11- The Sergeant's Apprentice

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I expect you to spend the next few days resting,” General Pollack added. “You can rejoin your fellows on watch when you’ve fully recovered.”

  “Yes, General,” Emily said. She knew it wouldn’t do her reputation any good, if she was seen to be lolly-gagging around in bed, but she was too tired to argue. “I’ll be ready when the necromancer makes his second bid for the walls.”

  “I hope so,” General Pollack said. He smiled. “And if you see Horst, try to reassure him.”

  Emily shrugged. The Patrician and his fellows might consider surrender, if they were facing a normal opponent. An organized surrender wouldn’t be pleasant, but at least it would avoid the looting, rape and slaughter that would follow a successful assault. But they literally couldn’t surrender to a necromancer. Dua Kepala wasn’t interested in loot or rape, merely in capturing and sacrificing the city’s population. Defeat or surrender ... they both meant certain death.

  “I’ll do my best,” she promised. She took one last look at the map and winced. It was hard to be sure — she was no expert — but it looked as though no mounted patrol had survived traveling more than five miles from the city. “And I’ll try to get better as quickly as possible.”

  She allowed Sergeant Miles to lead her out of the room and back onto the streets. They seemed tenser somehow, dozens of buildings bearing scars from the bombardment. A number were in ruins, small gangs of men sifting through the wreckage and removing anything that might be useful. There were only a handful of bodies pulled from the ruins, piled up against one wall. She couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the others.

  “Burned them,” Sergeant Miles said, when she asked. “There’s no room in the city for a mass grave.”

  Emily made a face. The necromancer’s forces would certainly have prevented the citizens from digging a grave outside the walls. Or perhaps they would merely wait until the grave was full, then cart off the bodies for food. How badly decomposed did a corpse have to be before even orcs would find it inedible? She had no idea. Offhand, she didn’t know anyone who did. Orcs hadn’t been studied that intensively, beyond looking for new ways to kill them.

  We could curse the bodies, she thought. And then let the bastards eat them.

  The thought was darkly amusing. She didn’t know enough about death magics to make it work, but she could find out. A curse designed to kill orcs who devoured corpses, perhaps turning them into zombies ... she shook her head. Messing with the dead, even dead orcs rather than humans, was a very bad idea. It was borderline Black Arts. Sergeant Miles would be horrified if she suggested it. She dreaded to think what the other sorcerers would say. No one would consider it a good idea.

  She pushed the thought aside as they walked onwards. A dozen tents had been set up for refugees — or people who had been forced to flee their original homes. They were mostly women and children, she noted, although there were a number of old or injured men amongst them. The menfolk would have been pressed into the City Guard, either fighting to defend the city or rushing around putting out fires or repairing the damage before it was too late. Farrakhan wasn’t as vulnerable to fire as some other cities she’d seen, but if a blaze got out of control it could be disastrous.

  They look thinner, she thought. Many of the children were already skin and bones. They would have been on reduced rations ever since entering the city, if they were lucky. How long can the city hold out?

  They reached the barracks and walked inside. The bedroom was empty, all six beds deserted. Emily was grateful to note that her rucksack had been left untouched, even though she’d left it unattended. Sergeant Miles had probably had a tunic and leathers altered for her, rather than try to break down her wards. She wouldn’t have minded him opening her bag — she was surprised he hadn’t insisted on being keyed into the wards — but she didn’t want the others peeking inside. They’d probably hide a nasty hex or two on her clothes, just to keep her alert.

  She looked at Sergeant Miles. “Where are they?”

  “Gaius and Cat are working with the defenders,” Sergeant Miles said. “Sawford took a charmed arrow through the shoulder and is currently having it removed. The others are on patrol, probing the enemy lines.”

  Emily shuddered. She didn’t like Sawford, but being struck with a charmed — and perhaps cursed — arrow wasn’t a fate she’d wish on anyone. “Will he be okay?”

