Alchemy's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 5)

by D J Salisbury

  Blood. Thunderer protect him, blood magic surrounded him. But all he could do right now was ignore it. He didn’t even know what to do with it. At least there wasn’t anyone nearby for him to hurt.

  He held his arm to his chest and considered his next move. Nothing came to mind.

  The snake turned to face him. The saikeri was lodged in the creature’s throat, and the wound, praise the Thunderer, was bleeding freely.

  Still fighting to catch his breath, he backed away. Unfortunately, he didn’t have far to go before he hit the cave wall.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, the pale head rose into the gloom. Blood trickled down the long neck. Just as the head touched the ceiling, lavender mist congealed, showing a second, phantom snake. Heading right at him.

  He threw himself to the side. Red clouded his vision, but the pain had vanished.

  Enormous jaws crashed down exactly where he’d stood.

  Time to get out of here. He dashed across the grotto, leapt over the end of the monster’s tail, and sprinted into the taller tunnel.

  Scales rustled on stone, audible even above his ragged breathing. The monster was moving as fast as it could.

  It sounded like it was moving faster than he was.

  He raced into another cavern. Water seeped down the walls, down stalactites, across the ground. The floor here was covered with rocks and stalagmites, but a single clear path wound through it.

  He skidded off the damp path, crouched between two glittering columns of stone, and prayed the lavender mist whirling around him wouldn’t give him away.

  The snake crashed into the cavern, still at full speed, its endless body undulating bizarrely. Suddenly it seemed to sense his presence. Its headlong charge slowed.

  This may be his best chance. Maybe his only chance.

  He leapt onto the abuelo’s back, right behind the head. His legs barely encircled its neck. His arm and chest shrilled with pain, but he raised his remaining saikeri high. This trick worked on a bahtdor; it better work now.

  The snake reared.

  His back brushed the top of the cavern and his raised arm was forced to the side.

  Lightning strike the beast! There was no time to change plans.

  He plunged his saikeri at the back of the snake’s head with both hands, and screamed as the impact jolted his injured arm.

  The saikeri skidded off the scaly hide and nearly impaled his thigh.

  The snake arched a little higher and flicked its head to one side.

  He flew across the cavern, smashed into the side of a stalagmite, and slid limply to its base.

  No breath in his lungs. No air to scream. The fire in his arm devoured even the sparks dancing behind his eyes.

  Somewhere in the remote distance, the snake reared its head.

  Fury erupted in him. Riotous, flaming rage tore through him, consumed him. Anger burned his soul, seared his reason, ignited his hands.

  Lightning strike the knife-stealing snake! I won’t let it kill me. I will survive. I will!

  He snatched his rage and grabbed the blood magic and hurled them both at the snake’s dead eyes.

  The cavern blazed scarlet. Strength poured out of him.

  Time stopped.

  Dizziness bore him down, left him shaking. He laid back against the cold stone of a stalagmite.

  Empty.

  He’d done something awful, something horrible; he knew it, but he was so empty he couldn’t remember what he’d done.

  What happened? His shirt was torn, one sleeve completely off. His arm was swollen and purpling, but there was no blood.

  Shouldn’t there be blood? He remembered blood. Snake’s blood. All over him.

  Light glimmered through the cavern. Glowing, red, unnatural flames.

  The snake. Where was the blasted snake?

  Flames drifted above him, burning. The serpent’s head. Blazing. With his magic. With blood magic.

  He’d killed again with magic. At least not with death magic, the way he’d murdered the slaver who accosted him in the mountains.

  But he’d killed again. With fire this time. Was he becoming a warrior mage?

  Who was he kidding? His stomach was far too queasy to call himself any kind of warrior. The snake’s death – and the slaver’s – were simply accidents. He wasn’t a warrior. Or a death mage.

  He doused the magefire with a shaky gesture.

  The stench of scorched meat filled the cavern. Burnt snakeskin crackled loudly even after the flames disappeared. But the abuelo’s body remained upright. Was it still alive?

  Bile surged up his throat.

