by Watson Davis
Snowfoxes?
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. In my mind, I offered up a prayer of hope and thanks to Inare, the god of the Brightfoxes, of my people, of the white foxes of the Onei wastes.
A figure shimmered into being, a patch of snow growing into the shape of a bent, old man in a ragged fur cape, a knotted staff in his gnarled hand touching the ground with each step without making the slightest sound, his nose and bushy mustache twitching like a fox’s whiskers. In Onei, he said, “Karisa, is it? I thought you lost.”
Aissal yelped, whirling to face the source of the voice, yanking Rucker from the ground, holding him, spinning to protect him with her body.
“Yes, shaman.” Karisa rose to her feet, a smile on her face, her eyes bright, and bowed her head. “I am freed.”
I lowered my head, watching the man, my magesight seeing nothing, a blank where a man should be, where my eyes told me a man existed.
A cold nose touched my hand. One of the snowfoxes, its haunches low, ready to run, sniffed at my hand, breathing on me with a warm, wet breath.
Realizing I’d noticed, the fox darted away, disappearing into the snowbank.
Another sniffed at my other hand.
The shaman said, “You brought friends? Here?”
“Yes, sir,” Karisa said, gesturing to me, to Aissal. “They slew my masters, removed the collar from my throat.”
“What are they saying?” Aissal whispered, edging closer toward me with Rucker in her arms.
I signaled for her to remain silent.
The old man, his face an unreadable mask of wrinkled flesh, splotched with age, a long gray beard, bushy gray eyebrows like drunken fuzzworms over his blue eyes, eyes narrowed with suspicion, said, “How convenient.”
“I understand your skepticism.” I sighed, holding my hands in easy sight, showing my lack of weapon, closing my eyes. “I’ve been through this before with another shaman, Gerom of the Skybears. I am Onei, but Archbishop Diyune cast so many complicated spells on me that you can’t tell whether I am what I say I am or whether I’m some trick of the empire trying to kill you.”
His eyebrow arched and he opened his mouth to speak.
I pulled the amulet from the pouch on my belt, holding it up by the chain so he could see it, no subterfuge, not trying to hide anything. “I’m carrying a powerful amulet, a nasty bit of magic that I stole from the archbishop to keep it out of his hands. Gerom tried to hold the amulet and examine its powers and magic. Bad things happened, and we almost died. I do not wish to go through that again.”
The shaman shifted his hand saying some words, but nothing my magesight detected, no twinkling spray of stars, no bolts of lightning, no wavering illusion of heat or cold, nothing. “Do you swear by the god of your clan that you come here with no intent to do harm to me, my people, or those under my protection and care?”
“I swear by Inare the snowfox that I come to you with peaceful intentions, with no intent to do harm to you, your people, or those under your protection and care.” My eyes never leaving his, I slipped the amulet back in the pouch on my belt. “I am here to rescue my mother from General Silverhewer, and to reunite this young boy,” I waved my hand toward Rucker, “with his father, a brewer from Timyiskil.”
“You follow Inare?” he asked. “Which clan?”
“I am a Brightfox.”
“Not many of you left.” The shaman dipped his head toward Aissal, moving in her direction, eyeing her with both suspicion and curiosity. “And this one? How does one of the last Brightfoxes come to be traveling with a coulven?”
“She was enslaved with Rucker and me, captured by Silverhewer in a battle in Morrin.” I clasped my hands behind my back, edging closer to her. “She escaped with us, saving our lives several times.”
The old man bit his lip, gnawing on it, his eyes shifting from me, to Aissal, to Rucker, back to me. “You possess knowledge of a spell to remove the collars, to fight back the tendrils?”
“Yes,” I said, my tension easing. “I’ll show you how.”
“Call me Werens.” He nodded. “Come with me. A few of our people still wear collars but have been forgotten, their masters dead, or damaged. Help me with them, and I will try to help you with your quests.”
# # #
“We can’t just keep walking around,” Karisa said. Her head bowed, she reached out a wiry hand to inspect a quarter of a small wheel of a hard cheese with a green rind, picking it up, holding it beneath her nose, her nose wrinkling, her eyes studying Aissal.
