by Watson Davis
Focusing on the amulet even as my thoughts strayed, as my mind clamored to give up, to give in, as a shade whispered in my ear offering peace, satisfaction, contentment, as something like a hand slid down my torso to my hips, I clawed my way through the dense layers of magical energy, through the tendrils emanating from the amulet. I ripped the man’s hand from the shaman’s mouth, grabbing his wrist, twining my other arm around his neck, pulling back against him.
The shaman chanted and I joined my voice to his, knowing the words now, the rhythms, hoping I had the inflections. The power in my soul wound together with his, burrowing through the resistance of the amulet.
Hands slashed at me, fingernails gashing my skin, tugging at me, covering my mouth, striking me, but I continued the chant. The spell struck the trigger, finding a switch in the magic of the amulet, nudging at that nodule until it flipped, and the black tendrils imploded, whooshing back into the amulet, the eye shutting. The force radiating from the amulet, the force pushing against us, disappeared and everyone fell forward, tumbling to the ground.
I rolled away from the bodies lying on the floor, climbing to my feet, reaching in the pile of bodies and dragging Rucker and Aissal out, dumping them on the rocky ground.
Something hit me from behind, a sharp, sudden pain, and I looked down to see an arrow protruding from my chest.
“Caldane!” Aissal shrieked, her eyes now wide, staring at my chest.
“No!” the shaman said, his voice a gentle wheeze, pointing behind me. “Shoot those two, the spell still has them.”
I blinked, the awareness of the pain dawning in my mind, the awareness of the impossible difficulty of taking a breath. I wanted to cough but couldn’t. I found myself on my knees, not sure how I got there.
Aissal broke the arrow head off the shaft, yelling, “Pull it out.”
The shaft retreated into my body, the ragged, splintered end of it moving into me, an unnerving sensation. My stomach rebelled, bile rising, a strange heat washing over me like a waterfall roaring in my ears.
Aissal placed her hands on me, on my chest, her fingers touching the edges of the wound, her lips moving in a silent incantation, silent against the roar of that waterfall. Blue tendrils streamed out from her hands, surging out of her forearms to her elbows, the blue brightening to a blinding white, blinding even when I squeezed my eyes shut. The tendrils flowed toward me—I thought I’d had enough of tendrils of all sorts—pausing just before my chest, drawing back before diving in, darting into me. Each strike, each tendril, burned, shocking me.
I gasped, sucking in my breath, pain exploding and spreading through my chest, but that pain changed, morphing into a warmth and sense of peace, an odd fluttering. As I watched, the wound sealed, the skin knitting together, the pain evaporating into a welcome exhaustion, and a gnawing hunger.
Aissal wilted, arms dropping limp at her sides, eyelids fluttering shut. I caught her and set her on the ground, leaning over her, my trembling arms struggling to keep my body from collapsing on her, gulping air, each breath a painless relief. My eyelids wanted to close but I stared down in Aissal’s half-closed eyes, saying, “Thank you.”
“Is that what my mother felt?” Rucker whispered, staring down at his hands, tears in his eyes.
“We should lop off all their infernal fool heads,” a gruff voice said.
# # #
Fir trees, their branches drooping with the weight of the snow, encircled the vale, looming over it like drunken sentinels. The rippled snow piled up at their bases, the snow wet and rough, sparkling in the last light of the dusk, a blue haze setting over the dell, wind picking up.
“Call your men off.” Arcled placed the point of his sword at the Onei’s throat, piercing the skin, a red drop of blood trickling down the snow-white skin of his neck to the snow below. Arcled, his knee on the Onei’s chest, his own chest heaving from the battle, smiled down at the man. “Tell them to surrender or they’ll all die and I’ll personally escort their souls to the deepest darkest hell I can find.”
“Kill us then, butcher.” The Onei squirmed beneath Arcled until Arcled leaned against his blade, driving it through the Onei’s neck, the soft flesh separating with ease, the blade’s sharp edge cutting into the fool’s spine. His squirming ended.
The fight did not.
“Watch your back, boss!” Agholor yelled out, a sword in either hand, twirling, slashing, Onei blood spraying on him, dripping down his face.
