by Watson Davis
“He came in with us, escorting the prisoners.” The lieutenant gulped. “He was the recruit in my squad who covered the boy’s tracks so well.”
“The one who got the extra rations?”
The lieutenant nodded. “That would be the guy.”
Silverhewer’s head bowed, her chin dropping to her chest, swaying from side to side, her lips widening, and she began to laugh. She struck her fist against the floor, rattling the whole building, the whole castle, bits of stone and plaster tumbling down, puffs of dust blowing into the air. Her laughter stopped, she scowled down at Fi Cheen and said, “Let’s go kill this brazen little bastard.”
# # #
Hell rushed away from me, leaving me sitting in the middle of a pentagram I’d carved in the floor with my sword, the glow of the warding and binding symbols fading, the infernal heat that threatened to blister my skin only a frozen memory in the wisps of breeze brushing against me, swirling around me like a wind-devil in the snow.
The archbishop’s amulet lay before me, its chain clinking as link-by-link it eased to the floor, the air above the golden metal wavering and flickering with the hint of flames. The trickle of blood from my wrist drying, I closed my eyes, hoping my eyelids would soothe the burning and stinging. My chin dropped to my chest, all my energy having seeped from me, the markings on my skin throbbing. Even with my eyes shut, I saw the amulet pulsing with dark energies, shining and shimmering.
From the floor beneath me, boots stomped on stone stairs and wooden floors, the rough voices of imperial soldiers rose up, barking out orders to search, to secure the building.
Ignoring the lump of bile in my throat, I dragged myself to my feet, staggering from side to side on unsteady legs, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, wet ropes of sweat-drenched hair falling over my forehead and into my eyes. I stopped, breathing heavy, regaining my sense of location, my connection to this world, the world where I belonged.
Snatching the amulet from the floor, the imprint of it singed into the wood, I stumbled forward, toward a shuttered, barred window, the world fighting against my perception, trying to spin to the side. On one knee before the window, I pried a board free, tugging at it with desperate fingernails, working it free, tearing my fingernails from my fingers. Blood trickling down my fingers and dripping from my hands, I set the amulet inside the space inside the floor, and pressed the plank back into place, pushing against it with my whole body.
“There’s someone upstairs?”
“Not supposed to be.”
“I’m telling you, I hear someone upstairs.”
My prickling fingertips gripping the sill, I climbed back to my feet, unbarred the window, and flung it open. The frigid wind struck me in the face, the wind roaring, flecks of snow biting as they hit, invigorating, my element. I raised my arms, grinning, the tightness in my shoulders unwinding.
Opening up my aching mind, casting out for a little more magic, discovering only a dribble, I gasped at the sharp pain in my skull, pain from pulling up that slight bit of magic, feeding those into the remnants of my climbing spell, and I clambered out the window, leaving it open behind me.
I stared down below me at a window, one barred window in particular, and I descended, one hand, the other. My abused, quivering fingers clung to the frosty stones of the tower, my boots sliding, finding purchase, slipping once more, the winds ravaging me, yanking me back, threatening to hurl me into the icy river below, slamming me back against the wall, pulling me to the side, until I wrapped my fingers around the bars of that window and held myself there, pulling my face close.
Heat and warmth billowed from the opening, scented with smoke and sweat and desperation.
A fire burned on the other side of the tower. The orc shaman stood speaking with two soldiers as more soldiers ran up the stairs, yelling questions and answers to each other.
My mother sat on her bunk, her head tilting toward the orc shaman, her body held taut, her knees together, hands on her knees, the brown rags bound around her head, covering her eyes. Her head rose and nostrils flaring, twisted around, jerking toward the window where I held myself.
“Mother,” I whispered, fearing the howling of the winds would drown my words.
She leaned forward and pushed herself to her feet, sighing, pressing her hand into her lower back, moving like an old woman, a grimace on her face. She ambled to the window, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, until she rested on her shoulder against the wall under the window.
“I heard you speak earlier.” Her voice choked. “I knew it was you.”
