Spellscribed: Provenance

by Kristopher Cruz

  “Quiet your mouth, elf.” Gural snapped. “I still am not convinced that you are legitimately allowed to wander the kingdom unwatched or without escort.”

  “I provided you with the proper papers, didn’t I?” The elf asked.

  “Those can be faked.” Gural dismissed. He eyed the man a moment, and then changed the subject suddenly. “Since you’ve been around the area before we picked you up, had you encountered any hostile creatures?”

  “Picked me up… I suppose you could call it that.” The elf jabbed. “But other than a few wild wolves and the occasional rabbit of extraordinary bravery, I’m afraid my journey was most uneventful.”

  “Wolves… or wolfmen?” Gural asked.

  The elf didn’t even blink, instead just quirking one eyebrow in response. “I get the feeling that you are trying to implicate me into something. Unfortunately I’ve never seen neither hide nor hair of a wolfman for years, not since my last journey through the north.”

  Gural sighed. “We’re going to have to ask you to remain here for a little longer, until we can find the killer, until then, feel free to introduce yourself to these two.” He turned to the far wall and gestured to Endrance’s cell. “He’s not supposed to talk, so don’t bother.”

  The commander looked at the mage and his bodyguard and shook his head. “Do either of you have anything to confess?”

  “Yeah!” Joven exclaimed, gripping the bars of his door. Endrance winced. “I have a duty to perform, and you’re getting in my way of doing it.”

  “That’s too bad.” Gural responded.

  Joven looked the man in the eye, his face a scowl that would scare the most hardened of killers out of their skin. The next few words came out as a growl, his voice at its most threatening. Endrance from his position noticed the elf take an involuntary step away from the bars separating their cells, though his expression seemed neutral.

  “Let us out now or I promise you this will end very, very badly for you.” The barbarian intoned. The commander’s stern expression flickered with worry as the bars under the barbarian’s hands creaked in his grip.

  The other man in the room had made himself as unobtrusive as possible. Gural didn’t balk, but it did take a moment for him to collect himself to respond.

  “I can and will not!” he exclaimed. “Not only do I have a duty to my kings and country, but now you’re threatening a commander in the army-”

  “No threat.” Joven interrupted. “Fate. It will happen.”

  Commander Gural drew himself up, and turned to the other soldier in the room. “No food for this one. Not yet.” He ordered. “Perhaps an empty stomach will help his disposition.”

  The commander departed, leaving the three in their cells, and the remaining soldier nervously left a chunk of bread and a wooden cup of water within reach of Endrance and the elf’s cells before silently excusing himself. Silence reigned in the room for a few seconds before the elf crouched and picked up his food through the bars.

  “Always a charming individual, that man.” He said, taking a bite of bread with perfectly straight white teeth. He sipped his water and swallowed the dry bread with effort. “And his hospitality is second to none.”

  Endrance picked up his food and stared at the dry hunk of bread and the cup of water and wondered how in the world he was supposed to eat it with his mouth gagged as it was. A moment passed and then he finally shrugged, giving up. He looked over to Joven’s cell and saw the barbarian was watching him. He held out the bread to the man, and rolled his eyes. Joven watched him quietly for a few seconds, but nodded.

  The young mage tossed the bread at the barbarian’s cell, which Joven easily caught. Endrance tilted his head back and drank the water as best as he could with the gag. Some of it caught in his throat and he dropped to his knees coughing and sputtering through the rope. He again gagged, barely able to keep from vomiting.

  “Hmm… that seems to be a rather cruel punishment to put a lady through.” The elf commented.

  Joven banged his fist on the bars of the cell between the two. “He’s no lady! Aelfar!” he exclaimed. “He’s a man, and a wizard.”

  “More like a boy, really.” The elf replied, sitting back on his cot and eyeing the mage quietly. “But a wizard, hmm? How did they capture you intact? I’ve seen wizards that could bring fortresses like this down with a few minutes of effort.”

  Joven sighed. “We were guests here.”

