The Spirit Mage (The Blackwood Saga Book 2)

by Layton Green

  “So no guns?”

  “No guns. As far as I’ve seen, magic has replaced most technology. But don’t let that fool you. I’d rather face a team of Navy Seals than a wizard.”

  Not to mention the majitsu, and the sentient monsters, and the terrifying things roaming the countryside. Val sucked in a deep breath and balled his fists, unable to believe he was back. “You’re taking this far better than I did when I arrived,” he said. “Than I still am.”

  “That’s because I believe, darling. And I’ve had the benefit of the Society archives. It’s all there in history, if you know where to look. The myths and legends that are far too aligned and widespread. The ancient obsession with magic and the occult. Humanity used to be much more attuned to it, until technology replaced superstition.”

  Val frowned. “Are you implying our world used to be like this?”

  “No, just that we’ve always believed that there’s a source.” She looked around, her tone reverential. “And here it is.”

  A few blocks down, the scenery took a turn for the worse. The streets narrowed into alleys, a thick layer of mud and sewage overlaying the cobblestones. Val swore. He hated to backtrack, but neither did he want to delve into that wasteland.

  “So how does it work?” she asked.

  “Sorry?” he said, trying to decide which direction to go.

  She was staring at his staff. “You know what I mean.”

  Val barked a low laugh. “I wish I knew. I think magic’s an innate mental skill for some that can be developed, like an athletic ability for the mind, but beyond that—”

  Val lurched backwards as someone slid out of the darkness in front of them. He was tall and wiry, dressed in worn but colorful patchwork clothing that looked stitched together. A black sash was tied loosely around his waist, similar in length to the one Mala wore.

  “Lost, me friend?” A green top hat, combined with poor posture, made the man’s angular frame looked unbalanced, as if he were about to pitch over.

  Val risked a quick glance over his shoulder, and went cold at what he saw. Men and women in similar clothing and black sashes slipping out of alleys, approaching the intersection from every direction. At least fifteen of them.

  “Just passing through,” Val said evenly.

  “That right, is it? Ye don’t look like yer just passin’ through. What ye look like is someone wearin’ fine togs who’s lost where he shouldn’t be lost.”

  Val opened his palms. “Take our clothes, then. I have a few coins as well.”

  The man grinned, revealing a mouth full of rotting teeth. “Oh, I’ll be takin’ yer coins and clothes,” he said, leering at Mari. “And whatever else I want, too.”

  Mari flicked her eyes at Val and took a step forward, her tone imperious. “Can’t you see that he’s a wizard?”

  The leader advanced towards Mari, head cocked, his laugh a shovel scraping against ice. “If ’e was a wizard, I’d be dead, and we wouldn’t be ’aving this conversation. If ’e was a wizard, ’e’d be far too proud to muddy his boots in the Gypsy Quarter.” He stepped forward until he was a foot away from Mari. “If ’e was a wizard,” he said, thrusting his face into hers and roughly cupping her breasts in his hands, “ ’e wouldn’t stand and watch while I ’ave my way with ’is woman.”

  Mari tried to push away, but he caught her wrists in cloth-wrapped hands. She kneed him in the groin, which caused him to stumble and suck in his breath—and then stab her in the gut.

  Val hadn’t even seen him draw the knife. Mari’s scream rattled in his ears as the leader of the gang shoved the blade deeper into her stomach, then ripped it to the side as he pulled it out. Without thinking, Val whipped his staff downward, the razor-sharp azantite slicing clean through the assailant’s wrist.

  The man bellowed and stumbled backwards, blood spewing, while Mari moaned and fell in a heap. Clutching his bloody stump to his chest, the gang leader pointed a shaking finger at Val. “Kill ’im!” he screamed to the others. “Kill ’im!”

  -7-

  Snuffing and snorting, two of the ugly creatures tied Will by his hands and feet to a six-foot pole. They hoisted the pole on their shoulders, then lowered Caleb and Yasmina from the tree and did the same.