I lifted myself up, arms straining, angling myself so I could peer down at her head. “Be ready. Let Aissal help you escape when the time comes.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You must run, leave me, live your life, and make it count.”
I slipped my hand between the bars, reaching down toward her.
“There he is!”
The shaman pointed at me. Our eyes met, gazes locking. He grinned, lunging forward between the two soldiers next to him, bringing his hands together, palm to palm, magic crackling around them.
I wrenched my hand back out from the bars.
The shaman flung his right hand toward me, fingers spreading, palm facing up, flaming shards spraying from his hand, fanning out before arcing in the air, changing their direction, flying through the air at me.
I let go of the bars, letting myself drop, my boots scraping on the stones, my hands slapping at the stone to slow my descent, but those flaming shards looped out through the window I had vacated, and flew toward me, unerring. They struck me, bursting with agony, hitting me in my wrist, my forearm, my elbow, my shoulder, each one searing into me, my right arm flopped into my body, useless.
The force of the blows knocked me out of line. I reached toward the tower with my left hand, stretching out, straining with all my strength, my breath leaving me, my stomach flipping. My fingertips missed. The wind took me, pushing me further away.
The tower rushed past me, away from me, the wall surging past me.
I landed hard on the ice, ribs breaking. An orc scrambled toward me, axe in his hand, but I stood, hunching over in pain, raising my hands, smiling, saying, “I give up. Take me to Archbishop Diyune.”
Battle for the Amulet
I gasped for breath on the floor of Silverhewer’s great hall.
“Pick him up,” Silverhewer’s voice boomed.
Hands grabbed my arms and propped me up, my feet scrabbling to get beneath me, to support my own weight, but the gnarled orcish hands in my armpits held me up so my toes brushed the ground.
My ribs grinding, I gasped, and blinked to focus my eyes, batting back the haze and fog. Silverhewer’s face hovered before me, her gray eyes studying me, a sneer on her lips. She pulled back, sliding on her massive throne, lounging to one side with her elbow resting on the rough-hewn rock of the arm of the throne. She eased her chin down into her palm.
To her left stood Lieutenant Arcled, his pig-like face passive, hands clasped behind his back, Agholor beside him with a sour grimace, and the old shaman who guarded the cells. To Silverhewer’s right, in a tall cushioned chair on a pedestal bringing him up almost to Silverhewer’s shoulders, sat Fi Cheen, not Archbishop Diyune, not the man I wanted to kill more than anything, not Diyune but Fi Cheen glimmering in silken robes, on the edge of his seat, fierce eyes focusing on me like an ice-fang spying an injured bear. Beside him in smaller chairs sat Lyu-ra, the junior assistant from the monastery, looking toward Fi Cheen, and beside her, the man with the cleavers from the gate.
“Where is it?” Fi Cheen asked, his voice snapping, chin trembling, eyes wide with pent-up fury, a look I’d known only too well at the monastery.
Silverhewer turned her head toward Fi Cheen, raising her hand, palm toward him, as though to restrain him. “You forget yourself, Overseer.”
Fi Cheen whirled to face her. “He is my slave.”
“He belongs to the empire.” Silverhewer return
ed her hand to the arm of her throne, slamming the palm down, cracking the stone, bits flying off. “As the empire’s senior representative, I own him more than anyone else.”
“But—”
Silverhewer raised her palm toward Fi Cheen, silencing him. “Tell me what is this ‘it’ you’re asking him about?”
Fi Cheen looked away, the fingertips of his left hand caressing the ring on his finger. “When he escaped, he stole an important magical item.”
Her palm slammed down onto the arm of her chair, a loud report, and a crack ran down the side of her throne. “Why am I finding out about this only now?”
“That is monastery business,” Fi Cheen answered.
“Really?” Silverhewer turned to me, glowering, leaning toward me, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits on which my continued existence depended. “Where is this thing you stole, boy?”
My silence stretched out, torches flickering in their sconces on the cold stone walls, ghostly breezes slipping through the air, ancient tapestries stolen from the northern nations now fallen to Silverhewer’s imperial army shifting, dancing in those breezes.