  “I would like to point out that you still are guests here.”

  “Regular guests.”

  “Ah.”

  “But somehow they think we killed the tribunal when we were not even near the fort.”

  “Well, you have a wizard.”

  “What?”

  “You have a wizard. He could easily teleport into the tribunal’s chambers, cut his throat, and teleport back without too much difficulty.”

  “They… they can do that?”

  “Of course they can. And they cannot discount his ability for his apparent age; the more powerful the wizard is, the longer they live. This ‘boy’ here could have been that apparent age for decades.”

  “What?”

  “You aren’t the most precocious of people, are you?”

  “Not really. I find that hitting things solves most of my problems.”

  “What about the problems it doesn’t solve?”

  “I hit it harder, aelfar.”

  “Ah.”

  Endrance wished he could contribute, since much of the conversation was almost painful to hear without the ability to add to it. He let out an exasperated sigh and banged his head against the bars. It wasn’t like he was completely helpless; he could still throw lightning if he needed to, and none of the soldiers in the fort could avoid the blast in their metal armor.

  That wouldn’t help him get the cell door open, nor would it help with fighting his way through the rest of the fort if they came at him in a concentrated effort. Nor would he be able to do anything about a decent archer with a well-aimed crossbow quarrel. He hoped he would have time to prepare better next time he gets captured by an army. He banged his head against the bars again. Wait, next time? He was too quickly getting acclimated to this adventuring lifestyle.

  “You there. Boy.” The elf caught the young mage’s attention.

  Endrance lifted his head from the bars. “Mmmph?” he mumbled.

  “So did you do it?” The prisoner asked.

  Endrance shook his head, sighing.

  “It wouldn’t be your style, anyways.” The elf replied. “Any mage powerful enough to teleport through barriers into an enclosed room wouldn’t even need to cut a man’s throat like that. They would have a dozen varieties of magic that would kill them just as completely.”

  Endrance looked at the elven man and let out a sigh of relief. Finally, there was someone who understood. The young mage shrugged and fidgeted with the rope. It was too tight in his mouth, he wouldn’t be able to pull it away from his lips enough to allow him to cast a spell, but he could pull it far enough to relieve the pressure on the corners of his mouth.

  “My name is Valzoa, heir to the Alastrel line. I do apologize for the quality of your lodgings.” The elf said sardonically. “I would have cleaned up but it appears that our host has some issues with the rules of hospitality.”

  Endrance shrugged. The rope was abrading his mouth; he would be bleeding from this by the time the suns had reached their zenith. He hated the lack of control he had, as well as the ability to defend his position in the accusations against him.

  “Alastrel line?” Joven asked. “Aelfar have bloodlines like we do?”

  “Of course.” Valzoa responded. “Though usually our bloodlines are very long lived. Mine happens to be one of the more affluent ones in all of Salthimere.”

  “Half a what?”

  “Affluent. You could say I have more money than you could fit in this fortress, and that’s just my portion of the gold.”

  “So your line makes money?”

/>   “Collects it, really. What about your line?”

  Joven puffed up his chest. “I am of the line of Rothel, bodyguards of the Spengur of Balator.”

  “Rothel?” Valzoa asked. “I’m familiar with the name, and the profession.” He turned to consider the young mage in the cell across from him. “So this is the one who is supposed to be the next Spengur?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if he is detained here or killed?”

  “Then my family line will no longer be allowed to guard the Spengur, leaving the replacement with nothing but their Draugnoa for protection. My line is the last, and if I fail the line will die out with me.” Joven stated grimly.

  “You have an honorable task before you.” Valzoa observed. “And as a noble of the elves, I hold that in high esteem. I can tell you’ve been honest with me, and I think you’ve just been caught up in some unfortunate circumstances. I wish I could help you get on your way somehow, but for the moment it seems that neither of us is likely to go anywhere.”