  Hanging upside down like a sloth, bouncing to the heavy tread of goblin feet, Will was forced to stare at the scars and calluses on his hands. He’d acquired quite a few badges of honor on the jobsites of his building contractor gigs. Ah, the jobsite: that theater of war where he had been fearless and respected—and where no real danger existed.

  Will had always wanted the chance to make a difference, save the damsel in distress. Prove to everyone he wasn’t just an average kid with good test scores, poor life skills, and no future. Prove he could overcome his severe panic disorder, which had disqualified him from even working in the local fire department.

  Prove he was more than just a fantasy geek.

  The only thing he had longed for more than being a hero was that fantasy could be real, that something rich and wonderful existed beyond the mundane reality of his life on planet Earth. Something to make him forget about the overdue rent, the foreman with the squirrel-size brain who resented Will’s snappy comebacks, the girls in the bars who liked his forearms and tool belt but wouldn’t look past his lack of a college degree.

  Will laughed out loud, resulting in a kick to the ribs from one of the goblins.

  Oh, how he had gotten his wish.

  He forced his mind elsewhere, face to face with the terrible things that had happened on the last visit to this world, the only way he could control the panic swelling inside him like a rising geyser.

  The arrow spurting through Akocha’s chest . . . Hashi dissolving into the acid . . . Charlie’s animated corpse lurching towards Will . . . human spiders slicing open the cocoon next to him and feeding on that poor woman . . . .

  Will shuddered and gritted his teeth, the panic seeping back down.

  No, he was no longer the same Will.

  He craned his neck to observe his surroundings, but saw only a line of goblins marching north through the forest, Caleb and Yasmina bouncing along behind him.

  The goblins carrying Will began speaking in their harsh language of grunts, snorts, and garbled voices. Able to concentrate a bit better, he was now sure of what he had suspected the last time: he could understand them. The words popped into his mind in pigeon English, with what he assumed was goblin syntax.

  “Grilgor pleased he be,” the creature behind Will’s head said.

  “Three strays they are,” the other agreed with a snort. “No marks. All limbs and bones they have.”

  “Flesh on bones too much for Fens. Come from swamp they did.”

  “Where go they now?”

  The first goblin gave a puzzled grunt. “No matter.”

  “Grilgor send men to mines. Eat the skinny girl, we do?”

  “Grilgor decide.”

  The other one made a wet, slobbering sound that raised the hair on Will’s arms. “Eat her now, we do. Too long with no flesh. No ask Grilgor.”

  “Too close to camp we are.”

  They quieted, and minutes later they arrived at a clearing in the forest alight with a huge bonfire. At least twenty more goblins lounged about the camp, gnawing on hunks of meat stuck on the ends of sticks, drinking from clay mugs, and bantering in their coarse language. On the far side of the camp was a group of the ugliest equines Will had ever seen, mottled brutes the height of small ponies but with legs as thick as oak stumps. Their faces looked like smashed gourds, and a ridge of spiky red hair ran from the backs of their heads to the tips of their stunted tails.

  Steeds as ugly as their masters.

  To the left of the horses, obscured by the trees, a group of people sat in a circle around a mature hickory. Will’s eyes moved downward, to the thick iron chain that encircled each of the humans at the waist and connected them together.

  An enormous goblin rose from his seat around the fire, licking his h
ands after stuffing a hunk of meat in his mouth. A foot taller than the others, this goblin wore a necklace of desiccated human ears, a black ring on each tusk, and his greasy hair was tied back in a matted ponytail. A rawhide headpiece with jagged ridges sat on his forehead, a parody of a crown.

  Grilgor, Will presumed.

  The huge creature walked up to Will and began sniffing. Will tried not to gag; the creature smelled like a compost heap. After grunting a few times, Grilgor moved on to Caleb and Yasmina, then flung a hand in the direction of the people chained around the tree. The goblins carrying Will looked like they wanted to say something, but swallowed their protest and dropped Will on his back, untying him and prodding him with their spears towards the circle.

  A goblin unlocked a padlock between two of the men, and the captives shuffled to widen the circle. Another goblin brought out four lengths of chain, fitted a circular iron belt around the waists of the three newcomers, then closed the circle again by reconnecting the chain to include Will, Yasmina, and Caleb.

