by Deck Davis
Jakub shook his head. It didn’t matter; he had another vial of salve in his bag. It was only his upbringing in the Queen’s academy that stopped him using it on his nose. As well as highlighting the important of looting, the academy also instilled a sense of thrift in its students, and this lesson had seeped into Jakub’s core. It was better to ride the pain out and save the salve for when he really need it.
Besides, he didn’t want to show the Killeshi that she’d hurt him.
“Let’s get the essence and then get out of here,” he said to Kortho.
“We’d thank you for not telling the rest of your tribe that we were here,” Kortho said. “The wyrm husks, venom sacs, and whatever eggs you find are yours. Everything except the mother’s soul essence.”
“My tribe?” said the woman.
“You are Killeshi, aren’t you?”
She seemed to think carefully about her words for a second, before finally saying, “When warriors meet in the fields of battle, it is custom to share names.”
“I don’t see how that matters,” said Kortho.
“I would like to know who my two …saviors…are,” said the Killeshi.
“Kortho and Jakub.”
“And you are from….”
“That doesn’t matter. We’ll take the essence and leave.”
Kortho approached the dead wyrm mother now. Nearby, over by the nest mound, dozens of nest wyrms were writhing out of fresh holes. Jakub braced himself for a last attack, but then remembered something from his mind palace; when a wyrm mother died, the surviving wyrms simply left, looking for a new nest with a different wrym mother.
“Come, lad,” said Kortho. “You can take the essence from the wyrm. My necklace is full.”
Jakub felt like he should say something to the woman, but he didn’t know what. It was like his brain was nagging at him to speak to her. To say thank you, maybe?
No, not that. Something else, there was something he should say. Some instinct he had to pay heed to, but he didn’t know what.
The woman was strange in that she didn’t conform to his idea of what the Killeshi were. He’d always pictured them as savages; rough looking, with strange customs and a strange language.
This woman, though, with her eyes that were part green but mostly blue now from the loss of mana, and with her long, black hair in braids - she was alluring in a way that none of the girls back in the academy had been.
“The birds haven’t come back to their nests yet,” said the woman, pointing at the trees nearby. “That’s a bad omen.”
“Jakub,” said Kortho. “Come on. We have work to do.”
“Right.” Guess my boots of focus don’t work when it comes to girls, he thought. “What’s your name?” he asked the woman.
The Killeshi ignored him, and instead walked over to the wyrm nest. She took a single strip of steel no larger than her thumb from her bag. She placed this on the ground, and the steel grew outwards and upwards until it was a metal cage.
It was artificery, and it worked in the same way that Jakub and Kortho’s artificed tents did; it appeared small at first but grew larger when needed.
The Killeshi grabbed fleeing wryms and put them in the cage until she had half a dozen of them writhing inside it.
Jakub shrugged. She wouldn’t tell him her name, and now she was going about her business. With the daylight fading, it was time for him to do the same.
First, he checked the wyrms that the Killeshi had killed to see if there was any loot. It might have seemed a strange place to look for some, but Jakub had learned about this peculiarity of loot early in his academy education.
When a person or a creature were killed, they went into the Greylands - the place between life and death - where they would stay until their resurrection window closed.
As a thanks for the souls that had been sent to it, the Greylands would send back loot as a thank you to whoever had killed its latest arrivals. There was no rhyme or reason to what loot was sent back, other than the greater the dead person or creature’s soul, the greater the loot sent back as thanks.
As for who in the Greylands managed such a custom, not even the master necromancers knew. The study of life and death was an ocean, and even the greatest necromancer loremaster had only studied a cup’s worth.
It was possible for a person to go into the Greylands without dying – Jakub had been there himself.
It was, though, so dangerous that the academy only sanctioned it when it was time for a necromancy student to get his binded animal and they were accompanied by two necromancy masters.
The Greylands were a destructive place for a mortal mind, and Jakub hoped it would be a long, long time before he had cause to go back. Hopefully, he would be a master by then, and he’d only be going in to protect a graduate.
That was years down the line, and he was glad of it.
Jakob looked around for a while. “Damn it.”
No loot had been sent back this time. He guessed that wyrm souls weren’t worthy of thanks.
He joined Kortho at the mother wyrm’s side and then took out his necklace. Damn it; he was completely out of essence. Focusing on the dead beast, he sifted through his skills, seeing the illusory words form in front of him.
Glyphline 1: Soul Harvest
Spells:
Essence Grab [1]
He brought the words of Essence Grab to his mind. As he went to speak it, the mother wyrm moved.
It was a slight movement; not even her whole body.
“Move,” said the Killeshi, and she stepped back from the creature.
There was a popping sound. Jakub looked for the source, worried that one of the wyrms growing along her body had survived the fight.
Instead, one of her poison thorns shot out.
Jakub flinched and ducked, but the thorn didn’t head toward him.
It hit Kortho in the chest, its tipped tearing through his metal armor and digging into his skin.
8
Jakub ran at the mother wyrm and plunged his sword into what was left of her underbelly, gritting his teeth as he forced the blade deeper. She gave one last shudder and this time she was truly dead.
