by John March
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. I only came to dance. Nothing more.”
Fla could see a muscle clenching in the man’s jaw.
“Dancing? Is that what you call it? I watched you, I know what you Senesellans are like.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. The smile slipped from her face.
“All whores, that's what I know. You think you're above all of us? You think you can deny me? Not here — here my people have the power, and I'll take what I want.”
“Not from me,” Sashael said. “I'll give only what I choose, and nothing to you.”
He held up his left hand in front of her face. He had clenched a fist so his rings were in front of her eyes. “This makes me the master here.”
One of the rings had a large oval disk in front of it, but Fla could see from Sashael’s expression she didn’t recognise it. It reflected the light in that way peculiar to sevyric iron. Large enough to defeat any caster. Any but one, Fla thought.
Without warning, Muro leaned forward, and grabbed her shoulder. His other hand swung up and struck her. The blow was powerful enough to knock down a large man, but she stepped backwards as he grabbed, and his fist merely glanced off the side of her face.
Faster that Fla would have imagined possible, she twisted away, and pulled free. Unbalanced by the unexpected movement, Muro slipped and fell to one knee, clutching a piece of ripped fabric in his hand.
Sashael turned and ran.
Muro was back on his feet almost immediately. “Come back here, you whore—”
A cold rage took hold of Fla. Drawing on deep wells of pain and bitterness, it forced its way upwards — like an involuntary expulsion of acrid bile, and harsh words tumbled from his lips. Words of summoning, binding and compulsion uttered without thought, drawing on long familiar patterns. As the first summoning completed, Fla stepped out from behind cover.
Muro turned, sensing the movement, something glinting in his right hand.
“What are you, the secret chaperone?” he said, lips curling into a sneer.
As he spoke something formed between them, drawing the surrounding air inwards like flowing liquid ribbons and consolidating into a slow turning vortex like a gathering of dark storm-shredded clouds.
Fla lurched forward and Muro laughed. “What are you going to do little man, hit me with your stick?”
Fla met his eyes. “The Gustshade will do.” His voice sounded weak and reedy.
As he spoke, he focussed on his creature, and framed his desires into a simple instruction. His staff point traced a complementary pattern in the air.
The Gustshade rotated for a few moments, shrinking inwards, like an animal gathering itself. Then it surged forward and smashed into Muro, knocking him backwards in an arc to land in the pool.
Fla’s lips moved silently, forming a second invocation, his staff tip adjusting the patterns of its movements to assist. The second summoning was for a Ychtick horror. The creature he sought would not be found in any listing or catalogue in any of the many sections of the grand library. Tricky to summon, and difficult to control. Fast and deadly, the first he’d fetched had nearly had him before he’d had time to react. Since then, on the few occasions he’d summoned it he’d ensured it had been successfully compelled before it arrived.
Muro clambered to his feet and stepped over the lip of the pool. His clothes were soaked through and his knife missing, but he looked dangerous enough without it.
His face was contorted with rage. “You’ll have the chair for that and I’ll make sure it’s slow.”
Fla held back on the invocation and turned his attention to his Gustshade. It hovered on the far side of the pool, almost invisible but for a spray of water droplets, glinting faintly in the half-light, held suspended in its body.
Obediently, it flowed forward, creating a ripple across the surface of the pool, and seized Muro. It lifted him bodily upwards so only the tips of his feet touched the ground.
Next to Fla, the air fractured like a thin sheet of ice suddenly supporting a great weight. The lines spread and widened until a dull purple light filtered through the gaps near the centre. As Fla hobbled towards Muro, his creature crawled through the opening behind him, a tangle of wire thin legs, each a yard long, and a partially translucent gelatinous sack-like body that pulsated slowly in time with its spasmodic rocking movements.
Fla could feel it fighting against his control, an ancient malevolence focused on him, but it remained bound, scuttling towards Muro in brief bursts of movement as its resistance failed.
With a great effort Muro, freed his ring hand and held it out towards Fla in a kind of warding gesture.