  “The Healers think so, unless there is a nasty surprise on the arrow that was missed during their first check,” Sergeant Miles told her. “Once the arrow is removed, repairing the damage won’t be difficult.”

  As long as you have access to magic, Emily thought. How many wounded won’t have proper treatment because they’re not important enough?

  “I hope so,” she said, instead. She sat down on her bed and reached for the bag. It had definitely been left untouched. “What do you want me to do now?”

  “Have a bath, if you feel up to it, then rest,” Sergeant Miles said. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder, very gently. “You were very lucky. I don’t want to see you on the front lines for at least a week.”

  Emily shivered. She knew there was no way she could promise anything of the sort. If the necromancer attacked — again — she’d have to join the defenders. She’d have no choice. The necromancer would kill her, wherever she was.

  “And if they give you any grief about it,” Sergeant Miles added, “feel free to refer them to me.”

  “Yes, Master,” Emily said, knowing she would do nothing of the sort. It would only make matters worse. “And thank you.”

  Sergeant Miles gave her a long look, then turned and headed out of the barracks. Emily opened her bag and removed the chat parchments, laying them out in front of her. Caleb had written so many messages that half of them, perhaps more, had scrolled off the parchment and vanished. No one had yet managed to make a parchment that saved more than a few dozen lines. She read the last few messages, scribbled out a quick reply, then hurried into the washroom. The bath was already full of cold water. She used a spell to warm it — thankfully, her magic felt unimpaired — before undressing and climbing into the tub. The warm water felt so good, even against her burned skin, that she almost fell asleep.

  The heat ray needs improvement, she thought. We could sweep the battlefield clean.

  The thought both pleased and horrified her. She’d put the spell together in desperate haste ... it had done what she’d wanted, but it could be made better. She imagined a ray of heat sweeping across the battlefield, burning everything it touched ... she shuddered at the carnage it would produce, if used on human beings. Too many people had seen the spell she’d created for it to be buried. Gaius or Casper or one of the masters could improve on the spellwork even if she never looked at it again. In truth, she was surprised she was the first person to think of it.

  They rely on purely magical effects, she reminded herself. They don’t look for ways to use magic to trigger mundane effects.

  She tossed options around and around in her head as she finished washing, feeling the skin peel under her fingers. The potions would ensure she healed quicker, provided she ate and drank enough, but it would still be several days before the burns faded completely. And yet ... she shook her head as she poured water over her hair, wishing for a proper shower. She knew better than to complain, really. She’d definitely been very lucky.

  Climbing out of the bath, she pulled on a robe and inspected herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess ... she’d probably need to cut it shorter, unless she used a potion to make it grow faster. She could, if she could find the potion. There might be some in the local apothecary ... no, that didn’t seem likely. The potion would be useless in wartime. She rather suspected the local apothecaries and potioneers had devoted themselves to producing more useful potions over the last couple of months. She’d just have to tie her hair up and hope no one paid attention to it.

  And they have more important things to worry about, she told herself, sternly. We are at wa
r.

  She walked back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. The chat parchment was glowing faintly, informing her that Caleb had replied. She smiled in relief, then started to write a more detailed response, reassuring him that she was fine. General Pollack probably wouldn’t have exaggerated some of the details, but even a brush with Wildfire could easily be lethal. Caleb’s imagination would have been driving him insane with worry.

  Shaking her head, she opened the knapsack and pulled out the two batteries. She could feel the power in them, pressing against her bare skin. It was a shame, really, that she couldn’t use them to recharge her magic. She thought she could control the surge of power — Yodel had improved the original valves considerably — but there was no way to be sure. The sudden surge of power, even if it had come from her magic, could easily drive her insane. No, it was better to use the batteries to power single spells ...

  I could probably get the war spells to work, she thought. The anti-magic ward was useful, but she doubted she could make it powerful enough to affect a necromancer. It broke up spellware, rather than draining power directly. And that would give us an unexpected advantage.