Aissal glanced at her hands, altered to appear white, disguised as an Onei by the shaman’s spellcraft, wishing Caldane had come with them, an alarming emptiness with him away.
An Onei slave, tall and willowy, thin platinum hair, pale skin, hunched behind a bench piled high with rolls of cheese, a collar around her neck, her eyes blank, head lolling to one side, in a state of almost-slumber.
“I’m bored.” Rucker sighed, his shoulders slumping, his head tipping to one side, eyes rolling up into his head in an impersonation almost too close to the Onei slave.
Aissal’s hand bracing on Rucker’s neck, shrinking away from the fake collar affixed there, affixed around all their necks as part of their disguises, Aissal pushed him past Karisa, whispering to her as she passed, “You’re sure the workers in the brewery don’t sleep inside?”
“Positive. They live in apartments around this neighborhood. Our masters rented us out for extra money.” Karisa walked by Aissal’s side, looking out across the quiet market square at the brewery building on the far side, a short, squat brown brick building surrounded by a black iron and brick fence. The building backed onto the frozen river, an army of casks and barrels arrayed outside, ready and waiting, collared slaves loading them on carts, the blinkered draft horses, heavy black yokes around their necks, huffing steam in the cold, their great heads low, noses near the cobblestone ground.
Dense plumes of gray smoke rose into the air acrid with the stink of boiling potions and fermenting compounds, sickly green waste products pouring out from chutes on the ice, melting it, discoloring it, breaking it into cubes and shards bobbing in the water. Orcan guards in imperial livery stood at the gate, hands on the swords at their belts, brutish faces pinched with focus.
Rucker turned to Aissal, his eyes big. “I’m hungry.”
“I know.” Aissal grabbed his arm, dragging him closer, averting her eyes, sliding out of the way of an orc swaggering through a space between the market stalls, his thumbs hitched under the straps securing his metal chest plate, a thick linen underneath, dyed the red of blood, the hilt of his sword black as night, stark against the gray skin of his hands.
The orc glared down at the two of them, his mouth frowning around his tusks, his upper lip pulling back. He snorted, his muffled growl only partially audible, but he marched on, passing between the stalls, striking out with his filthy, hairy hand, snatching a loaf of bread, stuffing it into his mouth, the Onei slave on the bench at the stall giving no notice.
Aissal breathed, kneeling, looking into Rucker’s green eyes, holding his chin in her hand. “You must be more careful. Watch where you’re going.”
“I’m hungry.” He put his hands on his stomach. “I need something to eat. And something to drink. We’ve been here for hours.”
“I know, but—”
A whistle shrieked. She pulled Rucker to herself, wrapping her arms around him, her ears ringing from the horrid, shrill sound.
Men poured out of the brewery, streaming from all the doors, even ones Aissal hadn’t seen despite her contemplating the building for hours. The workmen trudged out with their heads down, their hands in their pockets, their clothes stained and discolored, limp with sweat, faces and hands smudged with dirt.
Karisa ran her hand over a melon at a stall beside us, thumping it with her finger, shrugging, saying, “I told you.”
Rucker turned his head toward the brewery, the muscles in his neck straining, his body stiffening in Ai
ssal’s arms. He writhed in her arms, pulling away, ripping at her hands, twisting out of her grasp.
“Rucker?” Aissal fought to keep her grip of him, but he wriggled free.
He ran through the gap separating the market stalls. She stood, stumbling forward, hands lunging out to him.
Karisa seized Aissal’s arm, holding her fast, keeping her from following. Her voice harsh, furious, Karisa said, “What does he think he’s doing?”
Rucker ran, his arms pumping, his legs churning, dodging his way through the market, out into the empty part of the square.
“I don’t know,” Aissal said, but a gnawing in her intestines told her she lied. She swept Karisa’s hands from her arm.
“Daddy!” Rucker called, still running, running faster, throwing his arms out wide. He rushed past the first few men, screaming, “Daddy!”
“By Inare’s freezing nose!” Karisa ducked her head, withdrawing between the stalls, eyes flitting to the sides. “He’s going to get us all killed. Or worse.”