Arcled whirled, sword swinging out, lunging to the side, his sword deflecting an Onei axe, the snow sucking at his boots.
“Thanks,” Arcled yelled back. The Onei before him twisted around, agile as a snow tiger, bringing his axe looping back toward Arcled, the blood-crusted blade passing through where Arcled had been less than a heartbeat before, exposing the Onei’s chest, his neck. Arcled’s feet tangled with the now lifeless body of Kouba, an orc he’d known for years having been summoned here with him so many years before, but Arcled mumbled a curse against poor Kouba now for ruining his shot. He stumbled, flinging his sword arm out wide of his target, flailing to break his fall, crashing to his knees.
The Onei grinned, a berserk joy in his eyes, his body tensing to bring his axe around for another go.
Arcled flicked his left wrist three times in rapid succession, hurling death stars at his foe’s throat.
The joy on the Onei’s face fading to confusion, he took a halting step toward Arcled, his axe slipping from his fingers, the life fleeing from his eyes. He fell like a tree, stiff, unyielding, face first to the snow.
Arcled stood, looking over the skirmish, wiping sweat and blood from his brow. “Aram, Drema,” he hollered, pitching his voice to be heard over the din of battle, of swords clattering against axes, axes against shields. He pointed to the three Onei who had fought through the imperial line and now dragged the sled loaded with treasure from the field. Arcled shouted, “Stop them.”
Arcled ran to the sound of fighting, to a gulley, and leapt down behind Agholor, Arcled’s sword taking one of Agholor’s Onei attackers high in the back. Agholor dodged an axe, using his momentum to drive his sword through an Onei’s bowels. Arcled swept out, taking the other attacker’s head from his shoulders.
Agholor stopped, bent at the waist, eyes wide and wild, holding his swords out to his sides, the blood and gore dribbling from them, saying, “I had them.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Arcled said, trudging down the slope to the field below, gesturing for him to follow. “But our loot is getting away.”
A howling wind chose that moment to strike, the sky turning dark, choking the light from the sky, the snow swirling around Arcled, the wind pounding against him, forcing him to raise his arms to defend himself, shoving him to the side, close to lifting him from his feet.
Arcled sheathed his sword and turned to look back, the churning snow so thick, so dark, he couldn’t see Agholor. He shouted, “Agholor, you brain-damaged son of a donkey! Where are you?”
The ice-crystals in the snow, carried by the wind, found the gaps in Arcled’s armor, slicing into his skin, cutting his face and ears. He trudged through the snow, bending almost to the ground, pulling himself forward with his arms, pushing himself forward with his feet. “Agholor!”
Arcled thought he heard a muffled, “Here”, to his right, so he changed his path, clambering through the murk in that direction. Agholor clutched his swords, having driven both of his swords down into the ground to stabilize himself, to keep himself from being blown away. Arcled grabbed him by the neck, hauling the human toward himself, nestling the human up under his arm. “Come on,” Arcled roared, “we’ve got to get the others and huddle up. Make some shelter.”
“Shelter?” Agholor trembled against Arcled, his body hunching over. “I’m not going to make it. Leave me here.”
“Oh shut up, you pessimistic idiot.” Arcled hoisted the human by his shoulders, lugging Agholor through the wailing chaos around them, down toward the others of his troops, hoping the others had link
ed up, fearing Aram and Drema had gotten cut off from the rest.
# # #
I spun, stumbling to my feet, lurching to the side, throwing myself between the voice and Aissal and Rucker, my fists ready to fight even if my body was not.
Three Onei warriors, battered with experience, eyes dangerous, crouched behind us, one of them pointing at us with his double-bitted axe, forehead furrowed, glaring at the shaman.
“No.” The shaman straightened up, groaning, with the aid of two of the other Onei, his age-spotted hands clutching his staff, his arms quivering with exertion, wheezing. “He is Onei, and one of our number.”
“He’s a poison.” The Onei axeman stepped forward, pulling his axe back to strike, focusing on me.
“I said, no, and I meant it.” The shaman raised his staff, barring the man’s way. He turned his good eye back to me. “What was your shaman’s name, boy?”