  She reached for her notepad and started sketching out ideas. Most combat magic required rituals, but if she could bypass them ... she wondered, morbidly, just how badly that would scare people. Could she use the batteries to generate enough power to overwhelm a necromancer in close combat? Or should she just try to find other ways to take the offensive?

  And I can’t make more batteries, she reminded herself. She didn’t dare risk draining her powers, not when the city was under siege. They might be attacked at any moment. The necromancer had already proved he could get a large army — and siege engines — alarmingly close to the city without being detected. And I don’t dare let them near Wildfire.

  She shuddered at the thought. If Wildfire could obliterate sorcerers — even twisted humans — while using their magic for fuel, she dreaded to think what it could do with a battery. The results would be disastrous. Either the Wildfire would explode outwards in all directions, powered by the mana she’d stored, or there would be a surge of raw magic as the pocket dimension collapsed. Either way, anyone nearby would be dead or wishing they were. Wildfire wouldn’t stop until it ran out of fuel or was buried in sand.

  Maybe we can use catapults of our own to hurl Wildfire towards enemy lines, Emily mused, looking down at the diagram she’d drawn. Or we can design a mortar system and put it to use.

  It wouldn’t be easy. She had a rough idea — a very rough idea — of how mortars worked, but she knew she’d never be able to turn it into reality. The craftsmen back in Zangaria would have to work out the details. Maybe they’d come up with something workable or maybe they’d decide it was beyond the limits of the possible, at least until chemistry and materials science advanced. And there would be risks in carrying shells filled with Wildfire around, particularly if it needed igniting ...

  And it would cost too much, she thought, soberly. Mass-producing Wildfire was out of the question. She didn’t know how it was made, but she understood basic economics. It wouldn’t be expensive if it wasn’t hard and costly to make. And besides, if it could be mass-produced, the Blighted Lands would have been conquered long ago. Maybe there’s a way to simplify the process.

  She shook her head. There was no way anyone would share the recipe with her, let alone allow her to experiment. Professor Thande probably wouldn’t be given the recipe, although she had a feeling he could probably work out the details, just by knowing what Wildfire did. But Gordian wouldn’t let him experiment within Whitehall. There was so much magic within the school that a single accident would probably destroy the entire building. No wonder alchemists were urged to carry out their experiments well away from everyone else.

  Putting the thought aside, she took a smaller bag out of the knapsack and placed both batteries and valves inside. No one would think twice about her carrying a small bag, one that could hold anything from potions ingredients to food and drink. She added a handful of charms — one to make the bag hard to see for anyone who didn’t already know it was there, two more to make it difficult for anyone to open the bag without her permission — and then placed it beside her bed. She’d tie it to her belt when she dressed and left the room.

  She finished chatting with Caleb, then put the chat parchment away as the door opened and Casper stepped into the room. He looked filthy, his clothes covered with mud, earth, and a greenish substance that had to be orc blood. She could smell him from halfway across the room. And yet, he was grinning from ear to ear. She might have thrown the duel, but he’d definitely won his spurs during the siege. It had been worth it after all.

  “Welcome back,” Casper said, cheerfully. “Cat won, by the way.”

  Emily blinked. “Won what?”

  “The contest,” Casper reminded her. “He killed dozens of orcs in the battle.”

  “Oh,” Emily said. She’d honestly forgotten about the contest. Hell, she’d treated it as more of a joke than anything serious. “Who lost?”

  “There’s some debate over that,” Casper said. He grinned, openly. “Sawford killed the least, but he showed great heroism; you killed a number of twisted sorcerers, but no one is quite sure just how many you killed. And their bodies were reduced to ash anyway. It’s arguable who actually lost.”

  Emily shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “All that matters is staying alive.”

  “And winning,” Casper said. “Better to die on your feet than live as a coward.”

