Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  Menkal spoke up. “I think it’d be best if one of our sapphires went with the core group, just in case our boy decides to panic again.”

  Reit’s reply was immediate, fervent. “Absolutely not. He’s already a prisoner. I will not free him, only to imprison him again myself. Crafter be willing, he’ll join our Cause. If not, he has the right to his freedom, as do we all. If he lashes out at us...” He let his voice trail off for effect. It was obvious that there would be emerald mages in the raiding party, should they be needed.

  As the briefing wound down, Reit called Sal over to him. “Are you ready to start earning your keep?” he asked playfully.

  “Dang skippy.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That means ‘yes’.”

  “Of course,” Reit answered dubiously. “By the by... there will be more than enough people in the party. If you happen across the stage’s treasure box, there should be enough gems in there to keep certain artisans busy for weeks,” he said, winking conspiratorially.

  Sal returned the wink, grinning at Reit’s own attempt at spurring him along. It wasn’t a half bad idea, actually. On a professional level, he had to admit that his employer’s supply could use a little restocking, but more practically… what better gift could he give the object of his affection than a pile of glittering jewels?

  ***

  Reit watched the raiding party ride off into the woods, silently praying the Crafter’s protection over them. His attention was particularly drawn to the sandy haired young man with the barely used katana strapped to his back. So odd, that one, with such a unique and insightful view of a world that should by all rights be completely alien to him. Yet in the space of a few weeks, he’d gone from a grievously wounded stranger to an accepted—even popular—member of Reit’s extended family. And now he was sending his new brother-in-arms to fight his battles for him.

  All over a mage whose capabilities and allegiances were yet unknown. Was it worth it?

  He continued to stare at the now-empty path leading into the forest, long after Sal and the others had passed from view. Lost in his thoughts, Reit didn’t hear Delana approach him from behind, so he started when she wrapped her arms around him consolingly, laying her head on his knotted shoulders.

  She alone understood him completely. She knew that he considered this his war, and that everyone that died in it weighed heavily upon him. Of course, there were a select few others who saw through the facade, saw past the title of el’Yatza. But she alone knew him, even more than his own twin. Which is why it hurt him when she had sided with the rest of the Council, deeming him too important to the Cause to risk himself on this mission. Bitterness welled up within him—toward the Council, toward the Highest and this damnable war Reit was forced to wage against him, toward Delana…

  No, not her, he amended. Never her. Let her utterly betray me, I could never feel bitterness toward her.

  Well, not for long, anyway.

  Sighing, he resigned himself to the fact that after this most recent incarceration, he and a good many other leaders would be excluded from such missions, only taking up arms under the most dire circumstances. Retzu alone had gone against the Council’s wishes, saying the only fulfillment an assassin had was in killing. They gave in, of course. They might as well have—he would have gone anyway.

  “We’re figureheads,” Reit muttered, envying his brother. “We’re game masters, moving our followers around like footmen on a khal’cek board, whimsically deciding which ones will be sacrificed for the sake of victory, and yet unable to sacrifice ourselves.” He turned to his wife, looking deep into her violet gemstone eyes. How he lost himself there, once when they were young and carefree! He still did, but only insomuch as his duties to the Resistance would allow. He sighed brokenly, a prisoner to his Cause, mourning all that he’d given up in the name of freedom. And now that he’d been remanded to the relative safety of the village, to lead from afar, his fight for freedom left him ever more the prisoner.

  “We should be out there, wife. We should ourselves be doing what we ask of others. How can we lead if we’re not out in front, fighting alongside our brethren, risking our lives from them as they do for us?” he demanded helplessly.

  “The same way we always have, dear heart,” Delana said patiently, firmly. “We lead with our heads, not our hearts. Our people know we don’t ask of them what we are unwilling to do ourselves. That’s precisely why they requested of the Council that we remain behind. They requested. If we were to fall, how can they be sure the next leaders would be as dedicated as we?”

  He had no choice but to accept the logic, of course. He hated himself for it, but he accepted all the same. Dejectedly he nodded and pulled her close, both cursing her wisdom and praising the Crafter for it, all in the same heartbeat.

