by Karen Kincy
She winced. “I’m not an archmage. I’m here as a peacekeeper.”
“A peacekeeper?” He loaded the word with scorn. “Is that what they call it now?”
She shrugged, not taking the bait. “Just doing my job.”
“The last time I checked, the Ottoman Empire and Austria-Hungary were allies. Which means, conveniently, we’re allies.”
Ardis narrowed her eyes. “Right.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Her smile was frosty. “As my prisoner.”
Wendel returned her smile, and his was even icier. “Fine,” he said, “so long as you don’t waste your time trying to ransom me.”
She scoffed. “Prisoners don’t give orders.”
He stared at her, his jaw taut, and his fingers curled into fists. He was angry. Good. She knew angry. She could work with that.
“If I tell you to kill someone,” she said, “will you do it?”
He nodded.
“Anyone?”
He nodded again, and his mouth twitched. “Though I prefer to work with the dead.”
She made a neutral noise in the back of her throat. “Then get up. We’re going.”
Wendel winced as he climbed to his feet, and for a half-second Ardis offered her hand to help him stand. But her disgust got the better of her and she crossed her arms. He pressed his hand over his ribs, then swore under his breath.
“I told you to keep that amulet,” Ardis said.
“I’m all right,” he said, “it just hurts like a bitch.”
Ardis turned her back on him, to prove she wasn’t afraid, and started walking. “Keep up, or I’ll leave you behind.”
“Why the hurry?” he said, following her. “The battle is over.”
“The rebellion isn’t. Transylvania is still crawling with peasants armed with pitchforks.” She glanced sideways at him. “And scythes.”
“Almost makes me miss guns.” Wendel sighed. “I was a good shot, you know.”
She snorted at his bravado and kept walking.
He hurried to catch up. “Where are you going?”
“I’m done here. I need to return to Vienna.”
“Vienna,” he said. “That sounds good to me.”
“You don’t get an opinion.”
That provoked a hint of a smile out of him. “Do I get your name?”
“Ardis,” she said, and for some reason she found it hard to meet his eyes.
They crossed the field together. A bitter wind stung Ardis’s skin and flung her hair into her eyes. She stopped, frowning, and braided her hair over her shoulder. Wendel studied her face, and her fingers felt clumsy under his gaze.
“Where are you from?” he said.
Ardis stared at her braid. She never thought her hair was very remarkable, though it was probably the contrast that made him curious. She had tawny lion-colored hair, unmistakably Chinese eyes, and skin a shade or two darker than his.
“I’m from America,” she said. “I’d rather not get into long and boring genealogy.”
Wendel arched his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure your genealogy isn’t boring.”
“If you think that’s flattering, it’s not. And you’re wasting your time trying to flatter me.” She gave him a look. “Prisoner.”
He laughed, then doubled over, his hair in his face.
Ardis sighed. “Are you sure you can walk? You’re half dead.”
He gave her a pained smile. “Not half dead. Only a quarter dead.” He gingerly rubbed his side. “That bastard must have cracked my ribs.”
She shook her head. “That would hurt much more. You wouldn’t be laughing at all.”
“I take it you have experienced cracked ribs before?”
“You shouldn’t be travelling,” she said. “You should stay with the medics.”
Wendel’s face went emotionless again. “No, thank you.”
Ardis continued walking. Her feet ached, and she could do with a drink before hitting the road. The necromancer matched her stride. Ardis was tall, but Wendel was at least a few inches taller than her. She studied the lean muscles in his torso and the length of his limbs. He would likely have the advantage of reach in a fight, if nothing else.
“You need a shirt,” she said. “And a coat.”
“Ah, well, I ruined mine.” He glanced sideways at her. “Were you staring?”
Her cheeks warmed. “You’re very pale.”
“Blood loss will do that to a man,” he said. “That, and an inability to tan.”
Ardis bit back a smile.
Wendel stopped halfway across the field and shaded his eyes with his hand.
“I lost my dagger out there,” he muttered.
He hurried toward the edge of the battlefield, or hurried as well as he could, limping and holding his side. Ardis sighed and followed him. She supposed it was a good idea to let the necromancer have his weapon back. It wasn’t like she could stop him from raising the dead. That was touch magic, skin-to-skin.
Wendel stopped next to a Transylvanian soldier in a bloodstained blue uniform. The man had died fairly recently, from the looks of it, but the snow had already begun to bury his body. Beside him lay a scythe with a wicked blade.
“I don’t see any dagger,” Ardis said.
Wendel’s eyes sharpened. He crouched beside the man and studied his face.
“He would know,” he said.
“What?” she said.
Wendel was ignoring her. He laid his hand on the soldier’s neck, then blew out his breath. All the muscles in Wendel’s shoulder and arm tensed.
The soldier blinked his unseeing eyes, and sat upright.
Ardis unsheathed Chun Yi, her nausea peaking. “What are you doing?”
Wendel didn’t let go of the man, and his face was etched with concentration, or pain.
“Where is my dagger?” he said.
