Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  Machison hustled down the stone steps, paying the prisoners no heed. He was bound for the deepest level, the oldest part of the palace, carved out of caves and tunnels that existed long before Ravenwood was more than a small settlement on the harbor. There, Thron Blackholt worked his magic to enthrall the soul of the citystate and bring its most powerful men and its nameless rabble alike to their knees.

  Breathing through his mouth blunted the worst of the stench as Machison descended the steps. As he neared Blackholt’s domain, the smells changed from the odor of death and captivity to a noxious mix of potions and blood. Running a city-state is a lot like making sausages. There’s no going back after you know how the process really works.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Blackholt said as Machison entered his workroom, in a voice that said the interruption was anything but.

  “Watch your tone,” Machison snapped.

  Blackholt had not bothered to turn as he entered. “Or?” Just a single word, in a neutral tone, but that he said it at all spoke volumes. Defiance. Indifference. Arrogance. Power. In the palace above, no one would dare speak to Lord Mayor in such a manner, but here in the depths both of them knew who held the real power. “What do you want?” the blood witch said testily.

  “I’ve come to hear about your monsters. Are they sufficient?”

  Blackholt did not temper the scorn in his expression. “Of course they are.”

  Machison feigned boredom. “Anything new? You’ve gotten rather predictable of late—ghouls, big red-eyed dogs, walking corpses. Surely you can find creatures that are a bit more… entertaining.”

  “This isn’t theater,” Blackholt snapped. “There’s a reason I choose those monsters. They’re efficient. They require less energy to summon. And they’re stupid—and therefore easier to control.”

  “I’ve heard tales of much more frightening creatures in the lands beyond the city wall,” Machison countered. “Ones that show more imagination.”

  “There are monsters that occur naturally,” Blackholt replied with strained patience. “They’re relatively few, but they tend to be smarter—able to do more than eat and fight. In some cases, as smart as a person—with more strength and teeth. I can’t pull that kind of monster from the Rift, and I wouldn’t if I could. Too hard to control; too much damage if they get free.”

  “If you don’t change things up a bit, the people may learn how to fight back. Oh, wait. They already are.” Machison made no attempt to hide his disdain.

  “I’ve already thought about that,” Blackholt replied with a cruel smile. “I ripped up a man’s mind and filled it with the ravings of a lunatic. He’s a ‘prophet’ now, proclaiming that the monsters herald the end of all things, sent from the gods to punish a wayward people. Nice touch, don’t you think?”

  “How does that help?”

  “I gave him his ‘script’ when I imprinted my will on his mind,” Blackholt said. “His head is full of the ancient tales and legends, with a twist of my own. As we speak, he’s out there telling everyone who’ll listen that each of the types of monsters represents a different judgment by the gods.” He smirked. “That should keep the rabble cowed a while longer.”

  “It had better,” Machison snapped. He paused. “You’ve heard from Aliyev?” Blackholt was the Crown Prince’s creature, as was Machison, and it was Aliyev who had decided that they would be stuck with each other. Gifts from patrons are always shackles in disguise. It takes creativity to forge a sword from chains.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He’s concerned about the Balance,” Blackholt replied tonelessly. “He’s as single-minded as you are about the damned monsters.”

  “And I’ve assured him that we will have the deaths he requires,” Machison returned.

  “It’s not just about what is required in Ravenwood,” Blackholt said. “This is a kingdom-wide danger—all of the city-states are at risk. The King’s sorcerers draw their power from fear and death. Without sufficient energy to tap into, they won’t be able to protect Darkhurst from its enemies—those outside our boundaries, and rivals to the throne from within. The Balance must be maintained. Without it, I fear the Rift may become unstable. The land itself could be poisoned. And those monsters you so love might come through on their own accord.”

