by Adam Bennett
Her mind filled with terror, but Cathis refused to panic. She’d prepared for even this emergency. She knew the words to end the ritual; all she need do was say them.
But she hadn’t anticipated the cold that came when the Confluence lashed her with its power. It left her numb, her teeth locked as if permanently gritted against the pain. She couldn’t force her mouth to open to speak the words.
She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.
—Cathis! Let me help you!
Tel’s voice was a scream inside her head. Her reply was barely a whisper.
—It’s too late, Tel. Too late for me. I failed. Save yourself.
—No, Cathis! Hold on! I can save you!
—How?
—Merge our shields! Let me in!
Cathis didn’t even have the strength for that, but as it turned out, strength was not required. All she had to do was stop resisting Tel, who was trying to merge his sphere with hers. Cathis hadn’t even realised she’d been keeping him out all along. She sighed as the familiar sensation of their blended magic stole over her. She found that she had missed it.
—Tel…
Tel, for once, was too intent upon the task at hand to reply. His living fire leapt into the gap between the fourth of Cathis’ river stones, which had just exploded, and the fifth. His arms glowed as he gave his fire the strength to combat the unleashed force of Cathis’ broken ritual. The flame swelled to a huge size, then shrank as the elements of air and water warred with fire.
Cathis saw at once that Tel was fighting a losing battle. She’d trapped too much power in her ritual, and Tel was already weakening. Yet his intervention had given her a respite, and the heat of his fire revived her. She could move again.
At once she spoke the words that broke her free of the ritual. Then, though she slumped to her knees at the sudden, shuddering loss of that connection, she invoked the power of stone, calling upon the earth itself.
The ground split asunder, a deep fissure opening up before their feet. On the far side of that chasm Cathis raised a wall of stone to block the Confluence. Tel, realising what she had done, reached for the living fire from deep within the earth. Like Draws Like: his own conjured flame called to that far beneath them and roared back into life, doubling in size.
Stone and fire strove with air and water, the two mages using their arts to oppose the might of two combined typhoons. Their tattoos shone as they drew on every resource, every last spark of their magic.
But it was still not enough.
Cathis’ wall was being battered into dust. Tel’s fire waned, growing smaller and dimmer with every passing second.
—Tel! We have to do something different!
—Like what? I don’t have much left.
A desperate idea flashed through her mind.
—We’re doing this the wrong way! We shouldn’t be pulling power from the earth! We should be sending the storm down there!
—How?
—Throw your fire down the hole!
Even as they exchanged thoughts, Cathis pulled the fissure wider. Her stone wall collapsed into it. She threw one last message to Tel.
—Hold it for me!
—I’ll try!
Tel gave his fire all he had, facing down the Confluence by himself, buying Cathis the time she needed. Free from the struggle, she spoke the words of her original ritual, activating the Dorvic runes on her last two river stones.
“Elements of Life, Elements of Fate,
One to Bind and One to Break,
Like draws Like into the Snare,
Unlike Binds the Power there.”
The runes glowed once more. Cathis kicked them into the hole and they plunged out of sight.
—Now, Tel!
He cast his fire after the stones, collapsing on his face as his strength failed.
Drawn once again by the connection to her stones, and still locked in battle with the opposing elements, all the power and might of the Confluence rushed into the chasm. Cathis broke herself off from the ritual and fell down beside Tel. She held her shield over them both as wind and rain cascaded past her into the fires of the earth. The last thing she remembered before she blacked out was the sky beginning to lighten.
***
When she came to, the Confluence had passed. Cathis couldn’t tell whether it had all been pulled into the earth, or had broken free and gone raging inland. The sky was overcast and threatening rain, but rain of a normal kind, and the wind was no more than she’d expect for an exposed cliff top.