  Eyeless pits pierced the snake’s face. Oozing blisters spread across its neck, the few remaining scales charred and black.

  How long could the thing could live with its head burnt to down to the skull? How did it manage to stay vertical?

  The serpent opened its mouth and the tongue flicked once.

  Viper gasped.

  Enormous fangs hurtled down at him.

  He writhed. Heaved himself to one side.

  The cavern thundered with the impact of the snake’s head on stone.

  Panting with agony, he clutched his arm to his chest. Lurched to his feet. Dashed between the stalagmites, searching for escape.

  The snake’s thrashing tail herded him away from the nearest tunnel.

  He glanced back and moaning sigh whispered from his chest.

  Luck had done what weapons could not, what magic had not. The abuelo snake had impaled its head on the stalagmite he’d been leaning against.

  He leaned against the cavern wall and whispered thanks to the Thunderer, to his luck, and to the alarming magic he needed to learn to control.

  His arm throbbed, his head was ready to explode, and his ribs felt like he’d used them to plow a field. But he had work to do. After straightening his twisted boot, he retrieved both saikeris and eased the longest prong of each weapon through his belt.

  Proof. He had to have proof he’d killed it. All he could think of was to chop the abuelo’s tongue off at the base. But Thunderer, the corpse’s mouth stank worse than rotted catfish.

  Still, given how tough its hide was, the tongue was the only part of the monster he might be able to cut with a jagged chunk of rock. He’d carved dragon hide with a diamond, but the local granite would never hold an edge.

  Next time he went hunting monsters, he was taking a sharp Crayl knife with him, no matter what anybody said. Or maybe one of his diamond ‘tools’. If he could remember where he’d hidden them.

  A lot of cursing and several broken rocks later, he hacked and pounded the hunk of meat free from the serpent’s disgusting mouth. Even as raggedly severed as it was, the grisly tongue measured a solid three feet long.

  It was coated in blood. He was covered in blood.

  Lavender mist continued to seep around him. If only he dared order it to get rid of the gore. But he didn’t know how he’d done it last time, and he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t exsanguinate him this time. Better to toddle away and ignore the sandblasted stuff until it dissipated.

  But he’d accomplished something significant. Important to the tribe, anyway. They’d deal with him now. He could get back to his crew and get on with the quest.

  He slung the ridiculously long tongue over his shoulder and started walking. After a hundred steps, the oozing, pebbly muscle weighed more than he did.

  His trudge toward freedom seemed to take years, not hours. All he could do was follow the scent of fresh air and pray it didn’t lead him to a narrow vent.

  The stench of rotting blood was overwhelming.

  He marched onward, ignoring it – and the mist – as best he could.

  The glare of sunlight through thunderdrums blinded him when he finally hauled his proof out of the tunnel.

  “It’s a trick,” a warrior muttered. He couldn’t see which one, but the voice was familiar.

  “Hush, father, you’ll shame us.” An adolescent tribesman swaggered forward. He eased the tongue
off Viper’s shoulder and held it above his head. “The abuelo snake is dead. Well done, my brother.”

  The crowd of warriors shouted agreement.

  Pleasure wriggled through his fatigue as recognition dawned. “Darienel. You’ve grown up.” The lavender mist drew back into the tunnel.

  His youngest brother grinned down at him. “You haven’t, short stuff.” The child wore warrior’s leathers. He must have turned twelve last summer. Where had the time gone?

  Viper grinned to hide his hurt and loss. He should have been there to sponsor his brother at his Knife Ceremony. Instead he’d been Outcast. For being stunted. “There are certain advantages to being short.”

  “Name one,” Agrevod growled.

  “Only one?” Viper shrugged. “It’s easier to outsmart an abuelo snake if you’re short.”

  Sahilaad cackled and put his hand on Viper’s shoulder. “I wanted to keep this lad when Agrevod named him Outcast, but the council outvoted me. Now I claim the right to sponsor Adoriel as a trader. Who will gainsay me?”

  Several warriors shifted uncomfortably.

  The old man scowled at them. “Keep in mind I still carve the best swords and all my apprentices have moved to other Tribes. Who will gainsay me?”