  Emily shrugged. On one hand, she saw his point. But on the other, pointless bravery against unbeatable odds was just ... pointless. Was it better to live on one’s knees than die for nothing, knowing that one’s death would be meaningless? In some ways, she suspected she’d already made that choice. She’d never tried to get away from her stepfather, had she? Or to find a way to drive him from her house.

  I didn’t have hope, she thought, numbly. And neither did Casper.

  She watched him stride over to the washroom, then checked her wards, slipped under the covers and closed her eyes. Before he returned, she was fast asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  SOMEWHAT TO EMILY’S SURPRISE, NONE OF the apprentices harassed her about her very light schedule over the next week. They were very busy, she knew, but they were also surprisingly understanding. And yet, the visible damage — the scars on her face — were enough to remind them of just how close she’d come to death. Casper wasn’t the only one who’d won his spurs during the siege.

  Emily spent most of the week, when she wasn’t in bed, digging up and outlining ideas from Earth she thought General Pollack and his men might be able to use. Most of them were very limited — or relied on technology that simply wasn’t available on the Nameless World — but a couple of ideas were interesting. She described them as best as she could, then forwarded them to the general’s staff. They might be able to make something of them.

  Sergeant Miles made sure to visit her every day, bringing trays of food and standing over her until she ate them; General Pollack visited twice, chatting about his children and how they’d grown up. She couldn’t help noticing that he seemed prouder of both Casper and Caleb now. Lord Fulbright and Sir Roger both invited her to small parties, but being largely bedridden served as an excuse to decline. She didn’t feel like partying.

  But you never do, her own thoughts mocked her. You’d sooner be with a couple of friends than attend a large party.

  Sergeant Miles came for her after breakfast, on the sixth day. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” Emily said, as she took the tray he held out to her. Lying around in bed had been a luxury on Earth, but she didn’t have any real books to read in Farrakhan. The handful of books someone had dug up for her — printed on paper — had been trashy romance novels or absurd adventure stories. “My skin has almost completely healed.”

  “You’ll be checked again, when we return to
school,” Sergeant Miles told her, gruffly. “I know the Healers did what they could, but they may have missed something.”

  Emily nodded, tucking into her breakfast. He’d brought her a vast plate of food — again — but she knew there was no point in trying to decline it. Sergeant Miles wouldn’t hesitate to force it down her throat if she refused to eat. Thankfully, it was laced with potions to boost her appetite. She wasn’t sure she could have finished the entire plate without them.

  “We have something different for you today,” Sergeant Miles said. He quirked an eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather stay in bed?”

  “No, thank you,” Emily said, hastily. “I’m bored.”

  Boredom wasn’t her only problem, she knew all too well. The other apprentices would start to resent her, soon enough, if she was allowed to remain in bed indefinitely. She was surprised she’d been allowed to rest for so long.

  Sergeant Miles picked up one of the books and held it up. “I’m sure a book with a cover like this is very far from boring,” he said. “Or am I wrong?”

  Emily flushed, helplessly. The Nameless World might have seen a literacy explosion, thanks to the printing press and phonetic letters, but it had yet to produce any great writers and novelists. She’d read the novel, purely out of boredom, unsure if the writer had been joking around or merely ignorant. There had been more banal romance clichés in the work than she’d seen in bad fan fiction. But then, perhaps Earth had spoiled her. She’d had access to over a century’s worth of popular writing.

  “The cover is alarmingly accurate,” she said, finally. The artist had depicted two naked women kissing a naked man. “But the insides are rubbish.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Sergeant Miles said, dropping the book on the bed. “Get dressed. We have an appointment.”

  Emily dressed hastily, silently relieved that she no longer itched when she dressed. Her skin was still flaking, but the itching was gone. She rubbed her ear, then splashed a little water on her face before following Sergeant Miles out of the door and down onto the streets. They seemed less crowded now, but the refugees were still there. Even their children were sitting quietly, doing nothing. The bleak hopelessness on their faces tore at her heartstrings. But there was nothing she could do.