Aissal left Karisa there, eyes darting toward the guards, looking at their reactions, expecting the worst, but they looked bored, struggling to stay awake, not worried about Aissal and Rucker. Her hands clasped, Aissal followed the same path Rucker had taken, a direct path through the benches and tables, her heart hammering, her mouth dry, wanting to call out, to bring him back, but afraid to draw any more attention to him, to her, to them.
One of the men coming out of the brewery stopped, his head tilted. Aissal picked up her pace, jogging while trying to keep herself unobtrusive, her breath gasping, not seeming to have quite enough of what she needed from the air.
“Rucker?” The man knelt, opening his arms. “Is that you? Here?”
Rucker threw himself into the man’s arms. The man stood, squeezing Rucker, pulling Rucker from the ground, swinging him from side to side, tears spilling down his grimy cheeks, clearing out ragged white paths in the dirt and grime. He said, “I thought you were dead; they told me you were.”
Aissal slowed, smiling, relaxing, her vision blurring from the tears welling up in her eyes, her throat tightening in joy.
# # #
Tears trickled from Rucker’s father’s eyes and down his cheeks. Aissal wove her way through the other men departing the brewery, dodging between them. Their eyes downcast, these poor men, slaves all, trudged past Rucker and his father, not looking at the two of them, shuffling to the side to walk around them as if they were not there.
Aissal slowed to a jog, to a walk, keeping her face tilted to the ground, a smile spreading her lips, but her eyes watching Rucker and his father. She whispered words of power, a quick incantation, magic tingling through her, her sight changing.
A black tendril, thicker than most but not growing, reached up from the ground to connect to Rucker’s father at the base of his skull. Rucker wriggled in his father’s arms, but the man didn’t release the boy, holding him tighter and tighter, squeezing him.
Aissal stepped forward, placing her hand on the man’s elbow, whispering, “My name is Aissal. I’m a friend of your son’s. Please come with me.”
The tendril writhed, not growing, but undulating. The man turned to her, eyes blinking, brow furrowing as though trying to comprehend her words, his arms holding Rucker fast.
“Dad?” Rucker said, pushing against his father’s shoulders. “Let me go.”
The orcs at the gate stood, glowering, eyes straight ahead, lower jaws jutting forward. More guards wandered through the market stalls, looking over the wares. Many of the men exiting the brewery walked directly to the stalls, began buying goods, the slaves taking their money, giving them bread, cheese, nuts, vegetables in return.
No one even glanced toward the three of them.
Aissal spoke a variation of the spell Caldane had taught her. Without the amulet, the spell had limited power, limited ability to destroy the tendrils, but enough power to remove one. She chanted, pitching her voice faint and low, reaching up to touch the collar, running her fingers through the threads of magic, leaving the collar locked but detaching the magic, sliding the tendril away. Sweat beaded up on her brow from the strain.
“Let me go.” Rucker struggled, squirming in his father’s arms.
The tendril released, falling, shattering into melting clumps of black worm-like slivers sinking into the earth.
Rucker’s father gasped, stumbling forward on stiff-kneed legs, dropping his son. Rucker darted away, out of the way of his father’s flailing arms. His father fell to his knees and threw up, once, twice, a black mass of writhing maggot-like worms. He strained and groaned with each spasm of his body, coughing and gagging so much that Rucker gagged in sympathy, holding his hands over his mouth.
“Sir?” Aissal followed him, peeking around, afraid of the unexpected spectacle. “You need to come with us.”
Everyone was staring at them, all the guards, all the men, all the slaves in the market.
She slipped her arm under his. “We have to go.”
“No, you have to get out of here.” Gasping, Rucker’s father peered up at her, a wildness in his eyes, a fear as he looked at Rucker. “Get him away from here. You have to run. Now.”
The Traps for Caldane
“You want something to eat?” the Onei slave girl asked me in heavily-accented Nayen, tall, well-muscled, a jagged scar running from her right ear to her upper lip, another looping across her eye to her nose, a collar around her white neck, her hair a reddish shade rare among the Onei.
