She moved to a bare patch of ground between the spell circle and work bench and settled on the floor, skin crawling at the contact even through layers of cloth, wishing that she had thought to bring something to sit on. The thought was dismissed, along with her residual irritation at the crowd of people waiting outside the warehouse, and she drew a deep breath, managing not to choke on the stench, calming herself, opening her second sight on the exhale, opening herself to the impressions of the place.
The warehouse was a jagged cacophony of spells. Basic warding spells that had no bias to dark or light, overlaid with a collection of forbidden magic, the sprays of blood magic the least of it, all thrown together with no apparent design.
Patiently working from the nearest spells outwards, she picked apart the spells she could see, tracing the author of each in the angle of each stroke and the strength of the power that had been used. More than one magic user had worked here, their work overlapping in places, and the place had been used for a while. The layers of spells went back perhaps years. Not as long in use as the underground, she was sure, for the spells here did not show much progression, the dominant hand confident and assured from the oldest layers. She suspected that if she sat in the underground and repeated this exercise she would see a much greater progression as the magician perfected his skill.
The other magicians must be apprentices. Their spells were clumsy and weak by comparison and did not alter much. They had not been here for some time. She wondered who those apprentices had been, whether they had all died in the underground, or if they were lying in the discarded heap nearby. Magicians wielding unclean magic had been known to kill their acolytes for power before now.
Arrow opened her eyes, silver sparks casting faint light around her. The master had been teaching. Three or four students. The evolution of the spell casting and sophistication was familiar to anyone trained at the Academy. The rogue was definitely Erith, well versed in Erith magic. The way his students formed their spells left her in no doubt. The master might have progressed beyond the confines of standard Erith spellwork, preferring the unclean, forbidden magic he practised with such skill, but the students had not.
She would learn nothing more from her place here. She got to her feet, measuring the passage of time in the gathering dark outside the skylights, and the stiffness of her muscles. She was cold, too, despite her layers.
But before she could leave there were still more things to examine. She had to swallow hard, taking shallow breaths, as the stench caught the back of her throat. The smell of decay was greater now, despite the cold.
She shouldered the satchel again, returning the chalk, and turned her attention to the tools, examining them with first and second sight overlaid. The magician had been collecting his tools for many years and had several favourites which he returned to over and over again. One of his favourites was a bone-handled knife whose blade had been honed so far that there was a bare hand’s width of silver-bound steel left. A blade of Erith make, the craftsmanship too fine to be anything else.
Reaching the end of her inspection, she was about to move on, reluctantly, to the bodies, when a crawling sensation up her spine made her go still, then turn slightly.
The corpse in the spell circle had moved. Impossible. And yet the body now lay partly on its side, the untouched face in a slack expression, the woman’s last scream wiped away, face looking towards her. As Arrow turned, a faint glimmer from the eyes drew her attention. She was being watched by the dead.
Rather than shaking off the feeling as stupid, she moved a few paces nearer to the body and crouched down, catching the corpse’s gaze with her own. Using inanimate objects for remote viewing was something only the most skilled of magic users could do and required a great deal of power. She wondered how long the magician had been hiding behind this corpse’s eyes, perhaps watching the warriors, and then watching her.
Sending a tendril of her own power out, she twined it gently around the thread of consciousness she could sense, exploring softly.
“There you are,” she said quietly, “and how long have you been watching, I wonder?”
“Stupid little girl.” The corpse’s voice was dry, an almost incomprehensible whisper. “I have always been watching.”
“Watching what?”
“Stupid little girls, and stupid little magicians. Think they know everything.” The voice dissolved into a horrible choking sound that she identified after a moment as laughter.
“What should we know, then?”
“Dead. You are all dead. My master will kill you all then feast on your flesh.”
“That sounds uncomfortable,” she commented. Her seeking tendril of power was very nearly at the source. “And why does your master require flesh?”
“Tasty. Yum yum. Crunchy snacks.”
“What if I find you first?”
“Eat you first.” The reply was immediate. Confident.
“Who are you?”
“You will never guess.”
“Who are you?”
“Not telling!”
“Who are you?” Arrow laced a little more power into her voice, the third demand. For reasons that no one quite understood, three repetitions had weight in magic.
The corpse made a low, harsh sound, a name caught in its throat, too strangled to make sense, caught between Arrow’s power and whatever its master commanded.
“No. Shall not tell. Cannot make us. No more talking!” The dead eyes flared. Arrow tightened the tendril of her power and tugged.
“I did not give you permission to leave,” she said, holding the awareness to the body. A distorted cackle issued from the dead, cracked lips.
“Cannot keep us.”
Arrow set her will against the magician’s. He was using a great deal of power to hold the connection, stretching his defences. Following him back along the connection he had with the corpse she almost had a location.
Abruptly her personal wards flared brilliant silver, and she felt the assault of another mage’s power against her own. Not through the corpse but in the warehouse. Without thinking she ducked sideways, rolled on the hard surface, and came up in the shadow of the workbench, all her attention and senses in the here and now. Another bolt of mage fire seared through the gathering gloom inside. Her wards flared, blocking it easily, in a move so instinctive it felt like being back at the Academy training grounds. The sharp pain of another mage’s power against hers cascaded across her skin.