“Eddard, my teacher’s name was Eddard.” My throat tightened on his memory, the years training with him, learning from him.
“Yes.” The shaman smiled, pushing the warrior away with his staff, patting my shoulder, hanging his head. “Eddard was the shaman of the Brightfoxes. Any idea how you carry the amulet without triggering it?”
Legs shaking, my balance ragged, I leaned on Aissal and Rucker, who stood to either side of me, steadying me. I touched my tattooed chest. “I think the spells bind it to me somehow, making me almost invisible to it, but I do not know for sure.”
“It’s a foul thing.” He spat.
I nodded.
“You must destroy it,” he said, shrugging. “I cannot help you. I don’t know how to do it. Toss it into a volcano, throw it into the sea, I know not.”
“I want to keep it out of the archbishop’s hands.” I peered down at it, a piece of finely crafted metal. “If he’s not using it, that has to be a good thing, right?”
“You can stay here until this storm passes.” The shaman gestured to the area around us. “Do not come further into the cave, we have children to think about and I don’t want you down there with that thing.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
“I will show you some spells, better ways to hide and disguise the magic on you and on the amulet.” He pointed his staff at me. “When the storm is gone, you take your friends and you go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you destroy that damned thing as soon as you can.”
I nodded. “If I can.”
# # #
“Bring more food!” General Silverhewer clapped her hands, like two boulders slamming together, the impact reverberating, deafening, dangerous flecks of stone flying off.
His hand shielding his eyes, Fi Cheen winced, angling his head away.
Collared gladiators fought on the sands before them, warriors and mages, brewers and tailors, men, women, and children she’d captured in her battles in this northern wasteland: Morrin, Onei, Birgitan, along with outlaws. The warriors swung their axes and swords, threw their nets, while the mages cast spells, flashing lights, steely projectiles, walls of fire, the cheap gimmicks you’d expect of barbarians and the untrained. An errant arrow sliced through the air toward Renaud, and he jerked back, dodging.
The protective shield surrounding the arena stopped the arrow, sending a ripple of blue energy radiating through the shield, the arrow quivering for a heartbeat before fluttering, now harmless, to the ground. General Silverhewer rocked in her chair, pointing at Renaud, laughing.
Fi Cheen lounged in a tall chair, feet dangling over the edge without touching the ground, hands clasped on top of his full belly. Silverhewer sat cross-legged to his left, hunching over, her shoulders even with Fi Cheen’s head, her head bobbing up and down, her fist pumping, bellowing with laughter, bits of her meal arching through the air, bits of flesh and bone littering the ground before her.
Two blood-stained fighters, a swordsman and an axeman, weary from their match, lifted their weapons, their foes vanquished, and bowed toward Silverhewer and her giant chair.
“Ah, ah.” Silverhewer wagged her finger at them. “Too easy.”
A gate opened in to the arena, releasing four children who charged in carrying daggers and shortswords, screaming battle cries in comical high-pitched squeals. The fighters stopped, gaping with their weapons held slack, hesitating until the first child leapt in the air, slicing a deep gash into the swordsman’s arm as he passed.
Silverhewer guffawed, slapping her knee.
Fi Cheen sighed forcing the corners of his lips up in a semblance of a smile, a semblance close enough to fool a giantess.
Silverhewer twisted her body toward Fi Cheen, displaying more flexibility than he would have guessed, grinning at him. “Isn’t this the best?”
The axeman decapitated a child with a smooth stroke.
“Yes.” Fi Cheen nodded. “Very humorous. Now, about this Lenya person.”
“She was awesome.” Silverhewer shook her head, sighing, looking up and out past the arena, eyes focusing on a memory, a wistful smile on her lips. She jammed the haunch of a reindeer into her mouth, crushing it between her gray teeth, crunching the bone. “Brilliant with a bow and absolutely bloodthirsty. That’s what I love about these Onei.”
The swordsman disemboweled one child with a wild, lunging swing, the axeman bashing another child’s head in with his armored fist.
“She was awesome, you say?” Fi Cheen leaned toward the giantess, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. “Was. She died?”
