“Urgh,” Caldan croaked.
“Well said. That pretty much sums up your predicament. I don’t know what you’re planning to do, but unless that’s a trinket or a supremely smith-crafted blade, it won’t be of much use. And if it is a trinket, well, that would be a blade worth dying for. Alas, you’ll find my shield far superior to yours, with your rudimentary knowledge of crafting.” He shook his head. “Why you limit yourselves I’ll never understand. Crafting devices to keep the nobles and emperor happy, scrabbling in the dirt for their approval and ducats when you could have much, much more.”
Caldan staggered forward another step, watching as the man drew something out of his pants pocket. He needed to act, to try something.
His skin grew hotter. Strength filled him. Aches and pains flowed away like water. He lifted his sword. This is how he had felt before the accident with Marlon, when he had driven the practice sword with strength he never knew he had.
Without hesitation, he ran at the sorcerer, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye, faster than he had ever moved before. As he thrust with his sword, the confident smirk of the man changed to surprise through the wavering air around both shields.
The tip of his metal blade penetrated the sorcerer’s shield, cracking ribs and burying deep into his chest. Caldan’s thoughts again flashed back to Marlon.
With a pop, the sorcerer’s shield winked out, and he grabbed at Caldan, lips moving. The light drained from his eyes. He slumped to the ground, sword sticking from his chest. From his right hand, a crafted metal ball rolled free.
Caldan sunk to his knees, trembling, exhausted. He sucked in lungfuls of chill night air.
A boot scraped on stone behind him. He turned to see Jazintha in the doorway, leaning on a side wall. Her clothes were torn and bloody, but she was moving.
“How did you do that?” she exclaimed.
Caldan shook his head, too tired to speak.
“You must be one tough bastard. Stay there. Help is on the way.” She staggered over to Simmon and knelt over him, placing a hand on his neck. “This one’s a tough bugger, too. Takes a lot to put him out of action.” She glanced at Caldan. “Looks like he was right to bring you along tonight.” She laughed loudly. A surprisingly warm and mellow sound.
Caldan wiped sweaty palms on his pants again.
Jazintha sat next to Simmon and used a rag to wipe his face, chuckling all the while. “For a moment there I thought we were in trouble. But… we’re alive,” she said cheerfully.
Caldan groaned and lay back on the chill ground, looking up at the moon, letting the night air cool his hot, sweaty skin.
It wasn’t long before he heard boot treads rushing up the stairs. Two masters and six journeymen surged onto the rooftop, spreading themselves as if prepared for action. Probably not a bad precaution, considering what they must have been told, and seen downstairs.
Seeing nothing dangerous on the roof garden, they relaxed. Most gathered around Simmon and Jazintha, while two journeymen hurried to where Caldan lay. They stopped short when they saw the corpse.
Jazintha spoke in hushed tones to the crowd around her, frequently glancing in Caldan’s direction. They all turned to look at him. Jazintha continued and drew their attention back to her. Two journeymen near Caldan rifled through the clothes of the rogue sorcerer, retrieving items from his pockets, removing his rings and a pendant from around his neck, and gathering up the metal ball. All went into a cloth sack which they tied securely and handed to one of the masters.
Caldan sighed. He didn’t understand what had happened himself, and no doubt they would question him for hours for his version of events. Right now, he could do with a hot bath and a good meal. And a few strong ciders. Then sleep.
He hauled himself to his feet, thought of retrieving his sword from the body before dismissing the idea, then shuffled towards Jazintha.
Chapter Forty-One
Aidan was drunk on his ass. What remained of Caitlyn’s company, now his ragtag troop, had set a blistering pace after he’d killed her. They were heading for Anasoma as fast as they dared. The wounded men and women in the wagons were slowing them down, but he had ordered everyone to maintain a fierce pace. Two wagons lay abandoned in their wake, axles broken, occupants squeezed into the remaining wagons, horses laden with as much as they could bear.