  No one spoke, not even Agrevod.

  Nothing like a little blackmail to create a consensus. “It’s time for the explanation I promised you.” He smiled up at Sahilaad. “Something I need to show the tribe is in my wagon.”

  Sahilaad nodded and turned to the chieftain. “Will you call an assembly, Drenfeg?”

  The war leader considered Viper’s torn, blood-soaked clothing and nodded slowly. “I summon the people. Full council around the traders’ wagon. Every member of the Tribe must attend.”

  A few warriors grumbled, but they followed him back to the camp. Staying well away from the despised horses, they gathered around the wagon.

  Women and children wandered over, but remained separate from the men. Odd how many old traditions held, when others, such as the ordeal, had changed.

  Everyone watched him while he clambered, all too slowly, up to the driver’s platform.

  Blast, he hurt all over.

  Lorel stopped chatting with the married women and strolled closer to the wagon. “What’s up, kid? Any of that blood yours?”

  Nice to know someone was comfortable with the situation. Tsai’dona looked as tense as he felt.

  His swollen arm throbbed. His back ached as if he’d rolled down a mountain again. In fact, the only part of him that didn’t hurt was his missing foot. But he didn’t dare let anyone know he wasn’t fully in control of the situation. Not even Lorel.

  Maybe especially not Lorel.

  “The sword bearer is here,” he whispered. “Warn Tsai’dona to watch for trouble. These folk don’t concede anything gracefully.”

  She grunted, sauntered over to Tsai’dona, and spoke softly.

  To be honest, there wasn’t much they’d be able to do if trouble started, but it was good to know they’d be ready to fight. Setoyans respected fighters. His bodyguards would be honorably slain if the worst happened, instead of fed alive to the bahtdor.

  What a cheerful thought. Time to start the next stage of this project. He climbed inside the wagon.

  Taking up the whole length of the bench, and a couple of feet on each side, the broadsword lay on Tsai’dona’s – now Bess’s – bed.

  He sat down beside it.

  Both musicians were sitting side by side on the lower bunk.

  Bess tilted her head and watched him calmly. He appreciated her trust.

  Zharyl seemed petrified. “It moved. All on its own.”

  Of course it did. All the magical weapons had. But she didn’t want to hear it.

  What could he tell them? It wasn’t over yet. “I completed the ordeal. We’re almost officially traders.”

  “This one is gratified by the hatchling’s achievement.” As usual, Kyri watched him from the top bunk. It pointed its snout down toward the two women. “This one shall safeguard the ocean’s song and the wind’s essence. The plains striders are redolent of truculency.”

  “I could have told you that years ago.”

  Zharyl whispered, “What did the Kyridon say?”

  Bess snorted, but somehow changed the sound into a sneeze.

  “It said the tribesmen are pugnacious.” Seeing the girl’s blank look, he added, “They want to start a fight.”

  Maybe he could bribe the men into cooperating. Who could resist the story of a magical weapon?

  He hefted the broadsword onto his lap. Why had he made the blasted thing this big? It was twice as long as he was tall.

  Why had he been sure the quest would need another Setoyan? They must be the most contentious people on Menajr.

  His hunches would get him killed someday.

  Dragging the far-too-long sword behind him, he crawled under the door and stood on the driver’s platform.

  Midafternoon clouds were gathering overhead. The Thunderer would witness his presentation. He’d better get it right.

  The crowd stilled and stared at the enormous sword. Women shuddered and clutched their children. The men gawked in open lust.

  This performance wasn’t much different than any magic show he’d ever done. Though he hoped he was more successful than he’d been during those shows.

  He couldn’t afford any mistakes. The sword bearer must agree to the quest, or they’d all be buried in bahtdor dung. They couldn’t defeat the Mindbender without him.

  And given Zharyl’s responses to Kyri’s perfectly coherent conversation, he’d best stick to small words. Very small words.

  Gripping the broadsword by its scabbard, he thrust the huge weapon above his head, mostly one handed. His injured arm felt like an overcooked noodle set on fire in the middle. “People of the Wind, hear me.”