“I’ll kill you,” he said, his face red with struggling against the Gustshade.
The gesture was the same he’d made in Sash’s face and the sight of his hand released a fresh welling of hatred. Driven by Fla’s rage, the Ychtith horror darted forward and stabbed Muro with a long needle proboscis, piercing his heavy doublet like the flimsiest of fabrics.
Muro’s body convulsed once, and a thin hiss escaped his open mouth. His head rolled back, and his arm dropped as he collapsed into the grip of the Gustshade.
Fla had the large man laid out on the floor next to the pool, before he allowed his Ychtith to finish. It used a few of its many legs to pull up Muro's doublet, and then with exquisite care it slowly palpated his exposed stomach with some of its free limbs.
Fla leant in close as his creature went about its work. Muro’s eyes were open, with dilated pupils staring fixedly upwards. A bubble of saliva had formed at his mouth. It expanded with each uneven outward breath and all but disappeared as he breathed in. Fla reached out and slid the sevyric ring from Muro’s slack fingers.
He held it in front of Muro’s eyes. “These don’t work against a true summoning.”
Muro’s other hand lay palm upwards next to Fla’s foot. He straightened, and used his good foot to curl the fingers into the palm under his heel.
“You shouldn’t have hurt her,” he said. “Now I’m going to hurt you.”
He ground his foot downwards until he was rewarded with the sound of cracking bones. Muro’s breathing intensified.
Fla bent over again, careful not to disturb the Ychtith. “That’s just a taster for the first course.”
Fla grabbed a handful of Muro’s hair and pulled his head forward so it faced the Ychtith. “Do you want to watch? A thing of beauty, isn’t she?”
The Ychtith eased its body over Muro’s exposed skin and a dark barb, like a serrated stiletto, slid smoothly from its underside. It pressed down, and slid the tip through Muro’s skin a hands width below his navel.
Fla lowered Muro’s head carefully to the paving. “We can’t have you hurting your head now. You wouldn’t want to miss the full experience.”
The Ychtith pushed the barb all the way in until its body sack rested on Muro. After a moment it pulled away. The barb was gone, and the wound had been sealed with a thin layer of yellow mucous. As it stepped, back Fla released it, and like a pile of leaves blown away by a sudden breeze, it tumbled over and away, and faded from view.
“And now we come to the feast. My young friends will wake in a moment, and they’re going to be very hungry when they do. You’re a big man though — so plenty to go round, but they’re slow eaters so you’re going to have to be patient.”
Fla stooped and grabbed a handful of Muro’s braided hair. “You’re a follower of the triple god? By the time it's light you’ll be praying to whichever face he sits on to be delivered to one of your iron chairs, so your impalers can send you straight to him.”
Fla looked at the face below him, studying the lines of the mouth, and the colour of the eyes. By any reckoning, the man would be considered good looking, with a well-built athletic frame. Was this the reason Sashael had gone to the dance with him?
If his were as handsome, and his body as perfect, Fla knew she’d love him, dance with him, allow him to touch her.
Muro's bre
athing came faster. If he could, he’d be screaming by now, Fla thought. He wiped wetness from his cheeks then lent as close as he could, although the effort brought out sweat on his face, and spat into one of Muro’s open eyes.
Arrest
EBRYN AND ADDAE made their way back to the claws as the first hint of light coloured the sky in shades of cobalt blue, and hints of pink. A fresh breeze had replaced the stale humidity of the previous day and Ebryn detected a hint of rain in the cleaner air. It reminded him of the dark squalls that swept in from the ocean in Goresyn with the onset of winter.
He felt a quiet sense of elation mingled with the pleasant feeling of lassitude that came from afull day and night without sleep. For the first time in his life he felt a sense of complete freedom.
As Addae had predicted, he'd mastered traversing the between with ease, Brydeline not interfering at all as he stepped them back to Vergence. She'd told the small group the short sequence had been selected for simplicity and ease; the real challenge lay in the return, where the pupils were expected to take the lead.