They’d been on the road for weeks, the injured slowly recovering, physically if not mentally. Aidan had become increasingly withdrawn, taking to his bedroll early, more often than not carrying a jug of spirits to console himself. The consequences of his actions and Caitlyn’s death haunted his dreams and his waking thoughts. Though he’d saved the women in the barn, he knew the damage to his psyche would take a long time to heal, if it ever did.
He was shaken awake by Tully, a soldier who’d traveled with them for years, when they were a few days out of Anasoma.
Aidan cursed at Tully in a slurred, stumbling voice. “Piss off.” He turned into his bedroll, away from the man. “A little while longer,” he mumbled.
“Sir… Aidan… it’s well past dawn. We should break camp and get going.” He hesitated. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you shouldn’t be drinking so much. It won’t make things any better.”
Aidan turned to face him. “It’s none of your bloody business! Leave me alone.”
Tully backed away and stood by the fire, now no more than glowing coals. From the look of things, everyone had been fed and water boiled for tea. One of the women approached, her belly swollen with child. She’d been impregnated during her imprisonment at the farm. She looked wan and tired but much better than the condition they’d found her in. Food and rest had done her good.
She looked around nervously. “Sir,” she said and waited. He made no reply. “Please, sir. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Only the crackling of the fire and the background noise of the camp permeated the silence. She knelt next to Aidan, hands resting on her thighs, eyes downcast. “You and your men saved us. We’d still be in that place if it wasn’t for you.” Her hands gripped her skirt tightly. The bulge in her stomach pressed against the material. “Your leader… the lady… she thought we carried them inside us, thought our babies would be like them, but they aren’t. They chose the strongest men from the villages around, the smartest, and brought them to us. We don’t know why, but we talked among ourselves, reasoned a few things out. They raised the children well, fed them, clothed them, made sure they exercised and didn’t hurt themselves. But they never taught them anything, save for what they could to make things easier so they didn’t have to look after them all the time. It was like… they didn’t need them to grow, you know, in their minds.” She reached out and touched him gently on the shoulder. “I hadn’t been there long…” She touched her stomach. “Long enough, I suppose. But others were there years. They saw their children grow to a certain age before they were taken away. Sometimes one would come back, later. They were one of them then, changed somehow, as if their minds were taken over. But we knew our children were normal until then. They were normal,” she repeated fiercely. “Your leader, the lady, would have killed us all. Slaughtered all of us and all our babies for no reason. You did the right thing.”
Aidan blinked through tears then reached up and clasped her hand. “Thank you,” he said. She nodded.
He watched her leave then stood, brushing dust from his pants. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and looked around for a waterskin. He drained one dry.
“Tully,” he called. “Is there any breakfast left?”
“Some porridge. Cold, though.”
“Dish me up some. I’m hungry.”
“Right you are, sir.” Tully scraped cold porridge into a bowl and handed it to Aidan.
Looking at the gluggy mess, Aidan sighed and spooned in a mouthful, chewing methodically.
“Good to have you back, sir.”
Aidan grunted in reply and set to devouring his breakfast.
“The tea’s bi
tter by now. Do you want any?”
Aidan shook his head, swallowing the last spoonful of porridge. “Gather the men. We can’t handle all of this ourselves. The women need somewhere to stay, to settle down, and we need to let people know what we found.”
“Lady Caitlyn was trained by the Protectors. She always said if things went bad we should get word to them.”
Aidan pondered this for a moment and then nodded in agreement. “That’s what I was thinking. Though how am I going to tell them I killed her?”
Glancing towards the rescued women bustling around the camp, Tully shrugged. “Tell them the truth.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Caldan’s fingers traced the runes cast into his wristband. It had performed remarkably well last night, its strength keeping him conscious long enough to give them a chance.
After arriving back at the guild, he’d waved away questions directed at him and fallen into an exhausted sleep until midday. When he managed to rouse himself, his first thought was of Simmon.