The soldier’s blue lips moved, and a gurgling noise came from his throat. He wasn’t breathing; or perhaps the air moving through his lungs was as cold as the winter sky. He stared at Wendel with clouded eyes.
“You remember,” Wendel whispered, “I know you do. You tried to kill me.”
Ardis’s hand clenched tight around Chun Yi.
“The dagger—is by—the tree.” The soldier lifted his arm and pointed toward a pine tree. His gaze never left the necromancer’s eyes.
“Thank you,” Wendel said.
He let go of the soldier, and the man collapsed back into the snow. Dead again. Ardis couldn’t help staring at the scythe.
“That was the man who wounded you?” she said, slightly queasy.
“Yes,” Wendel said.
He had a disgusted, disdainful look, one she had seen before on the faces of cats. He scooped up a handful of snow and scrubbed his fingers clean. Ardis doubted you could ever forget touching a dead man, but she suspected she knew why he was washing his hands so religiously in the river.
“Was that necessary?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, clearly no longer a man of many words.
Wendel climbed to his feet and strode toward the pine tree identified by the undead soldier. He pawed at the snow, then held a blade high—a black dagger with ornate silver engravings of flowers on the hilt.
“Very necessary,” he murmured.
He tilted the dagger so it caught the sun. Ripples swirled through the black metal, the mark of Damascus steel, an art lost centuries ago.
“This is Amarant,” Wendel said. “Do you know what that means?”
“No,” Ardis said.
“Undying.”
She heard satisfaction in his voice, and she was afraid to ask what foul curse imbued his dagger. Ever since the Hex, hundreds of enchanted blades had materialized on the European black market. The archmages of Vienna had anticipated this, though not the breadth of cruel creativity—a thousand and one ways to die.
Ardis’s hand found Chun Yi again. At least her blade was honest metal.
“It’s late,” Ardis
said. “We’re catching the next train out of here.”
Wendel slid his thumb along the flat of Amarant as if polishing away a fleck of blood.
Ardis was tired of waiting, and still nauseated from his little show of necromancy. She began to walk to camp. She didn’t care if she left the necromancer behind on the battlefield. Silence pressed on her ears, broken only by the slow hushing of her breath. The snowfall thickened around her as the wind quickened.
A crow cawed in a nearby pine, and Ardis flinched. Fatigue always frayed her nerves.
Footsteps crunched the snow, running fast, catching up. “Ardis.”
Hearing her name in his voice felt odd. Like she should have never given her name to a necromancer. But that wasn’t how magic worked, not really. That was just fairytales and nursery rhymes. So why was she still off balance?
“What train?” Wendel said.
“The train in Petroseni,” she said. “It leaves in about an hour.”
He moved alongside her, struggling to breathe steadily. “We’re walking there?”
“No,” she said.
Ardis nodded in the direction of camp, shadowed by the zeppelins of the medics.
“We’re flying.”
~
Wendel leaned against the wall of the zeppelin’s utilitarian cargo hold, his eyes closed, as diesel engines powered the airship skyward. Ardis studied him more closely, now that he wasn’t looking. He wore a borrowed shirt and black long coat that were slightly too big for him. The sleeves of the coat partly covered his clenched fingers.
“You!” A man whistled at her, like she was a dog. “Can you hear me?”
It was the medic who had cured Wendel on the battlefield.
Ardis narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Make sure he gets plenty of fluids,” he said. “He may need another blood transfusion.”
She glared at the medic. “I’m a mercenary, not a nurse.”
“I’ll do it,” Wendel said, without opening his eyes. “I’ll get the blood and the whatnot.”
The medic took a step back, startled, but recovered quickly. “And apply a fresh bandage to the wound in a few hours.”
Wendel opened his eyes a sliver. “Yes, sir.”
The medic didn’t seem to detect any sarcasm in his voice, so he nodded and walked away.
Ardis glanced at Wendel. She wanted to ask how he was feeling, but she didn’t want to sound like she cared, not like that.
“I’m fine,” he said to her, and he looked into her eyes. “I’m not going to die.”
She didn’t blink. “Don’t. That would be counterproductive.”
Wendel’s smile was startlingly swift and genuine. He was even more handsome when he smiled, not that it surprised her.
“You Americans,” he said. “Always so tactful.”
Ardis was aware of her fast heartbeat, but she didn’t look away. “Always.”
Wendel’s smile faded, and she was sad to see it go. Why did someone as bad as a necromancer have to look so good?
“How long of a flight is this going to be?” he said.
“About thirty minutes,” she said, “in this weather. Do you hate flying?”
He shrugged. “I’m indifferent to flying.” He tilted his head. “Is thirty minutes long enough for me to hear your long and boring genealogy?”
Ardis wrinkled her nose. “Why do you want to know?”
“You intrigue me.”
She would have sworn he was trying to charm her, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Ardis fidgeted against the cold steel of the zeppelin, then folded her legs under herself.
“You first,” she said.
Wendel let his head fall back against the wall. “I come from a long line of Prussian nobility, but I still managed to inherit bad blood.”
Prussian. Well, that explained the flawless German.
“It’s inherited? The necromancy?”