  “How can the Balance be kept when it’s not just the King’s sorcerers using death magic?” Machison countered. “If Aliyev has given me you, then we can be certain that at least some of the other Crown Princes also have death mages, maybe even some Merchant Princes. How can any kind of Balance be maintained against that draw of power? And if it fails—or if we end up killing all our subjects to sate the Balance—what then? Do we preside over a kingdom of the dead?”

  “A bit dramatic, even for you,” Blackholt chided. “But you’re not entirely wrong. Death magic works best when worked rarely. But the secret is out now, to those with the money and ability to hire the talent. No changing that, though we’re lucky that very few have the means to buy the services of a blood witch, and even fewer the ability to work the magic.”

  Blackholt called the source of the monsters ‘the Rift’ and refused to explain further, except to tell Machison it was a breach torn by the working of blood magic itself. Machison lacked Blackholt’s knowledge of the arcane, but he was a keen observer: when the Balance faltered, there were nasty repercussions, including more and stronger vengeful spirits—like the ones that haunted his dreams. He had no desire to find out what might happen if the Balance ever actually failed.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment.” Blackholt moved to turn away, and then stopped. “You and I may not always agree,” the blood witch said, “but we have common cause: this goes beyond politics. The Cull must continue aggressively. Culling maintains the Balance, and without the Balance, everything dies.”

  Chapter Nine

  “THIS IS ONE of my dumber moves,” Rigan muttered as he wound through back alleys. He had left the workshop to run an ‘errand’; if all went well, he would be back long before curfew.

  Lately, counting on luck seemed like a dangerous thing to do. Rigan looked around warily, and his hand went to his knife. This area of Ravenwood was dodgy at best. It was no place for a young man from a Guild trade to be wandering alone, magic or not. Rigan had not come looking for trouble. He came looking for answers.

  He picked his way through the garbage-strewn alley, sidestepping the worst of the pools of piss and horse shit fouling the cobblestone. The buildings looming on either side of the street had seen better days, as had the desperate men and women watching from doorways and broken windows. Not for the first time, Rigan cursed his foolhardiness, but after his experiences Below, he had new questions he doubted the witches could answer. Maybe the Wanderers would.

  He saw them ahead, a group of twenty or so, clothing and faces smudged with the dirt of the road. They were camped in a rundown plaza. Cracked tiles and broken plaster marred the central fountain, and weeds struggled from between the worn paving stones. Sigils chalked on the walls caught Rigan’s attention. He had seen the Wanderers’ marks here and there in the city, and had often wondered at their purpose. Up close, they looked similar to the symbols he and Corran marked on the dead, although the runes drawn here were unfamiliar. Maybe they were a secret code, directing their companions to safe shelter or homes generous with a hand-out.

  “You’re a long way from home.” The voice, low and deep, sounded behind Rigan’s left ear as the cold edge of a knife rested against his throat.

  A hand slipped around to relieve him of his weapons, and then a firm grip locked onto his bicep as the man behind him walked them both into the plaza.

  “Found someone spying on us,” his captor said as the others looked up.

  “Not spying,” Rigan protested, raising his hands “I came to ask questions.”

  A broad-shouldered man rose from beside the fire. He had the dark hair and eyes of his people, and the dust on his cl
othing spoke of a life lived outdoors. He looked to be late in his third decade, with gray just starting at his temples. From the way the others hung back, Rigan guessed the man was one of the clan’s leaders.

  “We’re easy enough to find down on the wharves all day,” the big man said, his tone clearly unfriendly. “Find us there and pay your coin, and you can have plenty of answers. We don’t like strangers in our camp.”

  “My mother had Wanderer blood,” Rigan said, very aware of the blade that brushed his throat as he spoke. “Wanderer magic. It passed to me. I need to know what to do with it, how to manage.”

  The man’s hard gaze raked Rigan up and down. “If she left us, then she left everything. She’s dead to us.”

  “Please, I want to understand how to keep my magic—her magic—from hurting anyone.”

  The big man moved a step closer. “Go home. Forget you found us. We have no need of outsiders.”

