by Watson Davis
I shook Firgal’s arm. “My name is Diyune.”
“You don’t look much like a Nayen?” Otton examined me, analyzing my face, touching my cheeks, the corners of my eyes. “You don’t even look much like a regular person, ‘cept for your skin. That’s a Nayen name, right?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, licking my lips after another mouthful of ale. “My ma worked for a Nayen master named Diyune. She named me in honor of him.”
“Yeeps.” Otton made a face, the corners of his mouth dropping low.
“Your ma’s got some huge gonads on her,” Firgal said, shaking his head. “Unless she thought you might be his get.” He edged closer, studying me. “Don’t look much like you got Nayen blood to me, don’t think you’re from his seed, but all you damned humans look the same to me.”
I slurped the ale. I’d never had any drink so good.
“Here you go.” Brantha, the waitress, slid a plate in front of Firgal and another in front of Otton, followed by a mug for each.
“Thanks,” I said, but she was gone.
“So, if you’re just here to eat, you’re not on duty?” Otton asked, stuffing squid into his mouth.
“On duty? No. You?”
“Yeah,” Firgal said, sighing, rolling his eyes, smacking his lips, letting his hulking shoulders droop, his mouth gaping. Straightening up, he smiled and winked, twitching his eyebrow. “We’re hunting escaped slaves. Gonna ambush them.”
Across the square, two men walked up to the gatehouse, cloaks wrapped around them, held tight against the wind, but one man wore boots of the imperial guard and the other was barefoot, shifting back and forth from foot to foot, shivering.
“Ambush?” I took another swallow of the ale.
Across the square, a gust of wind pulled back the hood of the barefoot man.
I spat out the ale, spewing it into a fine mist that fell across the table.
Otton jumped back, his hands flailing. “What in Maegrith’s name, man?”
The orc tilted his head back and stuck out his tongue, letting the mist fall on his tongue.
I shoved myself away from the table, knocking my chair back to clatter on the wooden floor, coughing, holding my throat, my heart hammering.
“You good?” Otton asked.
I coughed. I shook my head in the negative. “Where’s a latrine?”
“Round back,” Firgal said. “Just follow your damned nose. Oh, right. You got those little dinky noses, you humans. Do the best you can?”
“Thanks,” I said, staggering away. “I’ll be back.”
Across the square, the two men walked through the gate to cross the bridge.
And the one with bare feet was Cole.
# # #
A voice rang out through the market square. “Get her!”
Aissal whirled away from Rucker’s father, snatching Rucker’s arm.
All the soldiers throughout the market, the ones at the tables and benches, the ones at the gates, all moved toward the two of them, not drawing weapons, but creeping toward them with menace.
“Come on.” Aissal ran, dragging Rucker behind her toward one of the human guards.
The men from the brewery faced them, watching them, shoulders slumped, heads bowed, hands reaching toward them. Aissal and Rucker darted in between them, around them, exiting their number near the river’s edge. The stone surrendered to wooden boards, graying wooden poles wrapped in aging ropes, frayed by age, shiny and glittery from the sheen of ice. The human guard slid toward them, not rushing toward them, but moving to the side to get outside of them, to herd them back in toward the market square, away from the river, toward the rest of his companions.
“Where’s the Onei boy?” someone yelled.
Aissal charged toward the river, toward the broken ice grinding downstream, and the man broke and ran, taking an angle to cut them off.
A few steps from the edge of the wooden walkway, she changed direction, spinning toward the man, launching herself in a kick, taking him by surprise, knocking him back, his arms windmilling, his legs scrabbling to maintain his balance. She pointed toward a narrow alley between the buildings and screamed at Rucker, “Run.”
An orc charged toward them, his lips pulling back from his teeth, lowering his head as his arms and legs churned, his heavily tattooed skin almost as red as his uniform.
Knowing she had to buy time for Rucker, Aissal chanted, summoning her magic, magic not made for this, magic made for healing people not fighting, but she twisted the spell, shifting the words, inverting them.