The warriors tackled the last child, pinning it to the ground, twisting its head until its neck broke.
“She lives, against my better judgment.” Silverhewer waved her hand. “I’ve even thought about throwing the cunt back out on the sand against one of the young buck champions. She’d probably win. She’s a cold-hearted killer, that one.”
Female slaves, eyes dead, moving with the lethargic apathy of those about to turn, lumbered out on the arena’s floor, listlessly bending down to grab the limbs of the fallen and drag them from the field.
“I’d like to buy her from you,” Fi Cheen said, tiring of the game, tiring of listening to Silverhewer’s boorish prattle and vulgar jokes.
One of the female slaves knelt beside one of the children, her head tilting to the side, brow furrowing, eyes opening, hands raising to her cheeks, shrieking, “My son!” Her body stiffened, her shriek changing to a roar, her eyes now black, she launched herself at the other slave women.
“Oh, no.” Silverhewer returned her attention to the arena, pointing toward the wight now wreaking havoc. “Hah, did you see that?”
“I’ll pay a premium for this Lenya Brightfox person.”
“But she’s useless now. A blind archer won’t last long and isn’t of much use to anyone.”
One slave tried to run away, to escape the newly-turned wight, but her intense emotion triggered her own turning.
“Name your price.” Fi Cheen shifted in his chair.
Silverhewer eased herself around to face Fi Cheen, her movements deliberate, a smile splitting her ugly face, her eyes narrowing with calculation. “Why do you want her?”
“I need a slave with some heart.”
Silverhewer’s smile grew cold, calculating, full of bloodthirsty malice instead of joy. “Don’t lie to me, little human, or I will gobble you up.” She opened her mouth and slammed it shut a few times, banging her teeth together. “Why do you want this old human woman? She is of no use that I know of, so tell me what I do not know.”
Exhaling, Fi Cheen reclined into his chair, peering into Silverhewer’s eyes, gray eyes so delicately human, so disturbing set in the stone of her cheeks like glittering jewels. Fi Cheen weighed his options, considering various lies, none of them convincing. “Bait.”
“Now.” Silverhewer nodded her monstrous head, licking her lips, moving her right hand back and forth between them, gesturing toward Fi Cheen, back to herself. “Now we have a conversation, now we have something to share. Tell me what manner of
prey we hunt.”
Fi Cheen breathed deep, the breath shaking. “I’m not sure I—”
“Ah, ah.” She raised her hand to stop him, the hand drifting down, her fingers touching her chest between her breasts, and action disconcerting in its femininity. “Are we not friends, Overseer?”
Fi Cheen gulped, answering in the negative, his first inclination, obviously the wrong answer. He shook his head. “Of course we are, General.”
“You need something of mine to further your schemes and I will be more than happy to provide her to you.”
Relief washing over him, he bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“But!” She raised her finger. “You must allow me to take part in your hunt. Surely my resources could aid you in your quest.”
Fi Cheen bit his lip, smiling, nodding. “Hmmm.”
She drifted toward him with hungry eyes. “What are we stalking?”
“Escaped slaves.”
She studied Fi Cheen from the corner of her eyes, searching for the play. “The archbishop doesn’t know you’re here or the mission you’re on?”
Fi Cheen repositioned himself in his seat, uncomfortable with the question more than the seat. “The archbishop can’t be worried with every little slave in the monastery.”
“Wait.” Silverhewer shook her head, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing. “I remember. Lenya’s son, the Onei who survived so many sacrifices, tried to escape while I was there.” She nodded, her eyes darting this way and that. “I thought he died in the rift.”
Fi Cheen smacked his lips. “He seems to be somewhat more resilient than I’d thought.”
Silverhewer tilted her head back and she laughed, her laugh like an earthquake triggering a mudslide, destroying a city. She stomped her feet and slapped her thighs, shaking the ground, testing the shaky architecture of the arena, bits of rock and plaster falling, kicking up plumes of dust. “That is the joy of hunting Onei. Roaches, every single one of them, you have to squish them. You have to see their insides on their outsides, and even then, they might still bite your ass.”
Rucker's Father