  The door out of the room unlocked and slowly opened, drifting fully open on its hinges. No one entered, and the three of them craned their heads trying to see what was going on. Nothing happened; no man entered, nor did anything else change. Nobody spoke into the room, and the only sound was the crackling of the flames in the fire pit.

  Valzoa raised a delicately trimmed eyebrow. “Perhaps I spoke too soon?”

  Joven had the best view of the door and the hall preceding it. Peering as best he could, the barbarian didn’t see the two men who had been standing watch before. The hall was empty.

  “I don’t see anything.” Joven reported.

  The elf looked about the room, seeming to be searching for something. “We should get out of here.”

  “What?” Joven asked. “Wouldn’t that just get us in more trouble?”

  “What do you smell?” Valzoa asked, his eyes shifting smoothly from shadow to shadow.

  Joven sniffed the air. Endrance was wary but curious enough to focus his sense of smell.

  “I smell nothing.” Joven responded angrily.

  Valzoa glanced at the young mage and reached around to the locking mechanism of his cell. “Your young friend there seems to smell something significant.

  Joven turned and checked on his charge, and saw Endrance was clinging to the bars, his eyes wide. The young man smelled something that made the fragments of instinct inside him go wild. In the wafts of air passing through the open door he distinctly smelled the smell of fresh blood.

  Chapter 23

  Valzoa fidgeted with the keyhole of his cell door, and after a few short moments the lock disengaged with a loud clack. The elf stood straight and gave the door a slight push. The door swung open with a loud creak, swinging wide open. He cautiously strode into the open room and looked around as he crossed to the mage’s cage.

  “Let me see if I can get this door open.” He said, reaching for the door. Endrance stuck his hand through the bars and stopped him, covering over the lock with a palm.

  “What?” Valzoa asked, looking up at him. Endrance turned around and rested the back of his head between the bars. The elf could see the lock of his gag shoved up to the cell bars. “Oh.” He muttered. Valzoa grabbed a long thin needle from the torture instruments askew on the table and went to work. Joven tested the bars of the cell quietly. They weren’t made of the best quality steel, and the years of being in an underground damp location had only helped reduce their durability.

  Valzoa finagled the latch open, and the gag fell away to clatter to the floor. Endrance licked his lips and worked his sore jaw. “Thanks.” He said, turning back to his rescuer. Valzoa peered at him impassively for a moment before nodding. Endrance felt that the man had been taking a close look at his ears and eyes. He must have seen the telltale signs of elven heritage.

  “Any time. Do you need assistance getting out of your cell?”

  “No. I will take care of that.”

  “Very well. I will attend to your barbarian friend.” The elf conceded.

  Joven grunted with effort as he applied his full effort to the bars of the door frame and the bars of the cell. He pushed against the door with one hand while pulling the bars of the wall it was anchored on with the other hand, his face turning red with effort as he mightily set to breaking out of his cell. The metal of the door’s bolt was weaker than the bars, and when confronted with that much shearing force, groaned, and then gave way. The door jerked open, and then drifted slightly off center as Joven pushed past it, the door askew in its frame.

  “Oh.” Valzoa admitted with amusement. “It seems that my assistance is no longer necessary.”

  “Vexo.” Endrance murmured; the palm of his hand against the back of the locking mechanism for his cell. The whole while Joven was working his way out of his cell Endrance was collecting his thoughts and judging the power he would need for the spell. The power he settled on flowed from his chest, out his mouth and down his arm to his palm.

  Steel cracked in a sudden burst, and Valzoa leapt back gracefully as the cell door not only broke open but flung to its fully open position. The hinges creaked and gave out, dropping the door to the floor as Endrance surveyed the spell’s effect. As the bars stopped rattling he stepped calmly out of his cell, a pleased smile on his face.

  “That was satisfying.” He admitted with a grin.

  Valzoa watched the young man with a larger amount of respect than he had before. “That was a very finely controlled show of power there, boy.”

  Endrance glanced at Valzoa before waving Joven over. “My name is Endrance,” he began. “And I am no boy; I am a man and a recognized wizard.”