  Silently, he prayed yet again to the Crafter for the safety of the raiders. Especially for the sandy-haired young man who had in the weeks gone from stranger to dear friend, and who was right now risking his life for a cause not his own, to free a man he didn’t know.

  And again, Reit had to wonder, was it worth it?

  ***

  Sal’s thoughts followed much the same course as Reit’s. Here he was, in a strange world with strange people, hiking through the woods to risk his neck rescuing a stranger who’ll probably return the favor by trying to kill him. Was it worth it? Sal had an answer.

  Absolutely. Hadn’t the twins and Jaren just risked their lives and maybe even the survival of the village for a total stranger? Someone who could very well have been a spy? His honor demanded that he do no less.

  The raiding party marched along a wash on the leeward side of a ridge that separated them from the road. According to the amethyst mages, the soil in the area was laden with minerals that made it difficult for them to see through the gully walls, which they hoped would hide them from the approaching prison escort until it was too late. Sal wasn’t sure what to make of that. Mages seeing through dirt and rock?

  Before he could ponder further, an advance scout slid down the gully wall some fifty yards ahead. At his signal, the troop came to a halt, and brought Sal’s mind back to the task at hand. Hopping off his horse, he tied the reins to a low hanging branch, and made for the head of the line, where the scout was addressing Retzu and the others.

  “—sixty to seventy men, perhaps half of them mages,” the barrel-chested mage was saying. “By their heat patterns, I’d say there are only a few rubies. We tend to run a little hotter. The ridge is pretty thin up top, so their amethysts will see us as soon as we crest the summit if they’re paying attention. Be ready to fight immediately.” That said, he looked to Retzu, who was already easing his sword and belt knife in their scabbards.

  “Alright, mates, you know the drill,” the assassin said. “I lead the mundane, Naumen leads the arcane.” The scout nodded stiffly at the other mages. “Everybody space out in single file, as close to the summit as you can get without cresting. Mages attack when the escort is a third of the way along the line, providing cover for the ends to circle down to the road on either flank. Primary targets are the stage guards and the amethysts. The troop will likely take position near the stage or on the far side of the road. Don’t let them. When the troop is fully engaged, the mundanes will join in. I want to contain them in the front and back, and hit the side hard. Drive them back from the carriage so our archers can have a clear shot. Archers and mages, stay in the shelter of the trees. Sal, you and Tavin grab the granite and get him to safety. Questions?” There were none.

  Assignments passed out and acknowledged, the raiders dispersed. Naumen directed placement as the raiders moved into position along the ridge, crawling the last few feet as they neared the summit. A few designated individuals peeked over the top of the ridge from behind the trees, rocks, bushes, anything that might have afforded even the slightest camouflage. But apparently all camouflage was slight, at least to an amethyst mage’s magical vision. Many of the raiders, hidden as they were, still looked
like they were going to sick up.

  Sal topped the ridge and hunkered down at his assigned post near the furthest end of the line, spying down the road as far as the trees would let him. In place, he scrunched even further, making himself as small a target as possible.

  And then he waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. A minute. Five minutes. Sal started to get restless, shifting in place, rounding his grip nervously on the doeskin-hilt of his katana. He thought for a moment to recite his hilts—two of them now—to calm down, but then realized that he wasn’t feeling that kind of excitement. His focus hadn’t wavered in the slightest from Caravan to the ridge. He wasn’t distracted, fearful, anxious. He was completely centered. He was just itching to get to work, to see some action, to do battle—even if it meant swords and arrows instead of MP5s. After being shot up, thrown in prison, dragged through a medieval forest, and put on trial by a jury of people so not his peers, he was more than ready to relieve some of the frustration that he’d built up over the past few weeks.

  Finally, he got his chance. The elements themselves came to life along the road almost before Sal could even see the escort. And even though Jaren had talked to him at length about it—even wrapped as he was in military training—still he was unprepared for what he saw.

