invite confidences, but you, Lord of Secrets, have an uncanny ability with persuasion." Norbert finished off the food in his hand and regarded Prichard closely, no doubt reading just how unnerved such observations made him feel. "You needn't bother denying it or trying to convince yourself you have no such mystical talents to nudge people to your way of thinking. Now that I know what to look for, the force of your Lesser Magic is quite unmistakable. Besides," he thrust his chin toward where Destiny crouched with Ambrose and Emily. "What can I do that Destiny cannot?"

  Prichard gathered his wits, retrieved his jaw, and narrowed his eyes, seeing Norbert in a slightly different light. After all, it often took someone with similar skills to unmask a spy and see truths that one didn't know to acknowledge.

  "I imagine you can do quite a bit," he replied quietly. "Just as I imagine that perhaps you didn't come all the way to Dalasham merely to investigate Marcus' fate."

  "Ah, but I did come in regards to Marcus' fate, and Destiny's," Norbert said, pushing himself back to his feet. "Though not entirely in a manner you―nor they―would expect." Norbert sighed, glanced over the Fields of Erinnerung where Stefan's soldiers and Milos' mercenaries still engaged the last few men of Nathan's army who hadn't surrendered and, seeing they needed no additional aid, regarded Prichard.

  "I know you're familiar with the Peace Accords that keep magical entities from interfering in non-magical lands," said the wizard. "But are you aware of how we effect those Accords?"

  Prichard shook his head.

  "We send Enforcers," Norbert said. "Specially trained men others easily overlook. Men placed in positions one doesn't expect to find powerful and capable wizards, much as a spy might ingratiate himself in a position or with a persona seen as innocuous. It makes it easier for us to hide in plain sight, and for others to let slip confidences they wouldn't otherwise share with known men of power."

  Prichard acknowledged that with a slight tilt to the head and an appreciative lift to an eyebrow.

  "When we find those who would use their magic to rule where they should not, and we cannot dissuade them to another course,"―here, Norbert inclined his head to indicate Nathan and exclude Destiny―"we take them somewhere appropriate and discipline them."

  "Discipline?"

  Norbert nodded, looking anything
but the bland administrator he so often appeared. Hiding in plain sight indeed!

  "It is left up to each Enforcer's discretion to determine the best solution. For Nathan, and Marcus, I believe I will start by heading with them to Bakaana."

  "And once there?" Prichard wanted to know. Norbert only smiled, the expression somehow cold, leaving an eerie void in his dark eyes that belied any affability the short man had ever exhibited. In that moment, Prichard knew he would never want this man as an enemy.

  "The rest she'll have to heal on her own," he heard Destiny say. With some relief, Prichard pulled his attention away from these new insights into Wizard Norbert. He watched as Destiny pulled her hand away from Emily, an uneasy frown painting her features as she remained crouched at Emily's side.

  Ambrose used his sleeve to wipe some of the blood from Emily's face, then gently stroked her hair. Destiny had managed to knit the worst of the breaks back together, and the bruising had faded so that the beating looked days old rather than so recently incurred. But the girl didn't stir.

  "Why doesn't she wake?" Ambrose asked.

  "Healing like that takes a lot of her own energy," Norbert said, moving to stand beside his colleague. Prichard followed, crouching on Destiny's other side. "She might sleep well into tomorrow."

  "That's not what keeps her quiet," Destiny's voice, strained by the bruising Prichard could see forming around her neck, didn't move beyond their little group. Norbert frowned, dropping to his knees again, putting them all on the same level. He stared at Emily, then at Destiny.

  "What did you sense that I can't see?" he asked.

  "She's in the nexus," Destiny whispered. "And I think it's communicating with her."

  Chapter 25

  "Will she hear us this time, do you suppose?" an unfamiliar voice asked.