He trudged to the infirmary where the master rested. Apparently, Simmon had woken earlier in the morning, and they managed to get some broth into him before he slept again. Caldan had sat on a couch beside him since arriving hours ago, waiting for him to wake.
When he did, Simmon’s eyes were clear, and judging from his protests at drinking another bowl of broth, he suffered no long-term effects from his hard knock. The master had waved away those fussing around him, asking for Caldan to stay and go over what happened after he lost consciousness.
Simmon lay half awake in a bed, covered by two blankets despite the warm afternoon air. Still groggy from the bump to his head, the prognosis was that he would have a headache for a few days but would otherwise recover with no ill effects.
Caldan’s own body ached, as if after a particularly strenuous day of exercises followed by being beaten with sticks, though the long sleep had done wonders for his spirit, if not yet for his body.
He recounted his version of the raid to Simmon a few times. Each time, the master picked at his observations with probing questions on what he’d seen and felt. He was especially interested in the events directly after his shield had failed and he lost consciousness, making Caldan go over every second of the encounter, every word said, every action taken, everything Caldan had sensed and experienced.
Caldan sighed and rubbed the back of his sore neck. His head ached. “Then I said, ‘Urgh’,” he recounted. “Or maybe it was ‘Argh’. I can’t be sure.”
“Don’t be flippant, lad. The smallest thing could prove useful in the future.” Simmon had by this stage thrown off his blankets and sat cross-legged on the bed. He rubbed both eyes vigorously. “So, then, he spoke about how we only have a basic knowledge of crafting and his shield was superior to ours.”
“Yes. And how sorcerers sold themselves to the nobles and emperor for their approval and ducats.”
“And then you ran him through.” Simmon looked pointedly at Caldan. “As he drew out another crafting, one similar to what laid us both out and destroyed my shield. What I can’t figure out is that he must have been fifteen yards away or more. How did you get to him before he could use his sorcery, and how did you pierce his shield?”
Caldan could only shrug and mumbled words to the effect he had no idea either.
“Pass me your wristband,” said Simmon suddenly.
With feigned nonchalance, Caldan pushed his sleeve up and drew off his crafting, placing it in Simmon’s waiting hand. The master looked it over critically, and Caldan felt the hum as he opened his well. He stared intently at the wristband for a few minutes before nodding in approval.
“Well, lad, it’s a fine piece of work. I wish all journeymen could craft such a lovely piece. And a few masters could take note, too. A good alloy, you’ll have to tell its composition. A fine casting. The overall aesthetics are pleasing, as well.”
He weighed the wristband in his hand before returning it. Caldan grasped the metal, but Simmon didn’t let go.
He looked Caldan in the eye. “It weathered much last night, better than my own crafting did.” Caldan remembered Simmon’s armband lying broken at his side. “There’s true virtue in it. It seems you’ve found another of your talents, one that will set you up nicely here. There’s high demand for crafting of such quality, and I fear the standards of the sorcerers have… diminished over the centuries. Those with such a talent are well regarded and can charge a high price for their work.”
“I hadn’t thought… that is, I hadn’t given much thought as to what I would end up doing once I became a journeyman.”
Simmon let go of the wristband. “I’ll give my approval of this piece,” he said to Caldan’s surprise. “Normally it would be tested by a few masters, but it’s already proven itself by surviving when mine didn’t. And we’re lucky it did. I’m glad I asked you along. Furthermore, I’d have you submit the piece as proof of your mastery of the intermediary principles of crafting, for your admittance to the rank of journeyman.”
Caldan was stunned for a few moments. “That’s… really good. Thank you.”
Smith-crafting day after day for other people held no appeal for him, though the rank and access to better resources, including the libraries, was invaluable. Chances were he would make better progress researching his trinket, as well as smith-crafting a simulacrum.
