Revenant Winds (The Tainted Cabal Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  Niklaus raised his eyebrows, then swung gracefully over the fence. He landed in the dry dirt, barely raising a puff of dust. Aldric had to hand it to him: he moved well.

  “Let’s go in the side door,” Niklaus said. “We’ll see how ready these warriors are. I don’t trust the Churches to be the best judge of a fighter.”

  Aldric followed Niklaus over the fence, albeit less gracefully, and across the yard. Neb decided to slide between the top and middle rails and lost a button doing so.

  Niklaus hammered a fist on the side door, and they walked straight in. Aldric squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and the heat of the room after the cold outside. There were scuffling sounds, and he smelled wood smoke and roasted meat, sweat and leather. The room was large and had three doors leading off it, one of which was the larger front entrance.

  “Hey!” a man shouted. “You can’t come in here. This is Church property.”

  He was sitting at one of three broad tables around the room, and his chair creaked as he rose to his feet. He was tidier than the down-on-their-luck people outside, though a little on the short side. His pants and shirt sported numerous patches, but they were neatly sewn, and it looked like he’d shaved this morning. His hair was gray, and dark eyes looked out from a weathered face. He watched them warily, one hand on the pommel of a dagger sheathed at his belt.

  “What company?” asked Niklaus.

  The man frowned as he examined them, then visibly relaxed as he saw the symbol of Menselas embroidered on Aldric’s shirt.

  “The Eighth Wall,” he said. “Pikemen. You’re from the Church? They said someone would come today.”

  A soldier, Aldric realized, a few breaths behind Niklaus. Judging from the man’s appearance, he still maintained some of the habits. A good sign.

  “The Eighth Wall,” Aldric said, racking his memory. “Out of Thessalika?”

  The man gave a nod.

  Thessalika was one of the city-states to the south-west, on the edge of the inland sea. One of a dozen or so that always seemed to be at war with one another, as if there wasn’t enough trouble without that.

  “Pikemen we don’t need,” Niklaus said. “The Dead-eyes are too quick. But I’d wager you can handle other weapons.”

  “Not the sword, but mace and shield. Some dagger work.” The ex-soldier chewed his lips and shuffled his weight from foot to foot. There was something he wasn’t telling them, but he didn’t have the feel of a deserter.

  “What’s your name?” Aldric asked. “And why did you leave the Eighth Wall?”

  “Razmus, sir. It was—”

  “That’s Magister to you,” Niklaus said.

  Aldric held up a hand. “Just Aldric is fine. I have a feeling we’ll all know each other well before this is over.” He nodded encouragingly to Razmus. “Go on.”

  “My wife died. Of the brain pox. There was nothing …” Razmus looked at the floor of packed earth. “We have a daughter who needed looking after. I had to be there for her. Started taking on odd jobs, but times aren’t what they used to be.”

  “They never are,” said Niklaus. “So you found yourself taking on thug work? Cracking skulls and breaking bones?”

  Razmus kept his eyes on the floor. “A few times. Now I’m here. Thought we could have a new start. We took a caravan and worked for our passage. I’ve killed a Dead-eye or two.”

  He looked and sounded the part, Aldric decided. They should have no trouble with him, and he’d be up to killing Dead-eyes and protecting Neb’s settlement. Before Aldric could say anything, Niklaus tossed a purse to Razmus. It hit the ground with a solid clink of coin. Aldric frowned. Hannus had said the men had already been paid.

  “Wait a moment,” he began.

  “Train some men,” Niklaus said, ignoring Aldric. “Kill some Dead-eyes. Do whatever else we want, and the purse is yours, plus more to come. Deal?”

  He held out a hand to Razmus. The soldier hesitated.

  “Your daughter,” Aldric said. “She’s still with you?”

  Razmus nodded. “She can help. She’s worth ten of those scum outside.” His eyes dropped to the purse on the ground, and he licked his lips.

  “Hardly scum,” Niklaus said. “Down on their luck maybe. In need of some guidance. And a good bath.”

  Razmus nodded again. “As you say.” He bent and picked up the purse.

