by Luke Scull
The Halfmage muttered a word and the end of the wand glowed faintly. The power it contained was meagre, enough to evoke only a small burst of fire or spark of lightning. But like most objects imbued with magic, it could be siphoned by those with the gift. The draining of its magic would destroy the wand, but Eremul hoped that doing so would grant him enough power to weave the spell he intended to place on the boat in the harbour.
With a final lingering stare at Monique, he reached out and, filled with regret, gently shook her arm.
‘What?’ she breathed, her dark eyes fluttering open. For an instant her face filled with fear. Then she realized where she was. Her sudden smile almost broke Eremul’s heart. ‘My love,’ she said, in her lilting Tarbonnese accent. ‘Is it morning already?’
‘Not morning,’ Eremul said slowly, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. ‘Not yet. But it’s time for you to go.’
‘For me to go?’ Monique repeated, confused.
‘We’re going to the docks,’ he announced. ‘I’m putting you on a boat out of Dorminia.’
Monique’s eyes widened. She had run out of the violet paint she used to colour her lips and her once-sleek black hair was as dirty as everyone else’s in the Refuge, but to Eremul she was the most beautiful thing in the world. ‘You’re sending me away from Dorminia?’ she exclaimed. The hint of delight in her voice stabbed the Halfmage like a dagger, but he ignored the pain, forced a smile onto his face.
Sacrifice.
‘Another Breaker of Worlds is on its way. The city is on the brink of ruin. The longer you remain, the greater the danger.’
Monique wrapped her arms around him. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘But what about you?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, with a brightness that was utterly forced. ‘Gather your things. We need to be quick, before the city awakens.’
Monique swilled her face off with the water in the half barrel in the corner of the room, then gathered up her few possessions and placed them in an old cloth bag, which she slung over one shoulder. The Halfmage watched her collect her things, feeling pathetically weak all of a sudden.
Sacrifice.
Just before they slipped out, Ricker began to whimper in his sleep. His bottle had fallen out of his hand and rolled across the filthy floor. The Halfmage hesitated. ‘Would you mind giving that back to him?’ he asked Monique. ‘I don’t want him kicking up a fuss if he wakes.’ She fetched up the bottle and placed it back in Ricker’s hand with a tenderness that made Eremul’s lip quiver.
Mard was still staring at the wall. The Halfmage placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and cleared his throat. ‘I’m heading out for a while,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up.’
Mard didn’t so much as twitch in reply.
*
Dorminia looked almost peaceful by starlight, the ghostly radiance disguising the harsh lines of the grey granite buildings that crowded together like thieves in the night. The pre-dawn chill kept Eremul from sweating too heavily as he pushed his chair down to the docks. The journey from the Refuge was considerable, but he would be damned if he would spend his final hours with Monique having her cart him around.
‘Where will I go?’ she asked him as they walked – or trundled – towards the harbour.
‘The boat I will enchant shall carry you to the very eastern tip of Deadman’s Channel,’ Eremul replied. ‘To the port city of Westgate on the border of the Unclaimed Lands. There you will build a new life for yourself.’
‘A life without you?’ Monique said. Her voice trembled a little and Eremul’s throat tightened.
‘A life you deserve,’ he replied in a whisper. He hesitated a moment to compose himself. ‘Whatever happens in this city after you’re gone, I want you to know... I want you to know that you fixed me.’
‘I fixed you?’ Monique repeated. ‘I don’t understand. You mean you were broken?’
‘In a sense.’ Before Eremul could say more, movement ahead of them caught his attention. He placed a hand protectively on Monique’s elbow as a gang of men came prowling up the road. They were a ragged and feral bunch, homeless vagabonds out looking for anyone foolish enough to be on the streets at this hour. In another time and place Eremul might have felt sorry for them – but the way they were leering at him, and more to the point at Monique, filled him with dread.
‘Evening, gentlemen,’ he said, hoping they would pass on by.