She hurled herself at the orc, his arms wrapping around her, catching her, him grunting with satisfaction and victory. Tears welling in Aissal’s eyes at the perversion of her magic, trying not to think of what her mother and father would say if they found out, how they’d foretold just such a thing, she placed her hand on his neck, a caress discharging the horrible hex she’d wrought.
The orc’s face contorted with agony as her curse coursed through him, destroying him, bursting his blood vessels, breaking his bones, rupturing his organs. Staggering backward, his grip slackening, he let her go before he toppled to the ground, dead.
Tears now streaming down her cheeks, Aissal stumbled to catch her balance, panting for breath, the cold air searing her lungs, her stomach threatening to unleash its contents, already preparing another cantrip, preparing another horrid variation of healing magic, another corruption of the spells of her people. Two more imperial guards ran toward her, screaming, raising their fists, weapons dangling at their sides, yelling blood-curdling battle cries.
She stood, conjuring up the last dregs of her power, praying in her mind to gods ill-suited for battle, begging for their aid at this time, the energy tingling in the palms of her hands, the orc spasming at her feet.
“Leave us alone,” Aissal screamed, tears frozen on her cheeks, even the slaves and the brewery workers running toward her, staring, three of them stiffening and becoming wights, the curse taking them, feeding on their desire to help, feeding on their goodness, feeding on their willpower.
A human guard struck at Aissal, punching at her with his fist. She dodged, moving her head back, throwing her forearm up to deflect his arm, her hand touching his face as his body crashed into hers, hammering her to the ground, falling on top of her even as her spell released, entering his face, his brain, killing him before they hit the ground.
Aissal’s body slammed against the stone tiles of the market square, the guard’s body driving her down, crushing her, driving the air from her lungs, cracking her ribs, her head bouncing off the pavers. Stars exploded before her eyes, a sharp pain driving through her head, a wave of nausea washing through her, ruining her concentration.
She tried to roll away, to push the man’s body off, but he weighed too much, his armored carcass too heavy for her to lift. She squirmed, trying to extract herself but a hand clasped around her neck.
An orc smiled over Aissal, chuckling, his fist raised, readying to strike her in the face.
A voice yelled, “Don’t damage her too much.”
The orc grinned down at her, joy in his eyes, his eyes meeting hers. “This ain’t too much.”
His fist descended, growing larger and larger until it blocked out everything, even her consciousness.
# # #
I slipped between the buildings, looping around the inn, scurrying down an alley, pulling my hood down over my face. My heart thundering, every shadow now hiding an assassin, every shift of the wind hiding a dagger, I fled, fighting the urge to run, to bolt, knowing Cole’s presence meant two things: Diyune knew I was here, and he was coming to get me.
The white daub and black timber buildings looming up around me, blocking me in, caging me, window shutters closed up, the cold wind carrying the smells of cooking meat and open sewers, I slithered into the shadows, walking as fast as I could without breaking into a sprint.
I exited my small lane, crossing a wider street, a street with wagons, horses, citizens, and slaves, all crowdin
g about. Darting between the people, my attention focused on the lane across the street, on finding the quickest route across, splitting between this man and that one, jumping in front of this horse and that horse—with another bit of my mind worrying about Aissal and Rucker, hoping to find them back at our meeting place safe.
“You!” An orc, his voice rough, a growl of dangerous menace, wearing a tattered cloak, pointed in my direction. His scarred hand tied up with filthy rags, his helmet bearing the dents and scars of many battles.
I hurried toward the lane, acting like I couldn’t see him, hoping to reach the safety of those shadows.
People and animals squawked in surprise, being tossed aside by the massive creature like the frothing wake at the bow of a mighty ship. He lurched through the crowd toward me. “Wait, you.”
A donkey, weighed down by a merchant’s wares, bolted in front of me, cutting me off. I stopped, my muscles tensing, readying for battle, whispering spells in preparation, summoning my magic.