  “I do say.” Niklaus clapped Razmus on the back. “You’ll do.”

  Aldric sighed, not sure about the complication of the daughter. “This is no mission for a girl. Maybe the Church of the Five could look after her.”

  “No,” Razmus said sharply. “I’m sorry. They won’t want her there. She’s … marked.”

  The implication was plain, especially to Aldric, who’d often borne the brunt of his Church’s scorn. Razmus’s daughter was a sorcerer. Or at least had the mark, if not any training. Luck was on their side, it seemed. Sorcerers were rare and required years of expensive training. And Aldric’s own skill wasn’t the most powerful or complex, so it could be a good thing if there was another sorcerer accompanying them. To stumble upon one who would likely join them was … fortuitous. Or perhaps divine providence. He breathed a prayer to Menselas.

  “She’s welcome,” he said. “As long as she has some control over her abilities.”

  Razmus smiled briefly. “That she does.”

  Neb sidled around from behind Niklaus, staring at Razmus as if to size him up. Aldric couldn’t blame him. After all, the survival of his settlement rested upon the team the Churches had put together.

  Niklaus moved to the table Razmus had been sitting at. It held bottles of wine, a plate with a whole roast chicken, and a loaf of sliced dark bread. On one edge was a small wooden cask with tin tankards beside it. The wine bottles were still corked, and there were three plates, cutlery, and some ceramic wine bowls.

  Counting Razmus and his daughter, that left one other. Hannus had put together a team of only two people. They’d better be good, Aldric thought.

  “Looks like the Churches have supplied you well,” said Niklaus, uncorking a bottle and splashing wine carelessly into a bowl. He slurped it like it was water. With his other hand he ripped off a chicken leg and took a bite out of it.

  “Help yourself,” said Razmus.

  Niklaus grinned, lips shiny with grease, and kept chewing.

  Razmus moved to the table and poured dark beer from the cask into the tankards. He handed one to Aldric and one to Neb, who gulped the beer as if he’d been trudging through a desert all morning.

  “It will be good to have another sorcerer along,” Aldric told Razmus, “not to mention someone with your experience. You will be able to train the settlers.”

  Niklaus snorted. He wiped fat from his lips and took a bite from a slice of dark bread. “We’d be better off going alone. No offense, Razmus.”

  “None taken.”

  “You and me against the Dead-eyes, Aldric,” Niklaus continued. “What do you say? Back to back, we could hold off a horde of them. Well, I could. I’m not sure about your skill.”

  The thought of trusting Niklaus at his back sent a cold shudder through Aldric. There was no chance he was leaving here without the admittedly small team the Churches had put together. The fact Niklaus didn’t want more people around led Aldric to think back to what Hannus had said, and why Niklaus was even here. Bring whatever artifacts you find back to me, the archbishop had said.

  Aldric swallowed a mouthful of the nutty-tasting beer and looked up to find Niklaus staring at him, as if the man knew his thoughts exactly.

  “It will take more than the two of us to defend the settlers’ village against the Dead-eyes,” Aldric said. “I’m not leaving without the team.”

  The mercenary shrugged and dropped the mostly eaten chicken leg onto a plate. “Time’s a-wasting. Let’s hope the settlement is still there when we finally arrive.”

  Neb cried out in dismay.

  “It will be,” Aldric assured him. “It’s n
ot full-dark for a while yet. We’ll leave as soon as we get the horses and gear together. Likely the day after tomorrow.”

  “Didn’t Hannus arrange them as well?” asked Niklaus.

  “Archbishop Hannus didn’t know when we’d be leaving, so no,” replied Aldric.

  A hulking man emerged through one of the back doors, carrying an armload of firewood. His long brown unbound hair made him seem wild, though there was a deliberateness to his movements. Scars covered his sun-dark arms, showing he used to be a warrior. He lumbered over to the fireplace and dumped his load to one side, then disappeared outside again.

  Niklaus glanced at the newcomer, shrugged, and sipped his wine. Aldric swallowed a mouthful of beer, content to let their conversation die.

