Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  But it wasn’t an owl. Rylan knew the sounds of all the night creatures within a hundred leagues of his home. There had been nothing natural about that shriek.

  “It’s not a bird,” he said.

  At the sound of his voice, both mages sat upright. Gil climbed to his feet and walked away from their campfire a few paces, peering out into the murky bank of fog. He stood there for seconds, eyes scanning the darkness.

  “Where are the horses?” Ashra asked.

  Rylan looked around. She was right; the horses had wandered off. The knowledge made every nerve in his body spring taut. He rose painfully to his feet and started inching around the campfire toward his saddlebag, where he had a short dagger tucked away. But the mage put his hand out, warning him to stop.

  “Don’t move,” Gil whispered over his shoulder. “Both of you stay put.”

  To Rylan’s dismay, Gil strode away from their camp and was quickly swallowed by the fog. Ignoring the mage, he made his way to his bag and rummaged through it, retrieving his sheathed dagger. The motion made his wound scream in protest. The Malikari woman glanced at him and, seeing what he was about, shook her head emphatically.

  “Put it down!” she hissed.

  Rylan ignored her. He closed his eyes and focused his attention on his hearing, softening the sounds of his breath. Gil’s footsteps carried toward them through the fog, barely audible. And other noises as well. Other footsteps. Many of them. He glanced down at the dagger in his hand, his mouth going dry. It was not a weapon he could wield effectively. At least, not in his current state.

  The crack of a snapping twig warned him of the mage’s return. He glanced up to see Gil emerging from the fog, leading the horses. Rylan let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “There’s people out there,” Gil reported in a whisper. “I don’t know who, and I don’t know what they’re about. But I’m not going to stay to find out. Let’s get out of here. And be quiet about it.”

  They loaded their belongings onto the horses and mounted up. Rylan gritted his teeth as he swung his leg over his horse’s back. A stabbing pain lanced like a hot poker through the wound in his chest, making him wince. To his chagrin, the mage and his acolyte were staring at him with concern in their eyes.

  Ashra nodded in the direction of the road, but Gil shook his head. He turned his horse away from the road, then kicked it forward. The sounds of hoofbeats and the creak of saddles would signal their presence for anyone listening. Rylan wondered who was out there in the fog and whether or not they posed a threat.

  They rode at a trot across a farmer’s open field, parting the mist before them as a ship’s keel parts the waves. The moon shone drearily through the fog, its light somber and diffuse. Rylan concentrated on the sound of his horse’s hoofs, trying to distract himself from the pain.

  A shadow passed by overhead, for a brief second eclipsing the moonlight. Another shrill shriek pierced the night. Rylan looked up just in time to see a pair of dark, leathery wings gliding away, soon lost in the mist.

  6

  Word of Command

  Gil kicked his horse to a gallop, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure his two companions were following. He didn’t know what that screeching sound was, but Rylan was right—it wasn’t natural. He directed his mount in the general direction of the lowlands, his eyes studying the sky.

  Beneath him, his horse gathered itself, then leapt over a berm that marked the edge of the grainfield. It broke across a dirt road into the woodland on the other side. There, Gil drew back on the reins, bringing the lathered animal to a halt. The gelding whinnied, stomping its hooves and rolling its eyes. The horse hadn’t liked whatever it was that had been chasing them in the sky. Gil waited for the others to draw up beside him, then he nodded toward the west.

  “The transfer portal’s in the middle of a bog not too far from here,” he said.

  “The bog’s that way,” Rylan corrected him, pointing further south.

  Gil didn’t argue; the farmer knew the area a lot better than he did. With all the shrieking going on overhead, he’d probably gotten turned around in the fog.

  “What was that thing?” Ashra asked.

  Gil could only shrug. “I have no idea.”

  He glanced at Rylan. The farmer was looking worse for wear again. His face was pale, and there was a fresh stain of blood on his shirt. That was a problem. With that creature overhead, he couldn’t risk using magic to heal him. Rylan would likely lose consciousness again, and they didn’t have time to wait for him to come out of it.