  “That you must be.” Valzoa acknowledged, bowing his head slightly in respect, an amused smirk gracing his expression. “Though I believe that we must take this conversation and put it aside for now, I fear that there may be something else we should be concerned for.”

  “I smelled blood.” Endrance offered. “Fresh blood.”

  “Your sense of smell is better than I expected of someone with so little elven heritage remaining.” Valzoa remarked.

  “It’s not that,” Endrance replied. “About a week or so ago I… I absorbed the wisdom of a blood tiger. Ever since then I’ve been acutely aware of fresh blood when it has been spilled around me.”

  “You’ve drank from the ruby chalice already?” Valzoa asked, a perfectly trimmed eyebrow arose in question.

  Endrance shook his head. “Is that what they call it?” he asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Then yes. I guess.” Endrance admitted. “I’m still not sure how much I’m supposed to grasp, but it’s only echoes and fragments.”

  “It would be.” Valzoa agreed, guiding him over to Joven. “It’s something that takes time to be able to control. Now can we focus on getting out of here alive?”

  Joven stood at the doorway, his face pale. Outside, the two men who were supposed to be on watch were dead; one had been strangled, the other had been run through the eye by a narrow blade. Both had been quick, there hadn’t been much blood spilled in the process. The strangled man’s neck was wrung out like a single strong thread had been wrapped around and tightened. The key to the dungeon was still in the key hole of the door. There was no other sign of people in the hall.

  “This is bad.” Joven stated. “I didn’t hear anything going on out there. They could have been killed right after the commander left, or moments before the door opened.”

  “I, too, didn’t hear anything either.” Valzoa admitted.

  “Who could have done this?” Endrance asked.

  “While I do not think it will do you much good, you two should arm yourselves.” Valzoa suggested. “I have seen this kind of work before by reputation. There is only one professional that can do this much work so perfectly, and I am loath to accept it.”

  “What is it?” Endrance asked. Joven recovered one of the fallen men’s longswords.

  Valzoa took a breath and held it
for almost two minutes before he replied. “This is the work of the Sha’hdi. The moon elves.”

  “The moon elves?” Joven asked before Endrance could say almost exactly the same thing.

  Valzoa took the other longsword, and gave it an experimental flick of his wrist. The blade responded perfectly in his grasp. “How much do you know of the land of the elves?” Valzoa asked.

  “Nothing.” Joven responded.

  “Only what Ironsoul has in the viridian satrap’s libraries.” Endrance stated. “So nothing I can verify.”

  “Shame.” Valzoa stated. “The land of the elves, Salthimere, is a dichotomy in both politics and topography. The northern lands, the ones that lie closest to Ironsoul are the lands of the northwinds. There the Suo’hdi, the sun elves. We are the elves your kind has seen the most of. We’re much nicer to you folk than our cousins would be.”

  “But Ironsoul is almost constantly at war with you all.” Endrance stated.

  “Precisely.” Valzoa exclaimed. “While we’re more focused on higher ideals and artistic endeavors, the Sha’hdi is much more cutthroat and cruel. They are the night to our day, our winter to our summer… Our balance. To them, their idea of artistic expression is how skillfully they can cause misery to others.”

  “That’s… Pretty damn horrible.” Endrance admitted.

  Valzoa shrugged. “It is what it is. They do not kill or cause pain without reason, and they are quite capable of great deeds of good, but their society is too esoteric to explain in the short time I’m willing to remain in one place.”

  “Fair enough.” Joven said. “How do we get to our stuff?”

  “Good idea.” Endrance stated. “I really need to get to my spell book. And my bracer. And those daggers.”

  “They put my things in the next room. We should be cautious. If we are still alive at this point, it is only because she wants us to stay that way for now.” Valzoa directed them.

  “She?” Endrance asked.

  Valzoa stalked down the hall cautiously. “The poison blades are the best of their civil servants. They’re all female.”

  “Civil servants?”

  “Assassins.”