“It’s fine.” She gave Talandra a little wave and went out the door.
Talandra stared after her for a moment, her mind whirling with emotions. Her whole body throbbed with exhaustion but something nagged at her. Was it something to do with Graegor? Or Shani? Or both?
She lay back on the bed, trying to work it through in her mind, but fell asleep in seconds.
CHAPTER 16
Vargus stayed perfectly still as the nurse stitched the wound in his shoulder. He wondered how many other men had lain in the same bed before him, staring up at the same patch of tent. All around he could hear men grunting, crying and screaming in pain. Two beds down, a dying man sobbed and called for his wife, cradled in the arms of a voluptuous Sister of Mercy.
He wished she was the one attending to his injury, not the sour-faced shrew sewing him shut. Then again, a Sister meant he was dying, and he had to admit this nurse knew her business. Her movements were precise, the stitches small and neat, and her delicate hands were steady. She’d also been very gentle with him.
“All done,” she said with a brief smile. Moving slowly, he rotated his shoulder and felt the stitches pull, but only a little. Wounds from previous days were starting to heal, but the bruises around those from today were still purple and full of blood. On impulse Vargus kissed the nurse’s cheek and was pleased to see her blush. The old woman hurried away before he could offer further thanks.
“There you are,” said a booming voice. Hargo and the others approached as he sat up on the bed. Orran had a fresh cut on his cheek, Black Tom was limping slightly and some of the others sported fresh injuries too. He also noticed a few faces were missing from the group.
“Are you going to lie around on your back all day? Thinking of getting into a new trade?” asked Orran, gyrating his hips, and the others laughed. A trace of his old humour had returned after the death of Tan, but now his jokes were darker and more cutting.
“I considered it,” mused Vargus as he pulled on his shirt and armour. “But I didn’t think you’d want the competition.”
“Fucker,” said Orran.
“That’s the idea.”
Orran just shook his head in disgust.
“Curly?” asked Vargus.
Hargo’s expression turned grim. “Crows did their best, but he’s going to lose the arm. They won’t know for a few days if he’s going to make it.”
Outside the air smelled clean compared to the inside of the hot and smelly hospital tent. Grey clouds threatened rain and the others grumbled about soggy clothes and rusty armour, but Vargus barely noticed. His whole body buzzed with unspent energy and a primal need.
Hargo moved in front of him, blocking out the light, and Vargus realised he’d been talking. “I said we’re going for a drink. Are you coming?”
“Later.”
“Do you need to lie down?”
Vargus considered a witty comment but changed his mind. “I need something else. I’ll catch up.”
The big man gave him a worried look, but said nothing. They moved away towards the mobile taverns and Vargus went in the other direction, towards the outskirts of the camp.
Every soldier knew where to find them. They were usually close to the supplies and the rear of the army. Somewhere with a bit of space and the chance of privacy. A couple of the more upmarket ones who serviced the officers had their own tents, dyed in dark colours which made them stand out against the standard army grey. Vargus didn’t get too close at first, watching and appraising who came and went. When he’d decided, he approached a woman drinking wine by a campfire. She had brown hair, a generous bosom and kind eyes that lit up when he sat down. Her lips were full and she wore a simple, colourful skirt with a cream shirt and sandals.
Without saying a word she offered him a glass of wine, which he accepted. To his surprise it wasn’t half bad, but then, from looking at her, Vargus already knew she wasn’t going to ask for five coppers. Those women were rutting in the lee of tents with the worst-paid men in the army. The kind of man who didn’t have a problem showing his hairy arse in public.
They chatted for a while about the war, about the city and old songs. She told him her name was Adira. Usually she served drinks in a tavern and sang one night a week if the innkeeper was feeling generous. The audiences were never large, and she didn’t get paid any extra, but she liked being the focus of so many people.
Adira claimed to be able to hold a decent tune so Vargus asked her to sing something old. He kept up the rhythm, patting it out on his thighs, as her voice rose into the cool air. Her voice was low and rich, something he’d not heard from many women. It explained why she wasn’t popular, but the hairs still rose on his arms at the song. Her voice stirred up old memories and wounds buried deep in the back of his mind. It was an ancient song about love and betrayal, and although the words were different to the original, the story remained the same.
When the bottle of wine was empty she asked if he wanted another, but Vargus said no.
He reached for his money but she shook her head.
She offered her hand and as dusk began to fall she led him past the sentries and beyond into the growing dark. She picked a direction at random and they walked together in comfortable silence like a pair of old lovers.
A tiny trickle of water, barely wide enough to be called a stream, ended in the lee of a small copse of evergreens. Adira led him into the shadows of the trees and laid out a blanket.
With gentle hands she explored the bare skin of his chest, pausing briefly on recent wounds and old scars. Her fingers felt cool, but her mouth was warm and welcoming. For a moment, when he stared at her face, Vargus saw another woman looking back, one with pale blue eyes and blonde hair. The mirage lasted only a second but Adira seemed to understand, telling him to close his eyes. She asked him his name and he told her the oldest one he could remember.