  “Hush.” An old woman made her way alongside the leader, and laid a hand on his arm. “That’s enough, Zahm.”

  Rigan stared at the newcomer. She stood barely taller than Zahm’s elbow. Many layers of clothing engulfed her petite form. Deep wrinkles lined her leathery face, but her eyes danced with amusement, and glittered with curiosity. Rigan doubted that the crone had the strength to stop Zahm from doing anything, yet the man stilled with a word.

  “You’re Alaine’s boy.” She met Rigan’s gaze and he felt as if she could into see his soul.

  “You knew my mother?”

  “I knew of Alaine. I knew her mother well.” She turned to the others and spoke in a language Rigan did not understand. Zahm did not look happy with the old woman’s words, but he made no move against her.

  “Why did you come here?” she asked, returning her attention to Rigan.

  “I’m an undertaker. But I have more than grave magic. My mother told me once that I’d inherited her ability, but she died before she could tell me more. I... it’s... slipped out. I need to know what to do. I thought you could—”

  The old woman shook her head. “Our ways are not for outsiders. You don’t keep our ways.”

  “Please. I don’t want to accidentally hurt anyone.”

  Zahm said something under his breath, and the old woman made a curt reply that caused Zahm to close his mouth and take a step back.

  “You fear your magic?” she asked, moving closer.

  “I’m afraid of what could happen if I can’t control it,” Rigan admitted. “I mean you no harm. I’ll leave—”

  The old woman snapped an order, and the man behind Rigan dropped his hand, removing the blade from his throat. A thin trickle of blood slipped down Rigan’s neck from a shallow cut.

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “Is my magic—the Wanderer magic—different from what the witches Below can do?”

  The old woman considered him for a moment before answering. “Yes and no.”

  “Is this power the reason I can hear the confessions of the dead?”

  The woman tilted her head, looking up at him and paused as if she were listening to something only she could hear. Rigan had no doubt that she was one of the clan’s seers, probably a powerful witch herself. If she decides I’m dangerous, will she just have her man finish me off? he wondered.

  “So you’re the one,” she said quietly. She looked up at Zahm and spoke again in their language. Zahm frowned and argued back. Whispers moved through the group behind him. “What would you do with your magic, if you could control it?” she continued.

  “I don’t mind hearing the confessions of the dead—it helps them find peace—but I hurt someone by accident and I don’t want that to happen again.”

  The old woman gave him a shrewd look. “Would you fight monsters?”

  Rigan stared at her, surprised by the question. “I’m not a hunter. I just bury people.”

  “Do you know why your grandmother left our people?”

  “Mama never talked about her family... about anything from before she married my father.”

  “One of the Lord Mayor’s guards raped your grandma, boy. Her parents weren’t the forgiving kind. She ran away, ashamed, afraid the clan wouldn’t accept her child. I tracked her, kept an eye on her, but she wouldn’t return to us, though she let me help when your mama was born. Kept body and soul together as a bar maid, and your mama did, too, when she got old enough. ’Tis how she met your father.” Rigan’s face reddened. “She never said—”

  “Of course she didn’t. But her mother, Netana, had a goodly measure of magic. Seems like it bred true in Alaine, and in you.”

  “I guess so.” He hesitated. “If they had magic, why didn’t they defend themselves?”

  “I don’t know,” the old woman replied. “Can’t do magic if you’re drugged or unconscious. Maybe threats were made, against others. We won’t ever know.”

  Or maybe they had control I don’t, and refused to kill. “Can you help me?” Rigan asked.

  “It’s not for stubbornness that I can’t train you,” the woman said, her voice softening a little. “The magic we work is very old. It comes from Eshtamon himself. What we do in the marketplace, telling fortunes, reading palms, that’s but a shadow of the power.”

  Zahm chided her and she silenced him with a glare and a sharp word. “The old magic struggles to keep the Balance. But it’s magic we must work as a clan. I can’t tell you more than that. You would have to leave your life behind and come with us, forever.”