Ebryn had managed to transport not only himself but also Brydeline, and almost without exertion. Cormer clapped him on the shoulder as they arrived, Brydeline stepping from the air behind him, nodding and smiling. Only those who'd managed unaided, six in all, were allowed to move to the next step in training. Cormer promised a more difficult challenge for the next foray, and included him in the select group.
They were turning into the gate to the Genestuer quarters courtyard when the first rain arrived. It was brief, but intense, and as it passed an orange-yellow glow spread across the sky marking the start of the day. Inside they found Elouphe dancing in broad puddles the shower had created, happily splashing up huge gouts of water with his web-toed feet.
They paused under the arch to watch as a shower of water droplets flew in a wide arc from his sleek fur with each abrupt change of direction. Sash sheltered under the eaves of one of the inner entrances to their left, watching him, and laughing.
“Sash dance?” Elouphe said.
“It's too wet for me,” she said.
Elouphe shook himself down and lumbered over to her. “Like swimming Sash.”
“It's not like swimming,” she said. “It's muddy and I don't want to have to change.”
“Sash no fun,” Elouphe said, and made a loud blowing noise with his lips.
“Good morning, Sashael. Good morning, Elouphe,” Addae called as they emerged from uder the arch. “You have both risen early this morning.”
Ebryn followed Addae, careful to step around the deeper of the puddles.
“Hello, you,” Sash said.
Elouphe lumbered around clumsily. “Addi, Eby, you dance?”
Ebryn shook his head mutely, eye on Sash, relieved to find that the tension there'd been between them seemed to have gone.
“Sashael, what has happened to your face?” Addae asked.
As Sash turned, Ebryn could see a dark bruise against her left cheekbone.
“Hmm? Oh, it's nothing,” she said. “I had an accident.”
Addae frowned and for a moment looked as though he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
“Your friends will not press you, Sashael Enas. On this I must.”
Ebryn turned to see the large red-haired man he'd met during his test step into the courtyard. He wore a bulky dark grey jacket over heavy trousers and soft leather boots. At his belt hung two long knives and a short but solid looking hand axe. He moved silently, but something about the bulk of his upper body and set of his shoulder hinted at armour.
“Who are you?” Sash asked.
“He's Orim, a caster. He was at our test,” Ebryn said, recalling his name.
“In the service of Ducca Vittore,” Orim said.
Sash put her hands on her hips, and looked at him. “If I won’t tell my friends, why do you think I will tell you more?”
“You were invited to a dance at the Ulpitorian ambassador’s residence last night?”
Sash nodded. “Yes.”
“You went with Lord Muro,” Orim said. “And this morning Lord Muro has been discovered dead. He was murdered in the night — by one of ours.”
Ebryn felt as if his insides had been drenched in icy water. Sash blinked. She looked shocked, too.
“He was alive when I left him,” Sash said after a moment’s silence.
“You were at the Ulpitorian ambassador’s ball last night?”
“Yes. I went to dance.”
“With Lord Muro?”
“Yes.”
“Sash good, good dancer,” Elouphe said.
“And afterwards,” Orim said, ignoring Elouphe, “left with Lord Muro, did you?”
“Yes,” Sash said. “We parted company and I came back to my rooms alone. Elouphe was here waiting for me.”
“Waiting Sash finish dance,” Elouphe said, rocking his head from side to side to indicate agreement.
“Then you will come with me. Vittore will question you himself,” Orim said.
Ebryn stepped between Orim and Sash. “What kind of questioning?”
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Addae’s hand drifting towards the hilt of the blade on his belt. Orim tracked the movement too, and Ebryn thought he saw something like hunger reflected in the man’s eyes.
“You will not be harmed if you are guilty of no crime,” Orim said. “If Vittore wished you questioned harder another would be sent in my place.”