The headland itself was in ruins, as if the typhoons had grown talons and sunk them into it like a falcon tearing the entrails from a corpse. The fissure she’d created was just one of many, several of which extended hundreds of yards inland. Cathis noticed she was now barely a dozen feet from the cliff edge, while she had started that day three times as distant. There were no trees to be seen, nor exposed stones, and what little grass remained was flattened.
Tel was beside her, still unconscious. She knew a few spells that would bring him round, but she wouldn’t be able to use magic for days, and she didn’t have the strength to take them somewhere less exposed. The best she could do was throw their cloaks over them as she huddled next to him for mutual warmth. Cathis tried to think about what had happened, but before she could even begin to process everything, she fell asleep.
***
The next time she awoke was when Tel moved, shifting his body and putting his arm over her. For a moment, she wanted to pull away, but he was warm, and right now she wanted to be warm. Nor could she deny the comfortable familiarity. They could settle things between them later. Right now, this was good.
She drifted in and out of sleep once or twice, but eventually she knew that it was time. She started to pull away. Tel immediately lifted his arm off her and gave her space. She regretted the loss of contact, but it was necessary.
They moved apart and sat up, facing each other. Now that she was away from the heat of his body, Cathis was aware that her clothes were wet. It had rained, and their cloaks had only done so much.
“I’d build us a fire,” said Tel, his voice hoarse with weariness, “but there’s nothing to fuel it, and I don’t have another one in me.”
“We should find shelter, then,” she said, her throat feeling as raw as his sounded. “Can you walk?”
“Just about.” Tel stretched his legs out and started rubbing his limbs. Cathis did the same, aching in every muscle, all the way to her fingertips. They came painfully to their feet and began walking slowly away from the cliff. The nearest village was an hour’s walk away; they’d be lucky to make it in two, presuming it had even survived the Confluence.
How did we survive it? Cathis tried to remember, but it was almost as though she was hearing or reading another person’s account, so unreal and insane were the events that had taken place.
“I did it for you, you know.” Tel was looking over at her.
“Did what?”
“Learned that fire ritual, came here to meet the Confluence, all of it. I knew what you would try to do, but I was afraid—terrified—that you wouldn’t live through it. I thought I could watch your back and keep you safe while you carried out your plan.”
“You could have told me,” she said before she could stop herself. The irony that she was making that specific complaint to him was galling. She expected Tel to say that she’d never given him the chance to explain, or refer to their last fight, but he stayed silent. He didn’t even smile.
He knows. Cathis didn’t like to admit it, but Tel knew her just as well as she knew him, and he must have realised what she was doing when the Confluence was at its height. He hadn’t reproached her then, and he didn’t now. He understands.
They walked on in silence.
The people of the village were at work repairing their homes when they arrived. There was not as much damage as Cathis would have expected; it seemed that between them, she and Tel had reduced the Confluen
ce to no more than a regular typhoon. Their tattoos marked them as mages, so the villagers were glad to give them hot food, fresh clothes, and a place to rest. It was doubtful they realised how bad the storm would have been, but they knew enough to understand they’d gotten off lightly, likely due to the mages’ intervention.
Food and warmth overwhelmed them, and they went to bed directly, taking different rooms. Cathis had almost wanted to ask Tel to share, and had paused to see if he would ask first, but after a moment in which neither of them quite knew what to say, they went their separate ways. It was probably for the best, Cathis decided. She still needed time before she was ready to talk things out.
They slept late and arose to another welcome meal, which they ate together. Tel seemed expectant, but that was his way; he never liked to let things rest, always seeking clarification and resolution, often to the point of making things worse.
“It’s not… I’m not there yet, Tel,” she told him, when she sensed he couldn’t hold his words in much longer. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk, and I’m not making you wait to punish you, it’s just… I’m not ready.” Her eyes met his. “But it won’t be long, and when I am, I’ll let you know.”
Tel nodded, his expression alternating between a genuine smile of pleasure and a false one to cover his disappointment. “I’ll wait,” he said.