  He said to Rylan, “You know where the bog is. Would you mind leading?”

  The farmer nodded. Snapping his reins, he sent his horse ahead. Gil waited for Ashra to pass him before urging his gelding after. The route Rylan picked followed a meandering path through the trees; probably an old game trail. Gil kept his ears strained for the sound of more screeching, but there was none to be heard. Whatever it was hadn’t followed them—or had lost track of them. Whichever it was, he was grateful.

  It took about an hour to reach the edge of the woods. Rylan led them out of the trees and downslope into a misty, lowlands bog. The sun was starting to come up, graying the eastern sky and driving back the fog. It made only a half-hearted attempt at warming the air. The morning was still cold, almost as frigid as the night had been.

  At the edge of the marsh, Gil kicked his horse forward and drew up alongside Rylan. The farmer looked even worse than he had before. His face was streaked with sweat, and he looked half-asleep, canting a bit in the saddle.

  “Try to stay on your horse,” he advised. “If you fall off, I’ll have to heal you. But that means we’ll be stuck here with that screeching thing until you wake back up again.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Rylan said, although the weariness in his voice wasn’t reassuring. “Just get us out of here.”

  Ashra flashed Gil a concerned look. “This is not a good idea…” she began.

  “Of course it’s not,” Gil snapped. “But I don’t have a good idea. Do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  The transfer portal was situated somewhere up ahead, hidden in the depths of the bog, which meant they had to go through it. There was a noxious odor to the place, a rotten-egg smell. Gil rode holding his cloak over his face, repulsed by the scent.

  “It’s like going for a swim in a latrine,” he complained.

  He scanned the pockmarked ground ahead, which was scarcely visible through drifting clouds of swamp gas. They wound their way past stands of tall rushes and yellowed clumps of peat. When it came time to cross a section of mucky soil, his horse balked, digging its hooves into the murky ground and refusing to budge.

  He kicked his horse in the flanks, which accomplished nothing, so he redoubled his efforts. “Obstinate animal,” he grumbled, flicking the reins. “Hell of a time to throw a sulk.”

  With a smile, Ashra swung down from her horse and caught his gelding’s bridal. With a firm hand and a pat on the neck, she started the animal moving again.

  “Horses are smart,” she said, regaining her mount. “He doesn’t like the smell of this place either. I don’t blame him.”

  They continued on, following a narrow trail that wound a serpentine path bordered on both sides by grassy pools. About an hour in, they came across a dead sheep that had become mired in the bog. The back of the sheep was above water, exposed to the air, and had rotted away down to the ribs and vertebrae. The rest of the sheep was underwater and appeared perfectly preserved, its skin and wool intact. Gil couldn’t help staring at the dead sheep as they rode by, transfixed by the odd sight that was both gruesome and astonishing at the same time.

  It took another hour to reach the portal chamber. Most portals were ancient, situated in rooms carved into hillsides or dug out of the ground. The Chamsbrey portal had been created more recently, and was disguised within a shallow, murky pool, indistinguishable from th
e rest of the bog. As they guided their horses into the water, the swamp around them dissolved and became a wide, circular chamber lit by magelight that swirled over the floor.

  The clatter of their horses’ hooves on stone echoed harshly off the walls. At least the stench of the bog hadn’t followed them; instead, the place was musty and damp. In the center of the room stood a tall, cross-vaulted arch supported by four columns of rose-colored marble. The arch stood on a marble platform with a short ramp leading up to it. Beneath it, the diffuse magelight thickened and grew brilliant.

  Ashra drew her mare up and dismounted. Gil slid down from the back of his horse and tied his reins to the saddle’s horn. Then he helped Rylan dismount.

  “What is this place?” Rylan asked, looking around the chamber with an expression of awed disbelief.

  “It’s a transfer portal,” Gil answered.

  Rylan squinted at the glowing arch. “What is that?”

  “A means of getting somewhere fast,” Gil explained. “This particular portal will take us to the Lyceum in Karikesh.”

  Rylan stood frowning at the portal. “I never thought I’d be going to Karikesh willingly. Unless it was to topple its walls. I don’t suppose they like soldiers from the Kingdoms overmuch.”