Kortho lay on his back. The thorn, larger than Jakub’s arm, was wedged deep in his mentor’s chest, with the pointed end so far in his skin that he couldn’t see it. All he could see was the smooth end, where the thorn had once been attached to the mother wyrm.
He rushed over to him. “Kortho, does it hurt?”
Does it hurt?
A stupid thought, a stupid thing to say. He was losing himself to worry. Even the damn boots of focus weren’t doing anything to help.
The thorn was too big, and it was wedged too deep. Looking at his mentor, at the instructor who should have kept a professional distance between them like the rest of the instructors but instead had invited Jakub into his home on the holidays, he felt sick. Not just nauseous, but a paralyzing sickness.
He remembered his mind lessons with Instructor Fowler, and he cast his emotions away with a mental shove, leaving only practicality.
“Can you breathe?”
Kortho spoke, but his voice was quiet. “I can’t feel a thing.”
“You’re going into shock.”
Jakub took off his overcoat. He wanted to lay it over Kortho for when the shock made him cold, but it was impossible to position it with a thorn sticking from his mentor’s chest.
It was only when he carefully laid it over Kortho’s belly and legs that he noticed the blood leaking down his torso and dropping between the rivulets where his liguanan scales joined. The sight should have worried him, but it was a good one because he could see that there wasn’t as much blood as he’d have expected. There was time.
He unwrapped Kortho’s leather bag from his shoulder and took a vial of restoration from it.
The Killeshi woman joined them, kneeling a foot away. “A potion won’t save him now,” she said.
Jakub ignored her. He uncorked the vial and let drips o
f the red liquid splotch his right sleeve.
“I don’t think you are using that the way it is intended,” said the woman. “Shouldn’t you treat where his skin is broken?”
“Restoration potion heals wounds by knitting them together. I don’t want his flesh to knit itself over the thorn, because it will be impossible to get it out.”
“Then pull it out now.”
“The thorn is stopping him bleeding to death,” said Jakub. “That’ll buy me some time.”
“Time for what?”
“To save him,” said Jakub, and he dabbed his restoration-stained sleeve on the edges of Kortho’s wound. Such a trace amount of potion wasn’t enough to knit the wounds together, but it would take away some of the pain. Kortho wasn’t moving now so it was hard to say how much pain he was actually in, but Jakub didn’t want to take the chance.
“The only time you’ll need is to read him his last rites. What’s your religion, lizard?” she said.
Anger threatened to penetrate his forced calm. “Are there any doctors around here? The nearest town is fifty miles away, isn’t it? Are there any villages closer?”
“There’s the Red Nose Killeshi tribe a few miles east.”
That wasn’t ideal, but it was something. “How do I get there?”
“You walk there, but it’ll be the last journey you ever make.”
“What about your tribe? Where are you from? You can tell them that we helped you, that…”
“You call that help? Let’s not pretend your reasons for running in like hogs smelling shit were altruistic. I know what you are and why you want essence.”
“I need to get him to someone who can heal the wound as I pull the thorn out. If I do it without someone who can heal it as we go, he’ll lose too much blood.”
“If you leave the thorn in, he will die much sooner.”
“What?”
“It is pumping venom into him. That’ll be a much quicker death, I promise you.”
Jakub ran his hands over his forehead and through his hair, spreading Kortho’s blood through his black locks. “I can’t believe this. All I have is a salve of agony. Nothing for poison.”
At this, the Killeshi sucked in her cheeks. “Well, you did give me some of your salve, and I suppose that you didn’t need to do that. Maybe I can help.”
“What can you do?”
“Let’s talk price.”
There was no holding back his anger now. It burst through his lake of calm and made a splash. Thinking about everything the Killeshi had done to him made a fresh one – his possibly broken nose, splash. Her bargaining while Kortho lay dying, splash.
He was a necromancer, he reminded himself. He was here on important business, and that should have been enough for her to help. The Arcane Boundaries protected the Killeshis too, after all.
Now it wasn’t only that, but a master necromancer lay dying as well. If the Killeshi could give him assistance, he had a right to demand it.
It was a question of doing what was right, or what was necessary. What he was about to do wasn’t right, but it had to be done to save Kortho.
He quickly switched his sword around so he held it with the hilt sticking out. Without giving her chance to react, he stood up and launched at her, and he smashed her nose.
She fell backward, and he kicked her chest with the bottom on his boot, putting her on her back. Then he switched the grip of his sword and stood over her with the blade inched from her throat.
“What’s wrong? Are your bones made of glass?” he said.
Her face twisted in anger, and the little green remaining in her eyes glowed.
“Don’t try any magic,” he said.
The glow faded. Her anger receded, and she gave a mocking smile. “I knew I could bring it out of you,” she said.
“What?”
“Your anger is waiting beneath the surface. I saw its colors inside you; all red and dark and bursting to get out.”
He ignored this. Part of his mental training in the academy had involved tricks an enemy might try, how they might attempt to toy with your mind. She was trying to goad him into a mistake.