  Fire, ice, and lightning showered the ridge as the carriage leapt to the escape, evoking an almost immediate magical response from the raiders. The result was… captivating. Massive salvos of color and energy flew from ridge to road and back again, and souls flew into eternity with each impact, yet for all the carnage, the sight itself was breathtakingly beautiful. So awestricken was he that he didn’t see the ice ball streaking toward his head until it burst into powder a foot from his nose, showering him with its snowy remnants.

  A hand grasped his collar and yanked—hard—dragging him roughly to the ground. “Have you lost your mind?” Tavin shouted breathlessly.

  “I... I’ve never seen anything like this!”

  “Aye, and you never will again, if you don’t have a care! It’s not easy to wither a spell in mid-flight, you know.”

  “To do what?”

  “Never mind. Just know that you may not be so fortunate next time. Now, let’s move.”

  The two low-crawled their way through the trees—and spells—making for a drainage ditch on their side of the road. The twang of a bowstring drew Sal’s attention, and he turned in time to catch a nearby archer drawing a second arrow from his quiver. No sooner was it nocked that it sped toward its target, sparking with electricity as it flew. Its aim was true, and it caught a blue-eyed mage high in the chest, the metal tip easily piercing the leather breastplate. The electricity apparently found a medium in the sapphire’s magic, for sparks leapt from the mage to any soul unlucky enough to be standing nearby, severely wounding those few that weren’t killed outright.

  “Sal. That way?” Tavin pointed, indicating the ditch at the bottom of the hill which was conspicuously lacking two raiders laying in wait for the prison carriage. Sal nodded sheepishly.

  When they got there, they noticed a huge crater in the middle of the road just before the prison carriage. The horses were missing as well. Absently, Sal hoped they were taken by a few escort mages smart enough to get outta Dodge. But as close as that crater was to the carriage, he doubted it. Magic bolts exploded dangerously close to Sal, forcing him to duck down in the ditch beside Tavin and wait for a break in the action. Then it came.

  It was a small window, barely enough time to sidestep the crater, but it was likely all they’d get. Sal bolted from the ditch with Tavin in tow, spells raining down around them. The two ducked around the front of the coach just as lightning struck at their feet, turning the road to glass behind them. The concussion blew them off their feet, and sent them scrambling back to the shelter of the carriage.

  Tavin rounded the carriage and moved to the door, grasping the lock. His eyes flashed brilliantly as the mana flowed. Sal had seen that look of concentration once before, when Jaren and Laryn had magically aged the prison bars the night of their escape. But before Tavin could finish whatever he was doing, a stray chunk of flying ice glanced off his temple, dropping him in a nerveless heap at Sal’s feet.

  Sal ducked under the front of the carriage and reached out to the emerald from behind the wheel. The mage groaned, looked around dazedly, disoriented. “Tavin? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Sal asked, gently shaking him.

  “Aye, I can hear you,” Tavin answered vaguely. “There’s this loud... booming in my ears.”

  “Yeah, mine too. That’s the raiders attacking the prisoner escort,” Sal said patiently.

  “Raiders? Prisoner escort?”

  “Never mind.”

  Sal took a moment to pull Tavin completely under the coach and the meager shelter it offered. “Stay put till this is ov—”

  An explosion rocked the carriage, rattling Sal’s teeth in his mouth. Ain’t gonna last too much longer! Gotta get the package and bug out. He gave Tavin a quick once-over, made sure that he wasn’t injured further, then scrambled out from under the coach.

  In all the ruckus, Sal hadn’t heard the newly-rusted snap of the lock, so he was surprised to find the door standing wide open, and the coach empty of its passenger. He stood for a moment, gaping, until a barrage of hailstones threatened to shatter the door. He dove reflexively into the carriage as the remains of the door flew from its hinges. He could hear myriad pings and thunks as the tiny missiles peppered the back of the coach, but for the moment the thick wooden frame was holding. Gathering his breath, he unsheathed his sword and bunched his muscles to spring back into the fray.

  Then he saw the treasure box, lying open on its side.