Sash laid a hand on Addae’s shoulder. “I don’t want any fighting. I’m free to choose for myself. If you give me your word it is as you say, Orim, I'll willingly come with you to see Lord Vittore.”
“You have my oath,” Orim said.
“Very well then,” Sash said, bending to kiss Elouphe on his forehead. “Can you wait here, Elouphe? If anybody comes looking for me will you explain where I am. I’ll be back soon.”
“Yes, Sash,” Elouphe said.
“Coming with me?” Sash said to Addae and Ebryn.
Arrest
“I was told to bring you, not your friends,” Orim said.
“Were you told not to bring them?”
Orim turned back to the main gate with the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “I was not.”
On the other side of the entrance arch Orim stopped so abruptly that they all nearly collided with him. Crowded around the outer gate were nearly two dozen men dressed in militia uniforms.
“There she is — seize her!” a hard voice from their midst said.
Sash stopped next to Orim, and two men near the front of the militia group lurched towards her. Orim deflected the first with a shove, but the other managed to grab her arm.
Addae moved so fast it seemed his blade had leapt directly from the sheath to his hand, its razor sharp point stopping almost in contact with the skin at the base of the first militiaman's throat.
Orim swung the back of his axehead against the elbow of the man holding Sash, following the momentum of the blow, sweeping the blunt edge round in a tight loop against the underside of his jaw, and the second militiaman collapsed into the wall.
Orim stepped into the gap in front of Sash as the rest of the soldiers drew their weapons, and the man in front of Addae backed away until he was out of reach of the blade.
“Under my protection, she is,” Orim said. “I am ordered to bring her to Vittore. You will stand aside.”
The front rank of militiamen parted to reveal a young man dressed in an ornately decorated breastplate. He held a double-handed long sword in his right hand. Flanking him on either side stood a handful of men holding loaded crossbows. The expression on his face looked murderous, white-faced with teeth bared.
“Lord Bae,” Orim said. “You have no business here, and your men are blocking my path.”
“She slew my brother,” Bae shouted. “I will have blood for blood.”
“Vittore will question her and make a judgement. You are all in service to Vittore. You know who I am,�
�� Orim said.
“Walk away, Ronyon. I'll put her to the question and Vittore will have all the answers he needs.”
Ebryn felt as if the ground shifted suddenly beneath his feet as something slipped past his ankles — like a flow of invisible sand tugging at him. He stepped in close beside Sash and started the preparation for summoning his most powerful shield, mouthing the words under his breath behind Orim's back. On the other side of Sash, Addae bent his knees in a shallow crouch, as a wild animal would when preparing to spring, his heavy blade held low behind him.
“Leave now or risk your lives,” Orim said.
As the crossbowmen aimed their weapons, Ebryn automatically formed the pattern to create a ward, but it refused to appear.
He felt multiple points of resistance from sevyric iron amongst the guards. At least a dozen were carrying sizeable chunks of the stuff. Ebryn could feel the patterns of resistance overlapping, each reinforcing the dampening effect of its neighbours, like blocks of stone resting together to form a wall.
He threw his will against the resistance, straining to hold the shape of his ward together in his mind as he extended to envelop the totality of each piece of the iron, searching for the weakest point connecting them.
And, like a wall, as he shifted one using his adapted form of folding, the whole collapsed in on itself. As the first piece of sevyric iron vanished it dragged the others with it, and at once his ward rippled into place across the breadth of the passage.
“Kill them all,” Bae shouted.
Crossbow bolts spattered uselessly against the outside of the ward just as something huge rushed forward from inside, crashing through the inside of his ward like a giant wave, and crushing it. Ebryn staggered as if struck, and everything blacked out for a heartbeat.
He found himself on one knee with small points of light popping in his vision, and a dull ringing in his ears. He gulped in a lungful of air, and tried unsuccessfully to push himself back to his feet, hearing howling, and cries of fear from ahead.
The remnants of his casting rolled out along the passageway, like a series of miniature ragged lightning storms, throwing out flickering discharges into the stone walls.