“You said you can help.”
“As I said; for a price. It’ll take more than a broken nose to change that.”
He pushed the blade closer to her until the tip poked against her skin.
“There’s still a price,” she said.
He couldn’t scare her and he wouldn’t really kill her, so he relented. “What’s your price?”
“Draw your essence from the wyrm. That’s what I need from you.”
“For what, exactly?”
“I will show you back at my hut.”
“Jakub,” said Kortho.
His scales had paled in color, and fresh blood leaked from the edges of his wound. The thorn was acting as a vacuum for it, but not a perfect one. He’d still bleed out eventually. Worse, the venom was spreading; Jakub could see it now. Little vein-like lines of black spreading across Kortho’s chest scales.
Kortho strained to raise his arm and curled his claw to beckon him over.
Joining him, Jakub used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away some of the blood.
“Get the essence and go to the outpost,” he said.
“I’m not going to leave you.”
Kortho grabbed his arm and squeezed. “The window is closing. We have to know what the soldier saw before he died, or we’ll never know where they took Helmund’s body.”
“You think that’s worth losing a master necromancer? The academy wouldn’t want that.”
Kortho squeezed harder. “The academy doesn’t have a say; the Queen values the Arcane Boundaries more than she does her necromancers, and when she speaks, the academy listens. We don’t know what the traitor told the Baelin.”
“I’m not strong enough for a full resurrection spell yet, and we’d never get you back to the academy before it’s too late for one of the instructors to revive you.”
“Forget about me and go to the outpost. This is more important.”
Jakub looked deep into Kortho’s eyes. “What about Wersini? Shall I tell her you gave up?”
“Go, Jakub.”
“You don’t want to die. Forget the never fear death bullshit. Yours eyes are telling me what I need to know.”
Kortho seemed to process what Jakub had said. “Girl,” he said.
The Killeshi woman walked over, rubbing her nose. Dried blood lined her nostrils. She strolled toward them as if she had all the time she could ever need, and then smiled. “How can I help?” she said, bowing theatrically. Jakub couldn’t believe her lack of empathy.
“You said you can help me,” said Kortho.
“Yes, for a pri-”
“We will pay your price. If Jakub leaves us for a while, can you help me?”
“I can’t heal you and I can’t close your wounds, so we can’t pull the thorn out. I have things in my hut that can slow the poison.”
“He’s heavier than he looks,” said Jakub.
The Killeshi cupped her hands around her mouth and faced the thornweeds beyond them. She made a sound that was a mixture between a bird and a horse.
With a stamp of hooves, a groff soon clomped over to them. This groff was a chestnut-brown color, and like most of its kind it was shaped like a horse, but with the plumage of a bird.
Most groffs had little stubs on their sides from where their wings were clipped, but this didn’t. Its wings were intact, indicating incredible trust between it and the woman. After all, if it was unhappy with her in any respect it could fly away.
“Bert and I will take you,” she said, jerking her thumb at the groff.
Jakub looked at Kortho. “Are you sure about this?”
Kortho nodded.
“Then I’ll go to the outpost, perform Last Rites and then find you. Where’s your hut?”
“Do you have a map?” said the woman.
Jakub pressed the dot tattoo on his thump, and a webbing of light spun in
front of him. This was his map, and it worked in a similar way to the illusory text that formed in the air when he gained experience or skills. He didn’t like relying on the map, but he hadn’t had time to commit the terrain map of the Killeshi region to his mental palace.
Normally this map would only be visible to himself, but he chose to let the woman see it.
She whistled. “A fancy trick. I have the same thing, but it’s in my head - I call it my memory. See this canyon here? My hut is half a mile east.”
After marking the Killeshi’s hut on his map, Jakub used Essence Grab to drain the soul essence from the mother wrym. Not only did it fill his soul necklace until it was completely blue, but words formed in front of him.
*Necromancy Experience Gained!*
[IIIIIIIIII ]
“You’ll need to heal your arm and your hand, too,” said Jakub. “The wyrms got you good.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Go on your errand and then hurry back; I have other things to do than look after the lizard.”
9
When Jacob reached the outpost, alone this time, daylight had left and the black of twilight gave the row of severed heads an even more sinister feel. Although decomposition had yet to fully consume the deceased flesh, there was a lingering aroma of rot in the air.
Jakub didn’t give the smell a second’s thought, since his necromancy training meant he had breathed in the stench of death regularly. He walked beyond the heads and back into the outpost.
He was fixed on what he needed to do; use the essence he’d drained from the mother wyrm to perform Last Rites on the solider. When he watched the man’s final few seconds of life, he hoped he’d have a clue about what happened here and who had taken the traitor’s body.
Then, once they found a way to fix Kortho up, they could follow the trail and recover the corpse of the traitor. They had to do it soon; with every second, the window of resurrection closed further.
When that window closed, it was all over. Failure. He didn’t know what would happen in the grand scheme of things, since he was just a part in a machine, but he knew what it meant for him personally.