He explored the skin of her shoulders with his fingers, her neck with his lips. By the time she pulled down his breeches and handled his cock, it was already like a hot iron bar. As he entered her she whispered in his ear, and for a moment they were two different people, lying in a giant bed with dawn light streaming through the windows.
She dug her nails into his back, bringing him back to the present, but he kept his eyes closed. Between gasps she urged him to move faster as he quenched a need that couldn’t be put into words. As their cries mixed, he didn’t care about anything any more except the feel of her in that moment. Knowing that it was a betrayal of both women, Vargus opened his eyes as he came, shouting out in a wordless cry of defiance.
They lay for a while after, cooling off, and a hundred questions ran through his mind. Somehow she seemed able to predict his thoughts and asked him to tell her a secret no one else knew. Vargus considered what she would believe but instead of something personal he told her he knew the original lyrics to the ballad, then quietly sang them.
When they returned to camp Vargus bought a bottle of wine from a vendor and passed it to Adira. As she stepped into her tent to fetch some glasses, he left her money by the fire. As she re-emerged Adira saw his expression and there was a knowing look in her eyes. His armour was back in place and now he was just a warrior named Vargus again. Her smile looked a little sad, but that was probably just his imagination, or part of the wish fulfilment. Without saying another word he walked away and didn’t look back.
It was very late by the time Balfruss found his tent after another tiring training session with Finn. The others were asleep and the fire had burned down to glowing embers. Despite being so tired that he couldn’t summon even a spark of power between his fingers, Balfruss couldn’t sleep. His body and mind were so exhausted he felt numb, but something wouldn’t let him rest.
Someone moved outside his tent and he heard them settling down. At first he assumed it was Finn or Ecko, but after listening to their movements and breathing for a while he realised it was neither Battlemage.
Poking his head out of the tent Balfruss saw a plainly dr
essed man sat at the fire, staring into the dying embers. He looked as if he’d not seen twenty-five summers, and from the fabric and style of his clothes, Balfruss assumed he was a farmer turned army labourer. There were always some who were forced to leave their homes during a conflict to find alternate work. Unskilled workers often found themselves driving carts, carrying stretchers, working for the quartermaster, cooking meals, digging latrines, or one of a thousand other jobs that needed doing in an army on the move. He remembered the two labourers who’d pretended to be Battlemages and wondered where they were now.
Their eyes met and a startled expression crossed the young man’s face. “This isn’t my tent, is it?”
“No,” said Balfruss, sitting down opposite.
“I must have got turned around.”
“You’re welcome to stay awhile.”
“You look familiar,” said the man, scratching at his hair as if he had lice. It was likely, with so many people living together. “Do you work for the quartermaster?”
“No, I’m Balfruss. One of the Battlemages.”
The young man started to stand up, his pale blue eyes widening so much Balfruss was afraid they’d fall out of his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to rest. My tent must be around here somewhere.”
Balfruss waved him back to his seat and added fresh wood to the fire. “Stay. At least have some tea.”
“Are you sure?”
“On one condition,” said Balfruss and the young man looked afraid. “You have to tell me your name.”
He relaxed with a long sigh and sat down. “My father always told me names have power, but I think he was soft in the head. My name’s Torval.”
As Balfruss fished out some tea he saw Torval sneaking glances at him. “Is something the matter?”
“What? Oh no. Nothing’s the matter. Nothing at all.”
“Do I have some food in my beard?” asked Balfruss, checking for crumbs. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“No it’s just—” Torval bit his lip, afraid to go on.
“Speak freely,” said Balfruss. “I’m no different to you. I’m just a man like anyone else.”
“You’re not like anyone else though,” said Torval, a distinct challenge to his words.
“Maybe not in that way, but I’m not noble born. I grew up in a village where my mother was a baker and my father a warrior for the King. What about your parents?”
“Fisherman and fishwife,” said Torval, watching as Balfruss took the kettle off the fire as the water began to boil.
“Not for me. I can’t stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Balfruss didn’t push and tipped some leaves into a mug before adding water and leaving it to stew.
From his pale hair and light eyes, he guessed Torval had a mixed heritage from Yerskania and Seveldrom.
“Do your parents still live in the same village?” asked Torval.
“Both are dead. My village was decimated by bandits.” The memories were old, but the guilt of not being there to help his neighbours still burned. “My mother survived, but she died a few years later from the pox. I don’t really remember my father. He was often away and only came home a few times when I was young. He might still be alive, but I doubt it.”
“So you were trained at that magic school,” said Torval, making it sound like a question.
“For ten years. A Seeker came to our village when I was very young and said I had great potential. When I turned eight I travelled to the Red Tower on the back of a wagon.”
“Do you regret it?” asked Torval. He gestured around him at the sleeping army. “Studying and becoming a Battlemage, instead of something else.”
“No. I’ve never regretted it,” admitted Balfruss. “My choices were limited in the village. I saw it as a chance to get away from a life spent planting in the fields, or digging in the quarry. I wanted more. Even as a young boy I always asked questions that no one could answer. I saw the Red Tower as a blessing. A chance to learn about the world, as well as control my power.”