Cathis would have liked nothing more than to stay in the village for another day or two to recover, but she needed space, so she made plans to leave at once. Tel, once again guessing what was in her mind, said he’d remain behind. Cathis was grateful; they’d have been following the same road for some miles, and the mood between them was already awkward.
The sun was out when Cathis left, as it often was after a typhoon had blown through. She parted from Tel at the door of the house they’d been loaned.
“I’ll be in touch in a few days,” she said, and at that Tel did give a real smile.
“Take your time,” he said, and she knew he meant it. Then his old charming grin returned, smoothing away the years so that he looked once more like the young man she’d fallen for. “After all,” he added, “it’ll be a while before the next Confluence. We’ll have plenty of time to plan.”
Cathis returned his smile, then reached up to touch his cheek.
“Next time together,” she said.
The House of the Magus
Derek Paterson
“Here he comes now,” Rolf said, elbowing Sven in the ribs. Sven looked up from his cup and examined the tall figure who filled the tavern’s doorway—and didn’t much like what he saw. The new arrival looked like a bandit who’d fallen on hard times. Or maybe hard times had fallen on him. His jerkin and breeches didn’t seem to fit, leading Sven to suspect he might have taken them from men who no longer needed them. He wore a leather patch over his left eye and his right eye was so bloodshot Sven was surprised he could see at all.
Apparently he could, because he pushed his way across the crowded room, provoking an angry chorus of protests, and sat down on the other side of their table, facing them. He nodded to Rolf, who’d arranged this meeting, then scowled at Sven. “Who’s this?”
“This is my cousin, Sven. He’ll be coming with us on our, ah, venture.”
“You must be Fenris Skullsmiter,” Sven said, offering his hand in brotherhood.
The big man ignored the hand and sneered at him, showing broken teeth. “You don’t know me well enough to use my clan name, boy, so you’ll call me Skullsmiter, else you’ll feel the weight of my fist.”
Rolf smiled a brittle smile. “Sven was just trying to make you feel welcome, Skullsmiter. Never fear, you’re among friends.” He glanced around the tavern as if afraid they might be overheard. But no one was paying them any attention, with the exception of a squat fellow who glared angrily as he rubbed at a wet patch on his shirt. Skullsmiter must have nudged him in passing, causing him to spill his drink. Most of the regulars were crowded around the games table, cheering or protesting, depending on however they’d wagered. A flash of light and a plume of green smoke from the table produced equal measures of joy and groaning.
“Never fear?” Muscles twitched under the bloodshot eye. “Skullsmiter fears nothing. I fought in the Iron Wars. I’ve slain orcs and trolls and gargoyles, and ogres, too. I stood alongside Thor Grimhand and Axel Wolfsblood when King Hammerstein led his dwarven army out of the Iron Mountains, and together we halted their advance at Blood Pass.” The memory of his valiant exploits apparently became too much for Skullsmiter; he snatched up Sven’s cup and emptied it with one mighty swallow, then slammed the cup down upon the table.
Sven didn’t comment. The idea of calling out this uncouth warrior for quaffing his drink remained a distant notion at the back of his mind.
The squat fellow made his move. Twin knives appeared in his hands—deadly curved blades that glinted in the yellow light of the oil lamps that hung from the tavern’s blackened ceiling beams. Sven took a breath, intending to shout a warning, but there was no need. Skullsmiter turned and punched the man in the face so hard he somersaulted backward before landing face-down on the floor.
A hushed silence surrounded them. Then the tavern keeper bellowed, “Throw that idiot outside!” Eager hands grabbed the squat fellow and dragged him toward the door. Sven noticed those same hands cutting his purse-string and picking his pockets clean. The curved knives vanished beneath cloaks. As the door swung shut, Sven was sure he saw someone tugging at the man’s boots.
Skullsmiter chuckled darkly. “Saw him coming half a league away.”
Rolf said, “That was well done, Skullsmiter. We can see your reputation is well-earned.”