  “I can’t do that. My brothers need me.”

  She nodded. “That is why I can’t train you,” she went on. “Your path follows a different road than ours. Train with the witches Below, but be careful; things are not always as they seem. I can aid you, in my own way.”

  “Thank you,” Rigan managed, trying to hide his disappointment. He glanced warily at Zahm. “Will you grant me safe passage from here? And may I have my knife back?”

  The old woman chuckled and spoke to the man behind Rigan, who handed back his dagger and stepped to one side to allow Rigan to go.

  “Do not come back,” Zahm said. “For your safety, and ours. Go, and may the Elder Gods go with you.”

  Rigan only realised how badly his hands were shaking when he was halfway home. He had been careful not to run; he didn’t want to attract the attention of the guards. Now he fell back against a filthy wall and let the tremors wrack him.

  Gods, what a chance I took! And for nothing. He knew from the start that he was likely on a fool’s errand. What if they’d slit my throat? That would have left Corran and Kell in the lurch.

  “Of all the stupid, reckless things to do!” Damian’s voice shook Rigan from his thoughts, and he looked up to see the witch striding toward him.

  “What are you doing here?” Rigan managed.

  “Watching out for you! Baker had a premonition, and I came up to check on you. By the time I found you, you’d already gone to the bloody Wanderers. What possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “My mother’s people—”

  “And you’ve seen how much that matters to them,” Damian cut him off. “Didn’t I promise to train you? Haven’t I saved your life once already?”

  “I just thought—”

  “You obviously didn’t think. You put yourself in danger, and for nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rigan said, swallowing hard. Corran would be annoyed at him for being gone so long, and would have questions about the cut on his throat. Now he’d jeopardized his one chance to gain control of his magic and possibly alienated his teacher.

  “Good. That’s a start.” Damian pulled him away from the wall and hustled him toward the main thoroughfare. “We’re close to an entrance to Below.”

  “I can’t—”

  “This isn’t a game,” Damian said, jerking Rigan around to look at him. “Do you want the guards to take you to the Lord Mayor? To have him force you to serve him? Because stumbling around with that sort of power, untrained, is going to land you in the dunge
on. Either you’re going to kill someone, or you’re going to get snatched. It’s time you took this seriously.”

  Rigan shook his head, pulling away. “I am taking this seriously. But I can’t leave my brothers. I’m sorry. Please, I’ll come back as often as I can. Just... train me. I don’t want to be a danger.”

  Damian glared at him, before herding Rigan down the steps of a nearby cellar. “Come on. We have time for a training session before curfew. The night won’t be a total loss.”

  Rigan followed, fighting back his shame. Damian said nothing more until they reached the house of the witches. Baker met him at the door and Rigan hung back.

  “You found him?”

  “He was lucky,” Damian replied. “One of them had a knife to his throat.”

  “You were right to go after him,” Baker said, laying a hand on Damian’s forearm. She looked past him to Rigan, worry clear in her eyes, then gave Damian’s arm a squeeze. “Leave him with me tonight.”

  Rigan did not catch Damian’s response, but he walked away, shaking his head. Baker waited until he was gone before she motioned for Rigan to enter. “He’ll get over it,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean to do anything foolish,” he said, eyes downcast, feeling shame burning his cheeks.

  “You’re not reckless. I’ve seen enough of you to know that. Come talk with me in the kitchen. I’ll make tea.”

  “Shouldn’t I be training?” Practicing his magic was the last thing Rigan felt up to doing, but he desperately wanted to atone, to regain the witches’ trust.

  “Training takes many forms. Follow me.”

  Rigan did as she bid him. The kitchen looked remarkably mundane. More bundles of dried herbs than most homes, perhaps, but otherwise, nothing about it suggested that the inhabitants were witches. Baker took a pot from the coals in the fireplace and poured them two steaming cups of tea.