  The contents of the box had spilled, making a sparkling pile in an undamaged corner of the carriage. Sal crouched there, transfixed by the glittering mound of wealth, the fight outside all but forgotten. Wouldn’t hurt to fill my pockets since I’m already here, Sal thought. After all, his part of the mission had been accomplished. The granite was free. Just one or two handfuls on the way out the door wouldn’t hurt anybody.

  Greed threatened to provide any excuse Sal needed, but he wretched his eyes away from the riches. People were risking their lives outside, and there he was, already counting his winnings. After the fight was over, he could come back and loot to his heart’s content, he promised himself. Sighing, he half-crawled toward the door and the raging battle beyond, idly sweeping back the gems that littered the coach floor.

  As his fingers brushed a particularly large diamond, his head exploded in pain. His left eye blazed in an agony reminiscent of the night in the Laotian laboratory. A grinding sound filled his head, though in his panicked state he would only remember much later that he didn’t hear the sound in his ears. He heard it radiating through the very bones of his skull, stretching outward from his left orbit. As the crunching sound continued, growing louder, he felt his eye crystallize in its socket, growing hard and cold and dry in moments. Sal lost his balance, tumbling out of the coach with his hands clawing at his face.

  Black blobs swam in his vision as he wrestled with his fleeing consciousness. Amidst the blobs, a fuzzy form appeared. Sal’s eye cleared long enough to see the form for a guard, dressed in some sort of armored uniform. Whoever he was, he definitely wasn’t one of the villagers. And judging by the sneer of contempt and the wicked looking axe, chances were that he wasn’t friendly, either. But crippled with pain as Sal was, he couldn’t lift his hands from his head... not that he’d have the strength to defend himself anyway.

  So he waited patiently for the bite of the axe, almost welcoming it, but it never came. The axe fighter froze where he was, his face taking on a pained look of surprise. Sal’s vision wavered as consciousness slipped away, but not before seeing the guard turn grey and crumble to the ground in a pile of dust and rubble, revealing a young man—with eyes of polished rock—behind him, a brown nimbus surrounding him like a dirty halo.

  Chapter 10

  Pain.
r />   Sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his left eye, radiating in all directions and echoing back off the insides of his skull.

  He remembered this. He felt just like this just before he woke up in that prison...

  Prison!

  Sal swam toward the dim light of the waking world, sitting bolt upright before he’d given himself a chance to catch his bearings. He half expected to find himself back within the chiseled stone confines of Schel Veylin prison, surrounded by the filthy, overripe bodies of society’s outcasts lying scattered across the dirt floor. Instead he was rewarded with spots in his vision and a wave of dizziness, along with the most peculiar urge to heave up everything he’d ever eaten.

  His sight cleared slowly, and he found himself not a recaptured prisoner, but rather back in his tent in Caravan. It was dark, but slowly getting lighter. Someone must have dragged me back here from the road, he thought blearily, still tasting a hint of bile in his throat. His eyes were crusted over, and his mouth felt like it had been packed in cotton. He wondered groggily how the rest of the raid went, if everyone got out alright. Somebody had to have, anyway, for him to be back in camp and in one piece. He ran a quick hand over his body to make sure that everything was indeed in its proper place, then looked around to try and gain a sense of what had happened.

  Twilight crept through the flap—the early hours of the morning, if Sal was any judge—and the only other light in the tent aside from a single candle, burnt clear down to the nub. As Sal’s eyes adjusted to the light, brilliant in the darkness, he caught sight of a figure, nodding in a chair just a few feet away. Even in his present state, he could never mistake that mass of red-gold curls. It was Marissa.

  She jerked her head back up and shook it, seemingly determined to finish her watch more or less in one piece. She forced her sleepy eyes wide—and screamed!

  “Sal! Blessed Crafter, Sal!” she gushed as she leapt from the chair, knocking it over. She threw herself at him, her arms winding about him as she wept into his shoulder. “Crafter be praised that you’re alright. Jaren said it could take days, but I never in my wildest dreams—”