‘What’s a pretty thing like you doing with this Fade-kissing cripple?’ the largest of the men growled. Monique’s face whitened in fear. The Halfmage’s anger blazed in response.
‘Get away from her,’ he rasped.
The man spun to face the Halfmage, his own face now contorted in rage. ‘You filthy turncoat,’ he grated. ‘You sold out your own city to those bastards. Is she what they gave you in return for your treachery? Only way a legless worm like you could ever get a woman.’
‘No one gave me to him,’ Monique said, strangely calm in the circumstances. ‘I gave myself to him. I love him.’
‘Love?’ the big man said bitterly. ‘My wife loved me. She loved me till the moment I found her corpse all burned up in the ruins of our home. Our kids were in the next room. They were dead too. The firebombs killed everyone on the street.’
Eremul stared into the fellow’s eyes, feeling sick. I’m not a traitor! he wanted to shout. I was only the one in the city who tried to head off an invasion. But there was nothing he could say or do. Sometimes grief could swallow a person so completely that there was only one way out.
One of the gang reached out and grabbed Monique’s arm. She tried to twist away and her blouse tore, revealing a pale shoulder beneath. Eremul summoned his magic, feeling it surge through his veins until it danced beneath the tips of his fingers. But he knew that if he spent what little magic he possessed now, he would have nothing left with which to enchant the boat waiting in the harbour and transport Monique to safety.
Sacrifice. Love is sacrifice.
‘This woman is assisting me to the docks,’ he said haughtily, trying to instil authority into the lie he was about to tell. ‘I am to meet with the Fade general. If you harm either of us, or so much as touch another hair on her head, my master will hunt you down and have you killed. Your families, too. Everyone close to you.’
‘You piece of shit,’ the leader of the gang whispered. His hand inched towards the cudgel hanging at his waist – but he obviously dared not take hold of it. ‘You’re worse than they say. You’re a monster.’
‘Yes,’ the Halfmage agreed, forcing a cold arrogance into his voice, the same tone he’d heard Timerus and countless other sociopaths use during his time on the Council. ‘I’m a monster. Unless you want this monster to destroy everything you hold dear, you’ll get the fuck out of our way.’
The collective fury that seethed from the gang could have boiled water, but none raised a weapon against him. Love, Eremul thought, held them in check: love for their wives or children or whatever else in the world they still cherished.
Threatening a man is one thing. It takes a special kind of monster to threaten a man’s family.
The threat seemed to have worked. A moment later the gang departed, casting baleful stares back at the Halfmage as they melted into the night. Eremul turned to Monique. ‘Did they hurt you? I can lend you my robe if you wish. It’s a little large and, I confess, not exactly the most flattering of clothing, but it will keep you warm.’
‘I’m fine,’ Monique replied, examining her torn blouse. ‘I will have this repaired once I reach Westgate. If I can somehow earn some money.’
The Halfmage reached into yet another pocket and withdrew a small pouch. It contained three golden spires and a few silver sceptres – all the coins he had left. ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to her. ‘This should last you a while. Now, we should hurry. Morning isn’t far off.’
They reached the docks an hour before dawn. Eremul’s arms hurt but not as much as the aching in his chest as he gazed out across the ha
rbour and beyond, to Deadman’s Channel. The hulking fehd warships were arranged in crescent formation, awaiting the arrival of the ship carrying the Breaker of Worlds. The city’s occupiers had made no secret of the fact that they were preparing for another Reckoning.
He saw the boat his contact had arranged for him moored to a wooden post near the end of the docks. It had cost Eremul half the purse he’d just handed Monique and the small cutter was weather-stained and flecked with bird shit, but it looked seaworthy enough. She stared doubtfully at the boat. ‘There are no oars,’ she observed. ‘How will I row it?’
‘You won’t,’ Eremul replied. ‘You will relax and let my magic carry you away from this place. My final gift to you.’ He frowned at the warships in the harbour. ‘My spell will hide you from casual scrutiny, but do nothing to draw attention to yourself.’