“If your crafting is all like that, you deserve it. Show the lazy journeymen and masters a thing or two. But it isn’t just for your own benefit I’m doing this. Many masters — and journeymen, if rumors are to be believed — thought I was wrong in admitting an apprentice as old as yourself, despite the talent I saw in you. Old habits die hard, I suppose, but when you’re raised to journeyman rank so soon, it’ll silence their talk. And it may get them thinking. They’re too set in their ways. Anyway, enough of my complaining. Back to last night.”
Simmon shifted his weight on the bed to a more comfortable position, obviously organizing his thoughts before addressing Caldan again. “Jazintha was here earlier this morning, when I first woke. She… detailed what she saw of the encounter, and it corresponds closely with your version.”
Caldan opened his mouth to object that he wouldn’t have lied to the master, but Simmon held up a hand to forestall his protest. “I trust you, lad, but it’s always better to have multiple views of events. People sense and feel differently. What seemed like a moment to you could actually have been longer. It’s important we find out all we can about the encounter. From what the sorcerer said, he wasn’t acting alone, and we need to know how you managed to overcome him.” He gave Caldan a sidelong look. “Are you all right?” he asked softly. “Have you killed anyone before?”
Caldan shook his head. “No. Almost, once. But…no, I haven’t.”
Simmon nodded grimly. “It affects everyone differently, and it isn’t something you get used to. Some try not to think about it, to push it to one side, imagine it’s either him or them and that’s the end of it. Others feel it deeply, the taking of a life.”
“I…” Caldan swallowed. “It was him or me, but… I don’t think I will get used to it, and I hope I won’t have to do it again.”
As he spoke, he saw Simmon eyeing him, gauging his response.
“Good. If you need to talk about it, come to me. Now, Jazintha confirmed you crossed the distance between you and the sorcerer in a heartbeat. To quote her, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.’ Her exact words.” He looked at Caldan expectantly.
Not knowing what to say, Caldan shrugged and spread his hands in uncertainty.
“Do you know how you did it?”
“No. I remember feeling hot. My skin felt like it was burning, as if I had a bad sunburn. It was like… like with Marlon.”
“Who’s Marlon?”
“My friend’s brother, at the monastery. He was the reason I had to leave. He didn’t like his sister hanging around with me, thought their family was too good.”
“
And what happened?”
“It all came to a head one day and we dueled with wooden practice swords. The monks didn’t let us use anything else, except on certain occasions. And while I’m a competent swordsman, Marlon was a great deal better.”
“You defeated me.”
Caldan blushed. “That was another strange moment,” he admitted. “Maybe stressful situations change something. I don’t know.” Frustration tinged his words.
“Maybe. I have heard… no matter. Go on.”
“Marlon was… is… a master swordsman. Even the monks at the monastery were impressed. He had a rare skill and liked showing off. One of the things I didn’t like about him.” Caldan gazed out the window into the windy courtyard. “We fought, and it was the first time something like this happened, these ‘strange moments’. I thrust at his chest, but… I had a speed, a strength I didn’t know. My sword cracked, the broken half pierced his chest. I blacked out after that. All I know is that he survived. After that, the monastery wouldn’t have me there. They feared Marlon’s family would make trouble if I remained.”
“They did you a kindness.”
Caldan looked up. “How so?”
“Sounds like Marlon’s the type to make trouble, and not just for the monastery, for you as well. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten and if he has the resources is probably looking for you.”
Caldan shook his head in denial then stopped. Simmon was probably right. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
“Don’t worry,” the master continued. “As a journeyman Protector, you won’t have anything to worry about. We have a lot of weight with the nobles and with the emperor. He knows how important we are. Let me think about this for a while. What about the sorcerer’s shield? Any thoughts on how you managed to pierce it?”
“Excuse me, Master Simmon, but was he a sorcerer? I mean, aren’t all the sorcerers known by the guild? Should we be calling him one?”
A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback Page 42