She sighed, an eyebrow rising, lips pursing. The hands holding me up tightened around my arms and a point—of a spear or a blade, I could not tell—pressed against my back, forcing my chest forward, my back arching, forcing my lungs to inhale. Her gray tongue escaped from between her lips, and slid across them, a twinkle of sadistic pleasure in her sparkling eyes.
“You will never find Diyune’s amulet,” I said, gasping as the point dug deeper into my flesh.
“We don’t have to find anything because you will tell us exactly where it is, you Onei cur.” Fi Cheen jumped up out of his seat to stand on the steps leading up to it, his face wild with anger, lips stretching back, away from his teeth, the whites of his eyes surrounding his dark irises.
“Diyune’s amulet?” Silverhewer reached out, her hand moving slowly, deliberately, the back of her index finger tapping Fi Cheen’s chest, flicking him back into his seat. She sat there, arm extended, staring at me, not a muscle moving on her stony face. She glanced in Arcled’s direction and nodded.
Arcled turned and waved someone forward. Feet shuffled on the stone. Imperial soldiers led the prisoners out, Aissal with black gashes in her face, limping and shoulders bent, Rucker clutching her waist, his face an unrecognizable bruise, Cole with his head bowed, hair hiding his face, and my mother, hunched over, hands manacled behind her back, shackles on her feet keeping her from taking a full step, a guard to either side of her holding a wooden rod connected to her collar stopping her from standing tall.
I sucked my breath in through my teeth, my muscles tensing. They weren’t supposed to be there for what I had planned, not even knowing if my plan could work. I whispered words of magic, checking to see how much I’d recovered since falling from the tower, hoping I’d have something available to fight back with, but my attempt resulted only in an explosion of needle sharp pains in my neck and shoulders as the collar around my neck twisted my own magic back on me, shunting it aside, taking the energy, converting it to bolts of lightning to jab at me.
“Yes.” Silverhewer chuckled, rubbing her hands together like a child on gift-day. “Fi Cheen was not totally wrong. I see you’re not entirely without compassion or foresight. You comprehend where we’re going with this.” She held up her left hand, lifting her index finger, tilting her head to the side. “Make no mistake, vermin. You would make me inordinately happy if you remain silent, for you would allow my men and I time to work on a few of your friends and loved ones.” She caressed her chin with her fingers, smirking. “I’d love to hear the cries of a coulven again, but you will talk and tell us everything we wish to learn, and more. You will sing like a little flittery bird.”
“Tell her nothing,” my mother said, the guards at her side tugging at her to shut her up. “We will be tortured anyway.”
Silverhewer eased back in her chair, a huge smile on her lips, and she shrugged. “But it feels so nice to have the illusion of power, doesn’t it?”
I opened my mouth to say something, I don’t even know what, but a voice cried out behind me, “General Silverhewer! We have found a magical item, an amulet. He’d hidden it in the top of the Tower of Tears.”
# # #
“He’d hidden it in the top of the Tower of Tears.” The human soldier strode through an archway, his red and black lieutenant’s cape billowing behind him, carrying the archbishop’s amulet in his bare hands, a stupid smile on his stupid face, an innocent joy, naive, not realizing the danger and the power in that accursed item.
Fi Cheen stood, pushing himself up from the chair, legs trembling, one hand on the arm of his chair, the other on his bruised chest, his breathing easing as he channeled magic into himself to repair the damage done by the fool of a general to his left. “Don’t let the metal touch your bare skin, you moron. Bring the amulet to me. Now.”
The soldier skidded to a stop. He gawked at the amulet in his hand, his eyes growing wider with no real understanding of the perilous magical forces in what he manhandled without the least care in the multiverse.
“You forget yourself yet again, Overseer.” General Silverhewer straightened in her poor excuse for a throne, as if a general deserved to sit in one, turning toward Fi Cheen, leaning over him, her face looming down. “You grow tiresome.”