He shrugged. “Apparently a great-great-great grandfather of mine had the talent, but he didn’t live for long. We rarely do.”
Ardis was afraid to ask why.
“You said nobility,” she said. “What family?”
Wendel’s jaw tightened, and he narrowed his eyes. “They aren’t my family now. They disinherited me years ago.”
“For being what you are?”
He arched his eyebrows, and she felt stupid for even asking. “Yes.”
She wondered if he sounded so bitter because he had been the heir to a great fortune. Prussian nobles were all rich, even younger sons.
“And you?” His voice sounded lighter now, almost bantering. “Your family?”
A knot tightened in her stomach. “My mother came from China.”
“And your father?”
She shrugged. “I never met him. He wasn’t Chinese. Obviously.”
Wendel nodded and glanced at her hair. She felt her cheeks warm, and she wished she didn’t look foreign wherever she went.
“I assume your sword also came from China,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s called a jian.”
Ardis drew Chun Yi halfway and let the light glint off the battered old blade, highlighting the two characters engraved just below the crossguard. She couldn’t read Chinese, but she knew they must be name of the sword.
“These are the characters for Chun Yi,” she said. “Pure Justice.”
Wendel raised one eyebrow with an impeccably sardonic look.
“And how exactly,” he said, “did Pure Justice happen to fall into your hands?”
“Family heirloom,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Heirloom?” His eyes glinted. “Shouldn’t that sword be hanging over a mantelpiece?”
Might as well tell him the truth. It might even intimidate the necromancer.
“It was,” she said. “Until I killed a man with it.”
He laughed, then grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh.”
Wendel’s hand hovered over his ribs. Ardis could see how much it hurt him just to breathe. His lips looked vaguely blue.
“I’m not joking,” she said. “I didn’t think I could kill anyone until he was dead.”
That caught his attention.
“Did he deserve to die?” he said.
She stared fiercely at him. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
He narrowed his eyes, then closed them and shivered.
“Are you cold?” she said.
His eyes stayed shut. “It’s winter. We’re all cold.”
“Cold from the blood loss.” She balled her hands into fists and slid closer to him. “I could get a medic for you now.”
Wendel opened his eyes. “Ardis,” he said quietly. “The medics have done enough.”
“But he was right. You need a new bandage, and—”
“Later.”
Ardis started to stand. “Let me—”
The necromancer caught her by the wrist, and his icy fingers shocked her. The fact that he was touching her shocked her even more.
“No,” he whispered. “They will only ask more questions.”
Ardis stared at his hand on her skin, felt the pressure of his grasp on her wrist bones, and her heart drummed in her chest.
“They don’t know who you are,” she said.
His stare was intense, his eyes vivid with determination.
“It isn’t too hard,” he said, “for them to find out.”
Ardis swallowed hard and glanced around the zeppelin. Nobody seemed to notice them, or the way Wendel’s touch was making her feel. She had to pretend it didn’t bother her. His hands were strong and slightly calloused. She could imagine they belonged to a normal man, but she had seen what he had done with them.
“Fine,” she said.
Wendel let go of her, and her skin tingled where his fingers had been. She wanted to rub her hand, but she didn’t want him to see.
“If it bothers you,” he said in a low voice,
“my hands are clean.”
Ardis forced herself to meet his eyes. “You know what bothers me.”
Before he could reply, she climbed to her feet and left him leaning against the wall. She busied herself by scanning out the window, though she was only pretending to pay attention to how close they were to their destination.
It didn’t matter how many miles away they were. The necromancer was with her now.
By the time the zeppelin landed in Petroseni, the sky had darkened to plum purple. Ardis’s boots clomped on the landing ramp as she exited the zeppelin and looked around the Transylvanian town. Half-timbered medieval townhouses clustered around the cobblestoned town square. The most modern building here was a train station of soot-blackened red brick, where plumes of smoke muddled the clouds.
“Ready?” Ardis asked Wendel.
The necromancer nodded. He still looked pale, but at least he was steady on his feet. He hadn’t spoken since he had touched her.
“We should be able to catch the eight o’clock train,” she said, “if we hurry.”
He nodded again.
She strode through the town at a brisk pace. He kept up with her, but she noticed he was still breathing much too shallowly.
He had coughed up blood earlier. That was never good.
The eight o’clock train idled on the track. Its sleek chrome sides gleamed in the last of the evening light, and the sharp aroma of diesel punctuated the air. Ardis found the ticket booth, nodded at the elderly man inside, and fetched her wallet.
“How much for two sleeper tickets to Vienna?” she said.
“Coach or first class, ma’am?” the ticket-seller said.
“Coach.”
But then Wendel was at her side, a bundle of koronas in his hand. “First class.”
The ticket-seller raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Are the two of you together?”
“Yes.” Wendel peeled off a few bills. “A hundred and fifty koronas should cover it?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Ardis looked sideways at Wendel. She never travelled first class, since it drew too much attention. None of the other passengers ever looked at her like she belonged there, with her American accent and her Chinese eyes.
Wendel took the tickets, then walked to the first class cars on the train.
“Coming?” he called back to Ardis.