  Gil said, “There’s nothing to worry about. You belong to the Lyceum now, which means you’re apart from the war.” He motioned in the direction of the portal. “Come on. Let’s get you through.”

  Ashra tried to catch Rylan’s hand, but he pulled away and glared at her distrustfully. Gil understood; Ashra was Malikari, and Rylan had spent two years fighting to drive her people out of the North. She was the enemy any soldier of the Kingdoms had been trained to hate. And trained to kill.

  Ignoring his look, Ashra said calmly, “We should enter together.”

  Rylan relented, allowing her to guide him up the ramp toward the portal arch. When he hesitated, she assured him, “There’s no reason to fear. It won’t take a second.”

  He appeared doubtful. He looked like a man fighting a battle within, a battle over much broader issues than a mere transfer portal. Patting his back, Ashra led him beneath the cross-vaulted arch. There was a brief, intense flash of light.

  Then they were gone.

  “Come on, you devils,” Gil said, tugging at the horses’ reins. His gelding started forward, the other two following behind. When the first horse approached the ramp, it lay its ears back and bobbed its head obstinately. It took a lot of goading to get it moving. Holding the gelding by the bridle, he led it forward under the archway.

  The world shifted.

  The dim walls of the chamber flickered and were gone. Other, brighter, walls rose in their place. Blinking, Gil saw Rylan lying on his back in front of the transfer portal, Ashra at his side. Gil dropped the reins of the horses and cast himself down at Rylan’s side.

  “I’ll be all right,” the farmer whispered. “Just give me a moment.”

  Gil stared down at him, realizing he needed more than just a moment. Rylan’s shirt was soaked in blood. He glanced up at Ashra, “I’ll try to heal him. Go get some help!”

  Wide-eyed, Ashra rose and ran to a flight of stairs that led upward to the ground floor. Gil put his hands on Rylan, probing him deeply. Something inside him hadn’t liked the transfer portal. The wound was active, carving its way through his chest toward his heart. Concentrating, Gil tried as hard as he could to mend it. But he had to give up after a few seconds, realizing he was doing more harm than good. Rylan had fallen unconscious, his skin a pasty white.

  Help arrived with a clatter of footsteps. He found himself surrounded by a milling crowd of servants and acolytes, until the arrival of the Rector brought order to the room. Gil looked up into the age-worn face of Master Gayle Kelson. The woman knelt down beside him and placed her hand on Rylan’s forehead, assessing his condition. She was a far better healer than he was. Within seconds, she had the wound closed.

  Motioning for the guards, she said, “Take him up to the Acolyte’s Residence. Get him into a bed.”

  Gil rose and edged back as two large men came forward to comply. They helped Rylan to his feet. When he staggered, they caught him and supported his weight between them, helping him walk toward the stairs through the crowd of anxious onlookers.

  The Rector swung back to Gil, lifting an irritated eyebrow.

  “We need the Prime Warden,” Gil said, glancing around. He wasn’t sure how much he could say in front of an audience.

  The Rector stared at him hard, as if trying to decide how far she should trust him. At last, she snapped her fingers to get the attention of the people gathered around them. “Clear the chamber!”

  At her order, the crowd dispersed immediately, acolytes and full Masters alike, until only the three of them remained.

  Gil stared down at a smear of Rylan’s blood on the tiles. “He’s our charge,” he informed the Rector. “The Prime Warden ordered us to retrieve him. That’s all I should really say.”

  Master Gayle folded her arms, sucking in a cheek. “Very well. I’ll accommodate your need for privacy,” she said. “But next time, warn me first.”

  “Of course, Rector.” Gil ducked his head.

  The Rector turned in a swirl of black robes and left the portal chamber. Gil remained behind, still staring wearily down at the darkening stain of blood. With a sigh, he took a glance back at the transfer portal, then said to Ashra, “Get the horses to the stable. Then meet me in the Residence.”