  After a short while, the big man reappeared, carrying another stack of wood. The pieces clacked together as he unloaded his burden by the fireplace. He crossed the room to the table, hacked off some chicken, sandwiched it between two slices of bread, and grabbed a tankard of beer, then disappeared outside again.

  “That’s the other mercenary,” said Razmus. “He doesn’t say much. His name’s Stray Dog.”

  “Only two warriors?” said Niklaus. “It seems both our Churches are holding tightly to their purse strings. I don’t fancy the idea of playing wet nurse to these settlers. I think we need at least one more blade.”

  Aldric agreed, but he had questions first and wasn’t sure he’d like the answers the mercenary gave. “A thug for hire? A cutthroat? No, thank you.”

  Niklaus took another bite of bread and chewed slowly. “No. A real fighter. It’ll cost a bit, but as our Churches are covering expenses, it won’t be a problem.”

  “What kind of fighter are you talking about?” Aldric said. “A caravan guard, a bodyguard? We don’t have a great deal of time before we have to get moving.”

  Niklaus shook his head. “Guards have easy jobs with regular pay—they wouldn’t want to give that up. Plus, it’s blind chance if they ever encounter Dead-eyes. With us, it’s a certainty. We’d be better off with a treasure hunter, the type that searches ruins for whatever artifacts the Dead-eyes have managed to squirrel away. That’s not a job for the unwary. The wilderness and the ruins are dangerous places, and the unskilled amateurs get culled early, leaving only the best alive.”

  Or the worst, Aldric thought. “If you can find someone decent, I’ll consider them.”

  “If I find someone suitable, I’ll hire them on the spot. I’m not waiting for your approval.”

  Aldric took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just don’t pick someone who’ll cut our throats in our sleep.”

  He expected a comeback, but instead Niklaus coughed and spluttered, spraying wine across the table. He’d gone as pale as a Dead-eye, and his gaze was fixed on the front door, where a woman had entered.

  Aldric realized they hadn’t asked Razmus how old his daughter was. She was of average height, but held her head high, as if a run-down building wasn’t the type of establishment she’d usually frequent. Hair as dark as the abyss hung down her back, and her travel clothes were supple leather and did nothing to hide her figure.

  As she approached, Aldric could see she carried a number of talismans tucked into her belt: carved wooden sticks festooned with feathers and knotted cord. They would do their job—aiding a sorcerer with calculations and concentration—but their simplicity and the materials they were made from showed she was short of coin. An oddity for a sorcerer, as their skills were in demand.

  Niklaus held out his hand. Aldric noticed that it trembled slightly. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Please, sit with us. Have you eaten?”

  The mercenary barely glanced at Razmus, only having eyes for his daughter. But it wasn’t lust coming from Niklaus; it was something else. Aldric couldn’t work out what.

  Razmus moved so he was between Niklaus and his daughter. He ignored Niklaus’s extended hand, pulled out two chairs from the table, and they sat down. “This is Priska,” he said gruffly.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Aldric said, inclining his head.

  Priska’s wide brown eyes flicked between Aldric and Niklaus, as if undecided who to rest on. She chose Aldric.

  “I thought priests of your faith didn’t like my kind,” she said bluntly.

  Niklaus chuckled. He peered at Razmus, then at his daughter, then back at the soldier. “Are you sure she’s your daughter?”

  Razmus bridled at the question, but although he looked like he wanted to say something, he remained quiet.

  “We’re sure,” Priska said. “My mother was … like me. And I have my father’s … disposition.”

  Aldric reluctantly reached for his sorcerous power and quested his senses toward her. Priska’s mark was fierce and brilliant, a torch to his candle. Nowhere near the bonfire that was Soki’s power, but Soki was almost unique in her talents and knowledge. If Priska had been trained, she would be a welcome addition to their party.

  “What Covenant do you belong to?” Aldric asked. Someone would have sensed her. Someone would have taken her on. With her power, it was likely one of the bigger Covenants.

  Priska’s mouth twisted, and she looked down at the table. “Gray Hand,” she said softly.