“Stupid little witch.” A harsh, guttural voice. Far too close for comfort. The voice was disguised by the low pitch, but it sounded familiar. “Too weak, too late.”
“Show yourself and I will show you just how weak I am,” Arrow taunted, realising too late that her attacker had the clear advantage of knowing exactly where she was as a flurry of mage fire shot towards her. She swore, held her wards, and calculated the origin of the mage fire. Damping down her wards and drawing as much shadow around her as she could she slipped, as quietly as possible, away from her original position, moving in a semi-circle towards her target.
A low laugh greeted her, a sensual sound that was tantalisingly familiar.
“Silly little girl. You think you are the only one who knows that trick?” The voice was almost at her ear, carrying the suggestion of warm breath, and she had no time to do more than duck again as something hard and lethal swished through the air where her head had been.
Pride be damned, Arrow decided, and, using power to magnify her voice, shouted, “Svegraen! Get in here now!”
“Calling for help?” The voice was still far too close, and the warehouse all at once too dark for her to see. “I am so disappointed in you, little runt.” Another swipe, hiss of a blade through the air, catching on her wards, the agony of another mage’s power against her own momentarily blinding her. She ran a few steps forward, in the direction her senses told her was towards the door, seeing a faint light, and instead slammed into one of the wooden partitions, her vision fading into black as
more pain coursed through her.
“I do not think they will get here in time, do you?” The voice was too close again. Arrow reached out and grabbed, feeling fabric slide through her fingers, drawing another low, rich chuckle from her attacker. “Better, little runt, but still not good enough.”
“Mage!” Kallish’s voice had never been so welcome.
“By the workbench!” she shouted back, pressed against the wood, sending more power into her defence as a disturbance in the air told her that the attacker was still there. The blow carried more weight and power with it and she could not hold back a pained cry, fighting to stay conscious and upright, force of the blow ringing through her entire being, leaving her in the dark for long moments.
“Arrow!” A hard hand was under her elbow and she hit out blindly, connecting with something quite hard.
“She is magic blind,” someone else said. A newly familiar voice. Orlis.
Magic blindness was easy to remedy, Arrow told herself, applying her will and a trickle of power. She was still being held up by a firm hand under her arm.
When she opened her eyes, blinking rapidly, she found dim light all around her. Kallish was holding her up, naked blade in the warrior’s other hand. Orlis and the rest of the cadre, along with the ‘kin, formed a loose ring around them, facing outward.
“Did they get away?” Arrow asked, straightening up. Kallish let her go and frowned.
“Who, mage?”
“Someone attacked me,” she wheezed, becoming aware of bruises from the short, brutal, fight, “with magic and with a blade.”
“There is no one here,” Orlis said, quite certain.
“There was someone here,” Arrow growled.
“Search the warehouse,” Kallish ordered the White Guard. They nodded and vanished into the dark on light feet. Matthias and the ‘kin stayed close by, weapons ready. “It is a good thing you called, mage, for we were becoming concerned.”
“It is nearly daybreak,” Orlis added, producing a small flask from his coat. “Here, this may help. Erith tea.”
“Daybreak? It was only midnight a few moments ago,” she protested, taking the flask with a word of thanks. Her hand was trembling. She was sure that she had noticed the corpse moving at midnight, the stars overhead indicating the time. Had she spent the entire night in conversation with the dead?
“Where did the attack start?” Kallish asked with professional interest.
“Over here, by the workbench.” Handing the tea back to Orlis, Arrow led the way back to the workbench, hissing in anger at what she found. The tools on the workbench had been scattered around, and the corpse was now headless, the head sitting upright, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. In the dirt in front of the head someone had written the word “runt” in Erith.
“This was not here before,” Kallish observed, “and the tools were all on the bench.”
“I know.” Arrow moved to crouch in front of the word, examining the lines in second sight. Nothing. They had been written with tool of some description. Probably one of the many knives available from the work bench. Her jaw tightened, looking at the head. The human woman had deserved far better of her life than it should end here, her body used in such a fashion.
“Erith. Does the word mean anything?” Matthias asked.
“One of the many names I was called at the Academy by students and teaching staff alike.” Arrow rose to her feet, easing her various aches with a small trickle of magic. “I was talking with the corpse when I was attacked,” she told Kallish, drawing a hard stare.
“Do you often talk with dead objects, mage?” the warrior wanted to know, apparently serious.
“The magic user was using the corpse’s eyes to observe me, svegraen,” Arrow explained, “and the head was attached to the body at the time.”
Xeveran had remained with Kallish, providing a translation for the ‘kin, and Matthias’ eyebrows lifted.
“An animation spell?” Orlis’ unusual eyes lit with curiosity. “They are very difficult and require a lot of power.”
“Yes. I was using the magic user’s connection with the corpse to follow him when I was attacked here.”
“Not by the magic user?” Kallish asked.
“No. To hold a spell of that complexity and across the distance I sensed it is not possible that the magic user could have been in the same building, or have enough concentration left over to wield a weapon.”