Monique looked from the boat to Eremul. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I told you. You have shown me a part of myself that I never believed existed. You have shown me that I can be... whole.’ Eremul took Monique’s hand. ‘All I ask is that when you have established a new life for yourself, you remember me. Remember that I wasn’t a monster but a man, capable of goodness. Capable of love.’
‘I’ll remember,’ she promised. She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
The moment seemed to last both a lifetime and an instant. Eremul took a deep breath. Squinted up at the sky, where the rising sun was only minutes away. ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘I wish I could help you into the boat, but I fear that would be unwise. You’ll have to do that part on your own.’
He reached into his robes and withdrew the wand stashed within. He closed his eyes, mentally prepared himself. Siphoning was a dangerous undertaking, liable to cause both physical and mental injury to a wizard who attempted to draw too much too soon. He cleared his mind; put aside his grief. He began to probe the wand for the magic he would need to complete his spell.
‘I can’t go,’ Monique said abruptly.
Eremul’s eyes snapped open. ‘This is what you wanted,’ he said, though a part of him was elated. She loves me too much to leave.
He knew that was selfishness speaking. He needed to get her out of the city. It was for her own good. ‘You must go,’ he said, trying to keep his voice firm.
‘It is against my instructions.’
There was a moment of utter confusion before Monique’s words hit Eremul just as the burning stone from the trebuchets had hit the Warrens during the siege of Dorminia. As a sickening realization began to dawn, it killed the light inside him as surely as the flaming load had massacred the orphans.
‘What did you say?’ he rasped. ‘What did you fucking say?’
‘It is against my instructions,’ Monique repeated. Her accent was the same – but now her voice was as dead, as lifeless, as those of the White Lady’s handmaidens. She was near catatonic, her mouth hanging open, eyes unfocused and unseeing. Eremul’s gaze was drawn to something on Monique’s naked shoulder, which had been exposed during their confrontation with the gang.
A tattoo.
He wheeled his chair closer and reached out a trembling hand. He grasped her arm, trying to deny the truth of what his eyes were seeing.
It was the Fade script; the same script he had seen throughout the city on the bodies of those who served the Ancients as their unquestioning slaves.
Monique, the woman whom he had loved more than life itself, was a thrall.
Eremul twisted her arm roughly in sudden rage, ignored her gasp of pain. He placed a finger on the tattoo and channelled his magic into it. The tattoo began to writhe, like a spider lodged in her flesh. But it was no spider. It was a mind-controlling parasite that dictated her thoughts and actions. A mind-controlling parasite that made her someone she wasn’t. A slave; a thrall.
An illusion.
The tiny mechanical construct popped out of Monique’s shoulder, dropping to the deck beneath, where it promptly scuttled off the edge of the docks and into the water of the harbour, sinking without trace.
The woman who had been Monique was now staring at Eremul without a hint of recognition in her eyes. ‘Where am I?’ she asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘You remember nothing?’ Eremul asked, knowing what the answer would be. Knowing but needing to hear her say it.
‘I remember... someone whispering to me. Telling me to watch you. To report on you. To love you.’ Her eyes ran down his body, widened when they saw that he had no legs. One final knife thrust into his heart. ‘How could I love you?’ she asked, in disbelief.
Eremul turned his back on the stranger.
*
He found his way back to the Refuge in a daze, not remembering how he got there. Not remembering and not caring. He stopped dead when he saw the flames licking at the doorway of the warehouse he shared with Mard and Ricker.
The door had been blown right off its hinges and lay in pieces. Smoke clogged the interior of the building. A small crowd had gathered outside, a few among them making a futile effort to put out the raging fire with buckets of rainwater.
‘Two dead,’ said a voice from inside the building, followed by a hacking cough. A burly fellow, perhaps a blacksmith, dragged out a blackened corpse. Eremul stared at the fire-ravaged body, recognizing Mard through blurring eyes. The man went back inside the warehouse and a moment later dragged out another body. Ricker was still clutching the shattered remnants of his bottle in his dead hand.