  Six feet of chain separated each of them, and at least they had put Yasmina between Will and Caleb. To Will’s right was a ferret of a man whose golden brown skin and soft beige eyes reminded Will of a puppy. To Caleb’s left was a slope-shouldered, shirtless brute with lash marks on his chest and back.

  “Hang in there, guys,” Will whispered, thinking it best not to discuss what he had heard earlier, especially the part about eating Yasmina.

  Caleb’s head was bowed. Yasmina looked terrified but defiant. Some of the people in the circle engaged in low conversation, but most sat cross-legged with downcast eyes and an unhealthy pallor to their skin.

  An hour later, a goblin approached the circle carrying a burlap sack and a bucket. With wart-covered paws, it reached into the sack and tossed chunks of food at the captives.

  Will picked up the piece of meat at his feet. It looked like boiled chicken, and he didn’t think he wanted to know what it really was. He forced it down, though it tasted on the verge of being rancid. When the jug came around the circle, he followed the lead of the others and took a long swig. Lukewarm water slid down his throat.

  “You going to eat?” someone said to his left.

  When Will looked over, he noticed that neither Caleb nor Yasmina had touched their food. The brute beside Caleb, the one who had spoken, was eying the untouched meat. Caleb looked away, saying nothing.

  “He’s gonna eat it,” Will said.

  The larger man had olive skin, a beard, and a unibrow that hung like an unruly hedge over dime-size eyes. He glanced at Will, then reached down and snatched Caleb’s meat.

  Caleb’s eyes rose and then fell.

  “Give it back,” Yasmina said.

  The man bit into the chunk of meat. Will lunged over Yasmina and Caleb and snatched it out of the brute’s hand, just able to reach him before the chain tightened.

  The larger man bellowed and stood, then reached for Will with both hands, crowding past Caleb and Yasmina and dragging two men along behind him. Will stood and head-butted him in the face, then kneed him in the groin before he could recover. The man dropped to his knees, and Will barreled into him, ended up straddling him, and started punching him in the face. On the fourth punch, someone jerked Will into the air from behind, and he smelled the fetid odor of goblin.

  Grilgor was stomping forward from the bonfire, waving his stumpy arms. “To the pole,” he roared in English. “Take both!”

  The cat o’ nine tails lashed across his back for the eleventh time, and Will’s eyes rolled with pain. The man beside him, the one Will had fought for Caleb’s food, screamed in agony.

  Will did not.

  Another searing lash. Another scream from the man.

  The muscles on Will’s back and hamstrings spasmed. The pain from the cramping was almost as bad as the whip.

  Don’t give in, he told himself. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

  Will’s hands were tied above his head, to a wooden pole stained with blood. He knew he could pull it down, but worried that if he did, they would flay him alive and eat him. Instead he took his punishment as best he could, knowing he would do the same thing again if given the chance. He hated bullies, and he sensed he had to let everyone know where he stood, right from the start. Especially with Yasmina and Caleb to protect.

  Another lash. Blood from the man’s back beside him splattered Will’s face and chest.

  He gritted his teeth and took short deep breaths through his nose. The pain from the poison dart in Leonidus’s keep had been worse than this. “What else you got, pig face?” he muttered.

  Another lash, harder.

  This time Will screamed.

  Yasmina stroked his hair while Will lay curled in a ball at her feet. A goblin had lathered some foul-smelling paste on his back that stung worse than the lashing, which he assumed was to prevent infection to their human chattel.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “It’s fine,” she murmured. “You’ll just have a few beauty marks, no?”

  “Liar.”

  Caleb was squatting next to her, looking at Will as if he was on his deathbed. The goblins had moved the brute who had stolen Caleb’s food to the other side of the circle.

  “Really, I’ll live,” Will said to Caleb. “I’ve been wanting a tattoo for a while. This will do.”

  “You don’t have to fight my battles, little brother.”

  “Yeah,” Will said, “I do. I see red when someone touches my family.”

  Caleb was staring into the darkness. Yasmina reached over to stroke his cheek, and Will said to Caleb, “You’re a pacifist. I respect that. Mankind is a violent, terrible race. It takes a big man to turn the other cheek.”