He sipped his tea as Torval stared into the fire, his pale eyes distant.
“So,” said Balfruss, breaking the silence. “When did you know you would become a Battlemage, Torval?” The younger man stared at him with a blank expression. “Or do you prefer your title? The Warlock, isn’t it?”
Torval didn’t move a muscle or blink for a few long heartbeats, but eventually a smile crept across his face. There was a faint stirring in the air and suddenly Balfruss could feel an echo of power coming from the other man. It was there for a moment and then it was gone again. He wanted to ask how Torval masked his ability, but didn’t. There were more important questions.
“Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to meet you in person,” said Torval. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Through your mindless slaves? Those shells.”
“I’m very proud of my Splinters,” boasted Torval.
Balfruss had to ask. “What did you do to them?”
“It started when I became a Seeker, travelling around the west, looking for those with potential. Sometimes I found adults that were too far gone to be saved. There were plenty of children, but they were unruly and lacked discipline.” Torval waved them away dismissively. His impatience was clear. He didn’t have time to waste on children. “Eventually I found those caught in between. The ones with repressed potential. It didn’t take much to nudge them in my direction with an offer of help,” said Torval, rather smugly.
“I touched the thoughts of a Splinter,” said Balfruss with disgust. “There’s nothing there. You scoured their minds clean. Why?”
Torval looked at him askance. “Because without me they would have died in pointless accidents. Blown themselves up, and their families.”
“You didn’t do it to save them, or innocent lives.”
Torval laughed. “Of course not. I needed malleable tools. Those with an ability that could be reshaped to my purpose.”
“Your purpose? Who are you to decide?”
Torval cocked his head to one side, a wry smile on his lips. Without realising, Balfruss had started to focus his will and draw on the Source. Torval would have felt it too, but he’d made no move to defend himself.
When he was a little calmer, Balfruss asked again. “Why did you come here?”
“Don’t you want to know how I did it?” Torval seemed genuinely surprised when he shook his head. “How I cleared out all the shit inside their heads and replaced it with something new? I call them Splinters because they’re tiny pieces of me. Simple rules and thoughts, copied from my mind into theirs. Just like the stories I heard as a boy about dancing clay golems.”
“I don’t care. All I know is you made them your slaves. They breathe, but they’re just hollow men and women. Walking corpses that feel nothing.”
“I gave their lives meaning. I gave them a purpose. Without me they were nothing. This way they matter.”
This time, as Torval lost his temper, Balfruss remained calm.
“Whatever you say.”
Torval took a breath and a moment to relax. “Taikon needed Battlemages he could rely on, and I did it because it had never been done before. I needed a challenge.”
“Challenge? Are we playing a game of Stones? Is this a test?”
“Of course. Life is a series of tests. Don’t you like to be challenged? To test yourself?”
Balfruss couldn’t deny it, and from his expression Torval knew the answer. If he didn’t like a challenge Balfruss would have returned to the Red Tower years ago to teach new students. Instead he travelled the world, going wherever people needed his help. He didn’t want to kill himself and wasn’t excited by the danger. He did it because he needed a constant challenge.
“Our goals are the same. We both have a passion for life.”
Balfruss met his fevered gaze. “You’re wrong. You and I, we’re nothing alike. There are many things
I would never do. Things you’ve already done.”
“You haven’t done them, yet,” said Torval with an ominous grin. “But only because you haven’t been pushed hard enough.”
He stood and Balfruss rose to his feet as well, not liking the idea of looking up to the man in any way.
“I have to go, but I hope we can talk again.”
A witty retort rose in his mind, but Balfruss repressed it and remained silent. Torval looked disappointed, but said nothing before walking away into the darkness.
Balfruss felt sick and when he took a sip of his tea it tasted like blood.
CHAPTER 17
Gunder had been putting it off but now there was no way to avoid it. It was time for his annual stock check. Sabu stood in the back room calling out items and amounts, while he recorded them in a big red ledger.
The small bell above his front door rang and he moved to the counter with a welcoming smile. The woman dressed in the modest blue and gold livery of a palace servant was very familiar, but in his role as Gunder the merchant it was unlikely they would have met before.
“Good afternoon,” he said with an ingratiating smile and a small bow. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here on an errand for her Majesty,” said the servant. Sabu wandered in from the back, gawping with his mouth hanging open.
“Don’t stare, boy,” snapped Gunder, turning back to his honoured guest. “Whatever her Majesty requires, I am happy to provide.”
“A guest is due to visit the palace. Her Majesty has requested a special meal be prepared in their honour. Do you have any of these items?”
Gunder took the offered piece of paper and perused the list. He kept his expression thoughtful. His body language needed no theatre to make it apparent that he was tense.
“Rare items,” he mused. “I believe I have some of these in stock in my warehouse. I would be happy to personally deliver them to the palace tomorrow.”
“I need those ingredients today,” said the woman, her eyebrows drawing down into a frown. “I was told you were the best spice merchant in the city. Was I misinformed?”
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