‘I saw who done it,’ shouted a woman. ‘A gang came prowling through here, looking for the Halfmage. Said they wanted to do to him what he helped do to their families. This is his fault, that Fade-kissing traitor.’
‘There he is!’ someone shouted.
Eremul saw the finger pointing straight at him through the tears that suddenly filled his eyes. He didn’t open his mouth to protest his innocence. Didn’t try to flee. Didn’t even think to summon his magic to protect himself. Instead he watched numbly as the crowd worked themselves into a frenzy.
‘Treacherous fuck!’
‘You sold out your kind! We’re all going to die because of you!’
‘Monster!’ someone else screamed. The first stone glanced off his forehead, and he blinked stupidly as blood ran down his cheeks, mixing with his tears. A piece of wood from the shattered door cracked into his chest. That didn’t hurt as much as the nail sticking out of it.
Someone grabbed him around the neck from behind and then he was falling backwards, landing painfully on the back of his head, his wheelchair toppling over beside him.
A boot thudded into his chest, stealing the breath from him. Pain shot through his ribs. Another boot struck him in the face, and he could feel its print being burned into his skin as hot agony exploded.
He stared up at the hateful faces above. Clenched fists and booted feet and warm spittle rained down on him from all angles, shattering his body.
I’m not a monster. The thought seemed to repeat itself as his head bounced off the street again. He tried to understand how he was still conscious, still so exquisitely aware of every hurt being heaped upon him.
A moment later all thought ceased.
Unspoken
✥
SASHA WIPED SWEAT from her brow and squinted up at the mountain ahead. The climb through the lower reaches of the Devil’s Spine had been tough enough – a harsh ascent through jagged, barren rock hiding deep crevices and plunging drops – but in the last few hours the terrain had begun to rise even more sharply. Her hands were scraped raw from dragging herself up broken ledges of rough stone. Their party’s progress had become agonizingly slow. In particular, the Highlander sorceress, Rana, and Brodar Kayne were struggling tremendously with the climb. The latter looked decidedly unwell, gasping for breath and wincing in pain whenever he thought no one was watching.
Behind her, Cole slunk along at the rear of the group, cutting a miserable figure. Her friend walked with his head down, and he seemed unwilling to meet her gaze. What she had wit
nessed in the cave had shocked her. Cole had become a creature of darkness and shadow, the living embodiment of the godly essence he supposedly carried within him.
She wanted to turn to Cole, to talk openly and honestly about what was happening to him, but he looked in no mood for company. Jerek had broken his nose, and his face was caked with dried blood.
Sasha’s own nose was in much better shape now that she hadn’t touched so much as a grain of hashka in weeks, though occasionally she would get a strange tingling sensation in her hands that she couldn’t explain.
At the head of the group, Isaac and Jerek reached the top of a huge protrusion of rock and came to an abrupt halt. The Fade officer cut an impressive figure, blazingly white-skinned against the nearly black rock, beautiful in an utterly alien sense and immeasurably graceful as he raised a slender hand to shield his eyes against the midday sun.
Jerek on the other hand was anything but graceful. Fire-scarred and harsher than the mountains surrounding them, he seemed to contain nothing but iron and fury. He’d barely said a word to her since they’d become reacquainted back at Westrock. He barely said a word to anyone except Brodar Kayne – and even then, he never seemed to say much if a grim nod would suffice. ‘Trouble up ahead,’ he growled, gesturing with an axe. ‘Giants, looks like. Fighting against demonkin.’
Isaac turned to Sasha. ‘Perhaps you could take a closer look,’ he suggested.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean to tell me my sight is better than your own?’
‘The augmentation you possess was part of an experimental suite of implants designed to create the perfect human soldier. The project was abandoned when Prince Obrahim declared it to be no longer moral.’