  Her answer surprised Aldric. It wasn’t a well-known Covenant, and he doubted many sorcerers today would even recognize the name. His Church had spent a lot on his education though, and the Evokers had drilled him mercilessly. The Gray Hand was a weak Covenant, its existence almost lost in the mists of time. Hundreds of years ago, its adherents had decided to take short cuts, using rote learning rather than teaching understanding, and consequently their sorcery had suffered. They had an incomplete mastery of their talents and had become increasingly distanced from the other Covenants. Eventually, they’d turned to the sorcery of summoning, attempting to bring forth and control creatures from the abyss. Most had been killed by their own creations; the few survivors had broken from the Covenant and scattered. Clearly, some of them remained somewhere, if Priska had been trained by them.

  And the cause of her discomfort was plain: she had vast potential, but had been hobbled by inferior training. Aldric wagered no other Covenant would take her on now. Which was probably why she and her father were scratching out a living. His heart went out to her.

  “I know of it,” he said.

  A connection came to him, niggling at his thoughts. Soki’s Covenant, the Sanguine Legion, had also delved into summoning sorcery. Both Covenants had fallen because of their desire for power and the dark paths it had led them down. Was it a coincidence he’d met two sorcerers in a matter of weeks from Covenants with similar pasts? The sorcerous Covenants chafed at their low societal standing, and some were always scheming to get one over on the other Covenants. Surely none would be so foolish as to repeat the mistakes of the past?

  “So do I,” said Niklaus.

  Aldric jerked his gaze back to the mercenary. How could Niklaus know of such an obscure Covenant?

  Razmus’s hand clasped his daughter’s. “Hardly anyone does, so it’s surprising you both do.”

  “That it is,” Aldric said.

  Niklaus merely shrugged. “You pick up a few things over the years.”

  Priska cleared her throat. “I … I don’t do any of that summoning sorcery. I don’t know any. My master taught me as well as she could, and I do the best I can with what I have.”

  Maybe she doesn’t know her potential, thought Aldric. Or perhaps …

  “Have you approached other Covenants?” he asked. “One of them might take you on.”

  Priska shook her head, face downcast. “None of them wanted me. They said I don’t have enough talent.”

  More likely the real reason was her Covenant’s reputation, and the fact that much of her training would have to be unlearned. She was also older than the usual fledgling sorcerers the Covenants took in, less impressionable. That opinion was confirmed when Priska finally looked up, and her eyes flashed with suppressed fury, her
jaw clenched tight.

  Niklaus stood abruptly. “I have to go.” He glanced at Priska, then back to Aldric. “There’s a lot to do before we leave.”

  He stumbled away, pushing past Neb, whose muttered curses followed him out the door. They all watched him go.

  “Too much wine?” asked Razmus, turning back to Aldric.

  “It must be,” Aldric replied. But he realized Niklaus hadn’t drunk anything since Priska had joined them.

  The young woman was still a puzzle to him, and he was glad the mercenary wasn’t around to hear what he was about to say.

  He smiled encouragingly at her. “You said before you didn’t think priests of my faith liked sorcerers.”

  “They don’t.”

  “I know,” he said, folding his hands on the table. “But I’m going to tell you something not many people know. You see, I’m a sorcerer as well.”

  Razmus gasped. “But … you’re a priest of the Five.”

  “And a liar, it seems,” Priska said.

  Aldric cleared his throat and took a sip of his beer. “See for yourself.”

  That she hadn’t immediately recognized him as a sorcerer said volumes about the quality of her training. It was a shame she’d been stunted, but perhaps he could guide her a little, or at least try to strip away some of the ingrained teachings that hindered her.

  Priska closed her eyes and placed a hand on one of her talismans. Her fingers moved over the knots, which were tied in patterned groups—calculation aids. He wasn’t sure why she needed them to open her senses to him, but that would be the first thing he’d work on with her. He didn’t carry his own talismans out in the open because they marked him as a sorcerer. That choice hindered his ability to concentrate when using sorcery, but it was a price he paid willingly.

  And at least her actions proved one thing: she had a catalyst on her.

  Her jaw dropped as she saw his mark of sorcery. My stain, he thought.

  She opened her eyes. “You … He is.”