  The mutterings of the men ceased.

  “I present to you a sword of magic and of destiny. We undertake an arduous quest to battle evil in the north, an evil which threatens to overrun the world, even here on the plains.” The sword sank downward as his strength gave out. Blast. He was far too tired to attempt theatrics. He tried to control its descent enough it looked like he’d meant to lower it. “I need one strong warrior to accept this quest.”

  The young men cheered and pushed forward.

  “I would take you all, if I could.” Praise the Thunderer, he only needed one of them, not the whole quarrelsome lot of them. With luck, the sword would pick someone as easy-going as Darienel. “The war will need you all. But this is a magic sword, and it will choose its bearer.”

  “Prove it,” shouted a young warrior.

  An easy challenge to meet. Viper pointed the hilt in the speaker’s direction, but the sword overbalanced him. He collapsed to sit on the driver’s seat, again trying to make the movement look intentional, but from the grins in the crowd, he was certain he’d failed this time.

  Dignity. He would proceed with dignity, no matter what they thought of him. Balancing the scabbard across his knees, he presented the pommel to the warrior.

  The young man grabbed the hilt, but released it immediately and shook out his fingers. “Lightning strike it, that hurt! Wizardry!”

  “Magic is sometimes called that.” If only he could find a wizard. But no wizard in his right mind would travel to Setoya, not after the wars a few centuries ago.

  Forget that. By definition, no wizard was sane.

  He forced a grin and waved the hilt at the crowd. “Do any of you have the courage to risk a little pain?”

  Many of the older warriors chuckled.

  “It’ll be a test of bravery, for those who dare to take it,” said a grizzled spearman.

  The young men glared, but they lined up to touch the sword. Warrior after warrior assayed the challenge, some too young to leave their mothers’ tents, a few with gray hairs outnumbering the gold. All went away with scorched fingers.

  Finally his youngest brother came f
orward to touch the hilt. Please let it be Darienel, even though he needed to grow a lot taller before he could wield this sword. He’d be a grand traveling companion. Thunderer, please…

  Their eyes met as Darienel touched the pommel. And jerked his hand away.

  Blast, blast, and sandblast. The only young male in the whole tribe who was worth anything. And he had to stay behind.

  The brothers looked at each other, sharing a moment of regret.

  Darienel shrugged sadly and moved away.

  “You two always were thick,” said the next warrior, one who was as tall as Agrevod.

  Viper sighed. He’d hoped this brother was off hunting or something. His luck wasn’t good enough for the sandcrab to have gotten himself killed. “You’re holding up the line, Aramiel.”

  “Be respectful to your oldest brother.” The tall warrior grinned maliciously. “Or I’ll teach you better manners.”

  The sand lizard wasn’t the eldest; he was merely the oldest surviving brother. And the meanest of the lot, including all his cousins.

  Her hand on the hilt of her own sword, Lorel stepped forward and glowered at the pile of bahtdor poop.

  “You’ll have to get past the Gyrfalcon first.” He tried to sound bored, but he suspected his voice rang with pride. His turybird would happily cut the turd into ant food. “Hurry up. The warriors behind you think you’re afraid to try.”

  Aramiel sniggered, wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and tugged.

  The blade slid free. Under the lowering thunderdrums, it gleamed as if it were made of gold-engraved black granite. Runes and mountains glimmered up its length, along with a pattern of galloping hoofprints.

  No. Oh, please, Thunderer. Not him.

  Sahilaad gaped and mouthed, “You carved that?”

  “It’s mine!” Aramiel held the blade above his head and swung it like a scythe.

  The nearest warriors ducked.

  Others cheered loudly. Not all of them, though. Only the ones who followed the sandblasted chunk of carrion.

  He wanted to hide under the covers of his bed. Or inside the trunk under Bess’s bed. Or even inside the abuelo snake’s putrid den.

  But he forced himself to stand tall and proud on the driver’s platform. “Aramiel!”

  The cheering stopped. The warrior strutted back towards the wagon. “What, littlest?”