The orc’s hand grasped my shoulder. I spun, fist loaded with energy ready to be dispelled, ready to strike, ready to kill. I swung, my fist crackling with magic, hitting only air as the orc skipped backward out of my reach, holding his hands up, weaponless, in an attitude of surrender, knocking two men to the icy mud. A display of agility frightening in a humanoid so massive.
I whirled swinging and missing again.
“Hey, watch out, sparky.” He smiled that sort of grimace that passes for a smile among orcs. “You’ll hurt someone with that thing.”
I glared at him, not reducing the energy crackling in my fist, settling my feet to steady myself, to prepare for the fight to come, recognizing him from somewhere.
“My detachment is undermanned.” He lowered his hands to his hips, leaning forward, still smiling. “So I’m temporarily reassigning you to my squad. Good luck to have a magic-user.” He reached out clapping his hand on my shoulder, his grip inhumanly strong, his fingers digging into me even through my armor.
“I…but…” I blinked, letting the power directed to my hands dissipate, careful to keep up the spells disguising my skin. I indicated the way I had been walking, trying to think of a ruse, something to say. “I’m supposed to be—”
“I don’t care about whatever you think you’re supposed to be doing, Sparks.” He turned, dragging me with him, clearing his way through the crowd with his left hand, tossing people to the ground, stopping horses and wagons by placing his hand in their way.
I stumbled along after him, rushing to keep up and to keep my balance, the muddy road sucking at my boots. “I can’t—”
“Sure. Listen.” He pulled me closer to him, his breath stinking of decaying flesh and rotting onions, his beady eyes sparkling. “You came in with the new batch from Shria, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I guess you could say that, but—”
“You’re with the Ghostwalkers now, kid. What’s your name?”
“I’m…uh…” I swallowed, thinking, anything but Diyune. “Silmon. But I’ve got orders. I’m supposed to stay in the castle.”
“Yeah, well, your orders got overridden, and besides, since you’re not in the castle where you were supposed to be, doesn’t appear like you were doing such a wonderful job of following the damned things, anyways.” He chuckled. “I’m Lieutenant Arcled. You do what I say when I say to do it, and you’ll be fine.”
He pulled me through a door into a small house, the interior dark with the shutters closed, the wooden floor creaking beneath our weight. Three humans and two more orcs waited there, tattered cloaks covering their uniforms, concealing their imperial affiliation. The men stood around a fire burning in the hearth. Arcled said, “Give the boy a cloak.”
One of the men threw a cloak to me. I stood there like an idiot, staring down at the crumpled, foul-smelling rag, twisting it around in my hands looking for some way to unfold it.
“Where are the others?” a man asked, his voice an exhausted whisper, turning from the fire, glaring at me, rubbing his hands together.
Arcled slapped my shoulder, knocking the crappy cloak out of my hands to flutter to the straw-covered wood planks of the floor. “Just him, Agholor, but he’s more than a match for five normal men.”
The other men and orcs turned from the fire, eyebrows raising, mouths opening, moaning their displeasure.
My heart stopped, recognizing one of the orcs, what was his name, Gonnar Highsmith, the orc I’d taken the pot from in the camp.
“Hey, now, shut your yaps.” Arcled held up his hands, silencing the moans and the beginnings of argument from his men. “Spark’s got some magic and quick reflexes.”
I knelt and picked the cloak up, grimacing.
“We fought battles in Morrin, escorted prisoners to the Shrian monastery, butchered a bunch of devils and demons, chased an Onei warband through the snow for weeks. We come home to this cesspool to rest and burn our dead, and we get this shit duty?” Agholor, the man who spoke in a whisper, stepped away from the fire, approaching Arcled. He nodded toward me. “We need replacements, people we can trust, and we need downtime. Not some southern recruit who wouldn’t be able to walk through the snow without someone dragging his useless ass on a sled.”
“Sparks is good people.” Arcled snatched the cloak from my hands, grabbing at two tabs of cloth, pulling it apart, and handing it back to me, now recognizable as a cloak. “Since he’s just in from Shria, we send him in first, wherever we go, to draw fire.”