Fi Cheen scowled up at her, biting back the words he longed to say, blood rushing to his face. This close to his goal, he needed to be careful, prudent. A nod of his head, a tight smile on his lips, and he slid back into his seat. “This amulet is a dangerous item, a portal between the realms, not something for the uninitiated to toss around like a fool with a cushioned hammer.” Indicating himself, touching his chest with his fingertips, he said, “As the highest ranking priest in Windhaven, the handling of magical issues falls under my purview, granting me jurisdiction on this matter.”
The soldier, his face ashen, his cape now removed from his shoulders and wrapped around the amulet, took a step toward Fi Cheen, bearing the bundle before him at arm’s length.
Silverhewer’s chaplain, an orc shaman, an uncouth, uneducated barbarian, standing on the other side of the giantess, coughed and stepped forward, raising his eyebrows, brushing braids of gray hair adorned with bone beads and birds’ feathers from around his piggish face. “I am the ranking priest in Windhaven.”
The soldier, looking from the shaman to Fi Cheen and back, halted a step behind the two orcish soldiers holding Caldane in mid-air, the slave’s legs dangling, his head hanging, platinum-colored hair falling over his face.
“Indeed, you are.” Silverhewer smiled down at Fi Cheen, smug.
“I disagree.” Fi Cheen glared into the chaplain’s eyes, seeing him gather power even as Fi Cheen gathered power to himself, the fingers of his left hand brushing the ring on his right hand. “In circumstances of war, he might have the skeleton of a case, but this is my monastery’s amulet. And not a question of war, but a question of the spells beating at the very heart of the empire, delicate spells of control, wedding forces from several realms, magic as far beyond your comprehension as language to an ant.”
The chaplain’s eyes narrowed. “I comprehend your infernal little cantrips just fine, slave master.”
“Gentlemen, calm yourselves.” Silverhewer giggled, and extended her hand toward the confused soldier carrying the archbishop’s amulet. “Surto? Bring it to me.”
The soldier, relief flooding his face, strode past the Onei, up the steps to Silverhewer. He bowed, offering the amulet to her with both hands.
“Whatever you do,” Caldane said, raising his head, a sneer on his lips, eyes shadowed, “do not let Fi Cheen get his grubby hands on it.”
Fi Cheen eased forward, speaking familiar words, summoning familiar magic, casting a familiar spell, forming it in his hands, the spell cast and thrown from instinct, without the slightest thought. Caldane shrieked, his body arching with such violence and sudden ferocity the g
uards lost their grasp, and he fell to the floor, curling up with his quivering hands cupping his temples, blood trickling from his wrists.
The orcan guards fell to their knees to secure their grip on him. The coulven slave reached out to him, yelling his name, the other slaves joining her in a chorus of sweet sympathetic misery. Fi Cheen released the spell, the heady power of torture intoxicating him, so satisfying he considered blasting Caldane again, making him howl with even more agony.
“Well.” Silverhewer held the amulet up, the soldier’s protective cape fluttering to the ground, her stony fingers pinching the chain like a strand of hair against her fingertips. She swung her hand out before Fi Cheen, flaunting the amulet within his easy reach, teasing him.
Fi Cheen glowered at her, fuming, wishing he could inflict the same pain on her as he’d inflicted on Caldane.
She shrugged. “If he is so dead set on you not having this little trinket, I can only imagine I should give it to you.”
Fi Cheen gasped, filling his lungs with a surprised breath, almost choking, coughing.
“No!” the slave yelled, writhing in the clutches of the orcs.
Silverhewer chuckled.
Fi Cheen smiled, relieved, inclined his head to her, and reached out his hand. He curled his fingers around the back of the amulet, marveling at the complex whorls of twisting streams of magic, the elemental, the spiritual, the infernal all woven together in a delicate symphony of dominion.
The central orb, an impossibly smooth and impossibly shiny metal set in a precisely-calculated matrix of runes and symbols forged from tubules of the same impossible metal, split. A line appeared across the center of the orb and the top and bottom separated. The orb opened, revealing an eye, an eye of fire.
The amulet is not supposed to do that. Not without the rituals to invoke it.
The Onei raised his head and bellowed a word, a word of magic, a trigger for a prepared sacrifice.