“Is he dead?” Sven asked.
Skullsmiter stared at him. “What if he is?”
“The Town Wardens don’t mind the occasional brawl, but they draw the line at murder.”
“Is that right? Then why don’t you go and fetch them?” Skullsmiter snarled. “You can watch me kill them all with my bare hands.”
Rolf made calming gestures, as much for Sven as for Skullsmiter. “You worry too much, cousin. We’ll be long gone before they even hear of this.”
This seemed to placate the dangerous, unpredictable mercenary, who sat back and nodded thoughtfully. “Then let’s be about our business. I want to be a rich man tonight.”
Rolf licked his lips, then said, “We’re waiting for the fourth member of our party to arrive.”
Skullsmiter grabbed Rolf’s shirt and pulled him across the table until their noses touched. Sven held his breath and hoped Rolf was doing the same, for his health’s sake.
“You didn’t say anything about a fourth member!”
“Plans can change, Skullsmiter,” Rolf said, his voice very small. “We, we realized we needed a locksmith. Neither of us have the skill, and we didn’t think—”
“That’s right, you didn’t think,” Skullsmiter growled. “How do you know I can’t pick locks, eh? Sounds like you’re just trying to reduce my share.”
“I assure you, that’s not our intention,” Sven said. Skullsmiter continued to hold Rolf in place while his bloodshot eye regarded Sven balefully. “The fact is,” Sven continued calmly, “Magus Xandor hired the best elven artisans coin could buy. I doubt whether any human hand could open those locks.” Sven paused for effect, then said, “Ever hear of a thief called the Shadow?”
Skullsmiter’s eye widened. “That’s who we’re waiting for?”
Sven nodded. “I let it be known we wanted the best. The Shadow responded, saying he’d meet us here tonight.”
Skullsmiter released Rolf, who sat back down and smoothed his rumpled shirt as best he could. “Well now, that’s different. The Shadow could be useful. It’s said he never fails.”
“We heard the same thing,” Sven said.
The door opened again and as beautiful an elven maid as he’d ever seen stepped into the White Swan tavern. She pulled back her hood, causing long silver hair to waterfall past her shoulders. Her
gold-flecked eyes seemed to fix upon Sven from across the room. He suddenly found it very difficult to breathe.
“There’s something you don’t see every day,” Skullsmiter muttered. “Wandering around on her own, too. Asking for trouble, that.”
Sven wondered whether he should warn the mercenary about the diplomatic agreement between their king and the Lord of the Forest Folk. That agreement gave elves protection whenever they visited human towns. The Town Wardens were known to enforce any violations with great enthusiasm. Only last month, some drunken fool who’d taunted an elf aristocrat had been thrown into a dungeon cell to contemplate his folly. He was still rotting there, as far as Sven knew.
To his surprise, the elven girl made her way across the room to their table. The tavern keeper, who’d not even looked twice at the interplay between Skullsmiter and Rolf, followed her progress with hungry eyes, as did every other customer. Sven couldn’t blame them. Her robe, made from some magical cloth woven with gold and silver thread, and pulled tight at the waist by a silver leaf chain, emphasized her curves only too well.
Skullsmiter smiled and said, “Sit on my knee, pretty one, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
She ignored him and addressed Sven instead: “You are he who is called Wheatfarmer?”
Sven blushed furiously. His family’s name didn’t suit his current profession, that of rogue and pickpocket. And thief, especially when a house full of treasure was ripe for the plucking.
“I am Sven Wheatfarmer,” he reluctantly admitted.
She sat down beside Skullsmiter, who immediately sidled closer to her. Sven stared at this vision of loveliness, bewildered by her beauty and confused as to why she might ever wish to speak to him, let alone how she could know his name.
“Is there something I can—?”
“I studied Magus Xandor’s house on the way here,” she said, her violet eyes looking into his soul. “If you can take care of the guards, I can get us to the treasure.”