“I thought you said that if I did what you said when you said to do it, I’d be fine.” I held the cloak out from me, not wanting to pull the nasty thing over my head, not wanting it to touch any part of me. “Drawing fire doesn’t sound fine.”
Agholor snorted. “Maybe he’ll do.”
“I don’t recognize him.” The other men and orcs walked to Agholor’s side.
“I don’t know.” Gonnar Highsmith folded his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing, his lower jaw and monstrous tusks jutting forward. “He looks familiar to me. I think he owes me money.”
Arcled laughed.
I slipped the cloak over my head, backing up toward the door, sliding in behind Arcled. I clasped my hands behind my back.
“Now listen up, we’ve got orders and a place to be,” Arcled said, his voice bright, light, almost humorous. “We’re bordering on late.” He reached out, smiling his orcish smile, and placed his gnarled hand around Agholor’s neck. “Now, we’re all going to shut the fuck up, and do what I say. Right?”
Everyone nodded, except Agholor who said, “He does look a little familiar.”
“Well, then,” Arcled said, pushing Agholor out the door first. “Time to go hunting in Deadtown.”
# # #
“Did they show you how to cover tracks back in Shria?” Arcled asked, kneeling on a mound of snow, held aloft by his snow shoes.
“Uh.” I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Congratulations, you’re bringing up the rear.” He pointed to a point in the snow. “I don’t want any trace of our passage beyond this point. Can you do that?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
He laughed and tromped off, the others trailing behind him in twos, weapons ready, Agholor and Highsmith in the back with me, watching me more than they scanned the ruins around us.
Using an old Onei spell Eddard taught me as a child to sweep the snow clear, re-sculpting the drifts like a gentle wind, I backed through the mounds, waiting for my chance to bolt, for Agholor and Highsmith to become distracted, praying silently to Inare to give me a way out soon, feeding more magic to my spells of disguise, the weight of the length of time I’d spent holding them in place wearing on me, nibbling away at my reserves.
“Not half bad.” Agholor eased himself through a door into a shell of a building, once a noble palace, clear blue sky visible through the skeletal remains of the second and third stories, the roof long gone, burned and collapsed. Patches of snow covered the floor, thicker in places, thinner in others.
Agholor directed me to another shuttered window. Along with the other men, I pushed the snow aside, creating a space beneath the window to set up another seat, the wind whistling in through the gaps in the shutters.
“Shh.” Agholor draped his cloak around himself, settling his bow and arrows up against the wall. He leaned forward, his face grim, peering through a hole in the shutters.
One man went to the door we’d come in, taking a position just inside, whispering a simple spell, a spell of listening, of surveillance, bowing his head, closing his eyes, teeth chattering, wrapping his cloak tight around him. Another man retreated to create another clearing in the center of the room, arranging the broken wreckage of something now unrecognizable, murmuring to each other. An orc joined him.
Slinking to the back of the room, I found another shuttered window, facing a different direction, casting a spell similar to what the man at the door had cast, a spell of surveillance, anchoring it in the walk beyond my window. I wedged myself against the wall, searching for a comfortable place to stand, my shoulder against the frozen wall.
I waited, head bowed, trying to ignore the mundane conversations behind me about girls at the local brothel, girls at the local inn, girls in the castle, which ones they were going to have sex with, and how they were going to have sex with them, heat rising to my face when they described some act with a girl I’d never considered doing, some acts I didn’t know were possible. I thought of the one girl I actually knew and imagined doing those things to her, with her.
Breathing became difficult, concentration impossible.
Something scratched in a peculiar rhythm. I twisted my head, peeking toward Arcled who glared around the room, one finger across his lips. “The bait is in place.”
Everyone became quiet. With my senses extended with the spell, I focused on the breathing, marking the men and orcs in the room with me, someone else breathing outside, outside Arcled’s window, someone shivering with the chill, sobbing, grunting with each intake of breath. The more I concentrated, the more I knew: a woman, injured, her ribs hurt her, each breath aching, unaccustomed to the cold, not Onei.