“An accomplice? Can you track them?” Matthias asked.
“I regret, no. I have already tried finding a trace in second sight and the attacker hid their trail well.”
“Something else is bothering you,” Orlis prompted after a moment’s silence. She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You have been attacked before,” he explained, “but this was different.”
“The attacker felt familiar, as though I should know them.” Arrow folded her arms across her stomach, shaking her head in frustration. “The speech pattern, the laugh, even the magic all felt familiar somehow.”
“A magician who has spent time at the Academy?” Kallish prompted, eyes glittering.
“Yes. But I do not yet know who. They must have used some kind of confusion spell.”
“Did you learn anything more before you were attacked?” the warrior asked practically.
“Some things. None of them good.” Arrow hugged herself tighter, holding in a tremor. “I do not think there is more to learn just now, once your cadre has finished their search.”
“Very well. We will go outside,” Kallish directed. One of the cadre collected Arrow’s satchel, which had been lost in the fight, a little way from the workbench. Feeling a little like she was being herded, Arrow walked with Kallish, Xeveran and Orlis, bracketed by ‘kin, back through the chaos of the warehouse and out into the chill winter morning. Dawn was just creeping over the horizon.
“The magician is ahead of us,” Kallish noted, voice edged.
“Seems like he’s been planning this for years,” Matthias noted. Like the other ‘kin he was keeping his weapons close and eyes constantly moving on their surroundings. Even at the edge of their own territory he was alert for attacks.
“Yes.” Limbs heavy with fatigue, she leant against the wall.
Matthias glanced across, opening his mouth.
Before he could speak a glittering trail of mage fire scorched across the street, casting everything into stark light and shadow.
Moving before her conscious mind had a chance to catch up, Arrow straightened and cast her wards out, drawing on every particle of power she had. The mage fire, a great sheet of lethal power, met her wards and she could not hold in the sharp cry at the twist of another mage’s power against her own even as her own wards blazed, silver blinding in the morning light.
Holding the mage at bay she was dimly aware of shouting around her, of rapid voices in Erith and common tongue, of the burning pressure in her lungs and a trickle of something warm under her nose. Then the pressure abruptly eased, and she recognised Erith battle wards, the White Guard raising their own defences, slipping in, and bolstering her own shields.
“Hold the ward,” she snarled in Erith, “whilst I deal with this.” Without looking round to see if she had been understood, she started forward, gathering power, drawing what energy she could from the land around. Shifkin land, used to the gentle manner in which the shifkin lived with their territory, the land poured energy into her. Gathering power, she felt the static charge sending her wild hair scattering about her head, trails of electricity across her face, tingling at her fingertips.
As soon as she was out of the shadow of the warehouse, past the protection of the ‘kin, the mage sent another cascade of fire her way. Using a technique she had only read about before she opened a net of her own power, caught the other mage’s fire inside her own, the unfamiliar energy a grate against her senses, then sent the bundle back towards the hidden mage. A shriek of rage and pain was her reward and she started running.
She left the street
behind quickly and crashed through the ‘kin’s borders, onto the wild land that the shifkin used, heedless of the uneven ground, somehow staying on her feet as the growing light showed her a figure draped in an Erith cloak, more power gathering at its fingertips, runes in bright amber power sparking in the air. Arrow did not recognise the spell but saw a rune for concealment amongst the mix.
“Halt!” she called, stupidly, and threw a wild, careless, shock of mage fire out into the other mage’s spell. Another scream of rage greeted her, and the figure turned, giving Arrow one brief glimpse of a face she knew before the air around the figure rippled and the figure seemed to simply disappear before her eyes.
CHAPTER 11
It was impossible, Arrow told herself, that the mage had simply vanished. The air was still, no ripples of a translocation spell in the first or second worlds. She reviewed the runes she had seen even as her feet carried her to the point where the mage had vanished. Concealment. Disguise. Something else that she had not been able to see properly.
Casting her senses open, heedless of the normal dangers, she could see nothing in the first world. It was as though the mage had indeed vanished.
She was aware of rapid footfalls, the scent of steel and weapons oil, the faint trace of familiar Erith scents and the fresh scents of the shifkin. That reassured her that she had not entirely lost her mind. There had to be an explanation as to why the mage had managed to disappear so thoroughly.
In the second world there was a swirl of disturbance where the mage had vanished, a smoky fissure with no real substance. She released her first world senses, losing the scents and sounds that could distract her, and fell willingly into the second world. Reaching out, she brushed her fingers along the fissure, sensing the smoke as an oddly comforting warmth against her spirit skin.
It remained elusive, just beyond her grasp, and she felt a frustrated growl in her throat. She took a step forward, warmth of the smoke surrounding her, and found that there was something beyond the smoke. Reinforcing her personal wards and checking to make sure the spirit sword was still safe at her back, hidden from sight in the first world, she took another step forward, hand reaching out to grasp the thicker strand of smoke she could see, feeling something slide against her palm even as her fingers could not grasp it. Another breath and she redoubled her effort, straining with every sense to understand.
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