The gate to the castle in clear view, I sat with my elbows perched on a wooden table at the Trowel and Hammer Inn, half-seated on a stool, dressed in an imperial uniform taken from one of the men I’d killed saving Karisa, augmented with some spells to disguise me as a southlander, to change the color of my skin, my eyes, my hair. I shrugged. “I’d love the fried squid but I don’t have a single quarter-nayen in my purse.”
“Great.” She snorted. “Something to drink with the squid? The ale is fantastic. Fosler’s from Timyiskil.”
“Ale?” I stared into her blue eyes, my hand on her forearm. “Sounds delicious, but I really don’t have any money.”
She squinted at me with glazed eyes, an exhausted expression, like she’d woken up with her mind foggy from a long night drinking and reveling. “You must be new here, just off the boat from the south? Do guards have to pay for meals down south?”
My breath caught in my throat. I nodded. “Yeah. At least, they do where I’m from.”
“I’ll have your chow out to you in a minute.” She put her hand on my head, rustling my hair, mussing it up, snickering and walking away, holding her tray balanced on the fingers of her right hand, high above her head, snaking her way between the tables, through the mass, southlanders and Nayens from the far south, orcs, imperial guards and merchants and sailors.
I settled myself to watch the gate, to discover an opening, to figure out a way to get in and find my mother.
Four guards stood at the gate, two hidden in the guardhouse, two others outside checking the carts and wagons that arrived, rifling through their contents, checking the people’s clothes, a man in black leather and what appeared to be meat cleavers in a bandolier across his chest, casting spells checking them for magic. Beyond the gatehouse, a bridge crossed the river rising to an outcrop of rock and dirt, the sheer stone face glaring in the afternoon light.
The waitress appeared by my elbow, surprising me, setting a plate and a mug before me. “Here you go.”
I said, “Thank you.” But she was gone.
I bit into the squid, my eyes closing in pleasure as the juices and the cheese inside gushed into my mouth, a groan of ecstasy escaping. I chewed and chewed, squeezing every iota of goodness out of the bite, enjoying every last crumb.
“Ha!” A hand slapped me on the back. An orc and a human, both imperial guards, slid into the seats on either side of me. The orc said, “Love the squid here. Good choice.”
“Hey! Brantha!” The human stood on the str
uts of his stool, waving his hand over his head. “Over here! Two more squid and ales!”
The orc, his skin red, black tattoos covering his face and down his neck beneath his armor, positioned his face uncomfortably close to mine, his tusks sliding back and forth, his pig-like nose snorting. He grabbed my upper arm. “Ain’t seen you before.”
The brown-haired, green-eyed human eased himself back into his chair. “One of the newbs that came in a couple of nights ago from Shria.” He grinned at me, nodding, leaning forward with his forearms on the tabletop. “Am I right?”
“Uh.” I nodded. “Yep. Good guess.”
The orc snatched one of the pieces of squid on my plate and popped it into his mouth. “I thought they were keeping you guys inside to keep your snotty little noses clean.”
I shrugged. “Well—”
The human laughed, slapping my shoulder. “But you snuck out for some real food?”
The orc pushed at my other shoulder, tilting his head back and guffawing. “Now ain’t that a man after my own foul heart.”
“I was hungry,” I said, popping another squid into my mouth, taking a swig of the ale, the fantastic ale, almost coughing at the unexpected quality. “Not to mention thirsty.”
“Not to mention!” the two said in unison, laughing.
Across the square at the gate, a cart rode up. The two guards pulled the driver out of his seat, yanking back his hood, revealing an Onei slave, a collar on his neck. He didn’t fight, offered no resistance.
“I’m Firgal.” The orc beside me held out his hand. “That’s Otton, there.”
I reached out grasping his forearm, and he grasped mine.
The black-garbed guard stepped out of the guardhouse, casting a spell. I didn’t have my magesight engaged so I couldn’t discern what type of spell, only the sparkling in the air. The magic-using guard waved his hand, and walked back into the guardhouse. The guards tossed the slave to the pavement, and he clambered back into the cart. They searched through the wagon’s bed, throwing things around, but eventually sent him on, allowing him entry.