  He headed up the stairs. It took him long minutes of hunting before he found the room they had taken Rylan to on the third floor. He immediately shooed the servants out, then closed the door behind them. He lit the room’s sole oil lamp and pulled a chair up beside Rylan’s bed. The farmer was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Someone had removed his shirt and changed his bandages, and his color looked a lot better.

  Satisfied, Gil leaned back in the chair and waited.

  He must have dozed off.

  Gil awoke to the sound of the door swinging open. He shot to his feet when he saw whose face appeared in the doorway.

  Prime Warden Naia stepped into the room, followed by her husband, Quinlan Reis. Quin was Malikari, and a powerful Grand Master. He was also over a thousand years old. Gil bowed at the sight of the two of them.

  Naia waved her hand dismissively. “Be at ease.”

  Ashra entered the room behind them, moving to stand beside Gil. The Prime Warden slid into the chair, her husband moving forward to lean over the bed, studying the farmer as if the man were something of a curiosity. He pushed back the black felt hat on his head. Reaching down, he touched the bandage on Rylan’s chest, which was already spotted with fresh blood.

  Naia gazed deeply into Rylan’s sleeping face, her eyes widening, as if in recognition. She glanced up sharply at her husband.

  “Do you see it?” she whispered.

  Quin’s jaw went slack. He stared harder at Rylan. “I see it…” he said finally. He looked haunted, as though he’d just glimpsed the spirit of an ancestor.

  The Prime Warden placed a hand on Rylan’s brow and closed her eyes. “Quin,” she said, her voice breathless.

  Her husband leaned down and probed Rylan himself. Then, straightening, he removed his hat with a heavy sigh.

  “It’s a Word of Command,” he pronounced. “Bound to his heart.”

  “What is that?” Ashra whispered.

  “Just what it sounds,” the Grand Master replied. “It’s a word that commands something to happen. I’ve only ever heard of them placed on objects. A good example would be a magical lock on a door. If you speak the right Word, with the right inflection, the door opens. The same Word locks it tight again. Some Words are more complicated, more like a series of commands.”

  Ashra asked, “Are there Words that can be attached to people?”

  The Grand Master sucked in a cheek and gestured at Rylan. “Obviously, there is. Or our new friend here wouldn’t be bleeding through ban
dages. But I don’t know where it could have come from. We don’t have anything today that could be applied to a person. Words of Command are something of a lost art.”

  “Apparently, not so lost anymore,” the Prime Warden whispered, staring down at Rylan.

  The Grand Master shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be a new creation. It could be an ancient Word delivered by an artifact.”

  Hearing that, Gil reached for his pack. He opened it and fished around inside until he found the knife left behind by Rylan’s attacker. He unwrapped the cloth and handed the weapon to Quin. “Interesting workmanship, don’t you think?”

  Quin accepted the knife and held it up in front of his face. The blade was wide and slightly curved, bitten through with rust. All along the spine was an inscription made with small but highly complex characters. He brought the knife closer, squinting at it. Then, with a growl of frustration, Quin fished out a pair of spectacles. He put them on, then bent to hold the knife closer to the lantern light. He tilted it one way then the other, inspecting the blade thoroughly.

  “Interesting indeed,” he said. “I’ve never seen characters like these, but this is a powerful artifact. Whoever assailed him wasn’t necessarily trying to kill him. They were trying to control him.”

  “If that is the case, then we must assume their mission succeeded,” Naia said darkly.

  Quin placed his hat back on his head. “Not necessarily.”

  Gil stared harder at the blade, feeling a growing chill in the pit of his gut. The knife suddenly seemed even more sinister than it had just moments before. He asked, “So what does this mean for him?”

  The Grand Master’s face was grimly set. “It means that anyone who knows the right Word can kill him with a whisper.”

  “Can the Word be removed?” Naia asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, lowering the knife. He placed the weapon on the small table by the bed. Then he bent and placed his hands on Rylan’s shoulders. His face took on a look of intense concentration. After only seconds, he removed his hands and peeled back the bloody bandage. Beneath was only smooth, unblemished skin. Gil looked on in admiration; Quin had a thousand years of magical practice under his belt that he could never rival.