  “Or a coward,” he murmured.

  “You’re a gentle soul,” Yasmina said, and then to Will, “I’ve never seen that side of you. Where did you learn how to fight like that?”

  Will felt a flush of pride. “I had a good teacher. Listen,” he said in a low voice, “I think I can understand their language.”

  Caleb sat up. “Come again?”

  “I’ve no idea why, and it’s a bit like hearing evil toddlers converse. The only thing I can think of”—he winced as he lifted his arm an inch off the ground, drawing their attention to the inch-wide circle of iron wrapped around his biceps—“is this thing I found near the ogre-mage. I think he might have been wearing it as a bracelet.”

  “Ogre-mage?” Yasmina asked.

  Caleb looked down at the armband, engraved with the image of a fat tongue sticking out of an oval mouth. “There’s an easy solution to this. Take it off and see what happens.”

  “Yeah . . . that’s the problem. It won’t come off.”

  “Why on earth would you put on something the ogre-mage had?”

  The side of Will’s mouth curled in a sheepish grin. “It looked cool.”

  “It does suit you,” Yasmina said.

  Caleb shook his head, his dark hair flicking across his face. “Wow, little bro. I thought I was the vain one.”

  They all shared a nervous chuckle, and Will looked down at the lewd engraving, hoping it wasn’t cursed.

  Or maybe understanding languages was the curse.

  “So where are our skin-care challenged captors taking us?” Caleb asked. “Maybe I’ll end up as a courtesan to some duchess.”

  Yasmina rolled her eyes. When Will didn’t respond, Caleb said, “Will?”

  The healing salve had finally numbed the pain in his back. Will shifted an elbow to support his head. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  Caleb and Yasmina fell quiet, both knowing he was lying, neither sure they wanted to know the truth. The moment of false levity they had shared melted away like snow on warm pavement.

  “Psst. You awake?”

  Will wasn’t sure whether he had fallen asleep, was going insane, or someone was whispering to him.

  “I’m no krakey, I promise. Let’s talk.”

  It was a voice, he was s
ure of it now. Coming from his right.

  It hurt, but Will managed to flip onto his side to regard the slight, beige-eyed person chained up beside him. With only a hint of stubble shadowing his smooth brown face, the prisoner looked a few years younger than Will, and he couldn’t have weighed one hundred-forty soaking wet.

  “Rucka, but you took a beating. Think you’ll live?”

  “I hope so,” Will said, keeping his voice as low as possible. He had no idea how well goblin ears could hear.

  “Stupid question, sorry. You only screamed once, though. I noticed. Marek wailed like a woman. Not that I wouldn’t have. Aike.”

  Will had no idea what some of the words the guy was using meant, and his arm bracelet wasn’t helping. Maybe it was gibberish.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Will.”

  “Normal name, weird clothes and accent. Where you from, Will? The North? Viking Land?” His eyes brightened. “Further?”

  “Further. You?”

  His mouth parted slightly, as if about to tell an important secret. “Macedonia. Family of wizards.”

  “Doesn’t that mean you’re . . . .” Will trailed off, his eyes widening.

  He clicked his tongue. “Wizard born. Keep it quiet, of course. They’d kill me or turn me over to the Congregation if they knew.”

  “The Congregation is worse than this?”

  “A non-citizen, unregistered wizard in Congregation territory? They’d see it as an act of high espionage. Death by fire, without a doubt.”

  “Ah.” Somehow Will doubted the Congregation would consider his fellow prisoner an agent of high espionage. Maybe just plain espionage. “But why can’t you—” Will nudged his head towards the chain—“just escape?”

  “I’m still learning.” His eyes roved downward, to his leg clamp. “And snapping iron isn’t a simple task.”

  Still learning, Will thought, or not very strong?

  “Dalen the Illusionist,” he said, answering Will’s next two questions. “Never met an illusionist, have you?” He kept speaking without giving Will a chance to respond. “Not many of us, ’tis true. I know we’re not the most respected wizards. At least, not most of us. The Kalaktos conjurers are a different story. Break your mind, they will.”