by T P Sheehan
“That, or knock him out for a few hours. It looks like he’ll pull through, but not for some time,” said the unfamiliar voice.
Nightshade? They poisoned me… His muscles and heart burned—Thioci’s blood was working its magic and the poison’s effectiveness was dwindling faster than his assaulters were anticipating. Magnus’s consciousness was returning. He opened his eyes to a blurry squint. There was an altercation in the far corner of the dimly lit tent. A body was thrashing about and several others were trying to hold the victim still. Muffled yells pulled Magnus out of his daze. The thrashing body was Catanya.
Magnus blinked, clearing his vision enough to assess the situation. To his right were three Quagmen with Catanya and to his left was Delik. Lucas’s sword and scabbard were resting on a chair midway between him and Delik. His hands were shackled behind his back and chained to an iron stake driven deep into the ground. He kept as still as a statue and closed his eyes again, not wanting to compromise the element of surprise. He concentrated on the shackles, trying to bring heat to them. Heat built in his torso and thrust through his limbs making him jolt. Magnus squinted his eyes open again. The Quag warriors were too busy settling a thrashing Catanya to notice. Delik, however, was looking right at him. The heat in Magnus’s arms mounted, yet had little effect on the iron shackles. Curse them. Frustrated, Magnus wrenched his head about. It was as if the shackles, chains and stake were of a dead metal. They would not respond to heat.
“MEN!” Delik shouted a warning.
One of the Quagman turned and looked to Delik, then to Magnus. “Get this wench under control!” the Quagmen demanded of his accomplices. Magnus directed his strength into pulling on his shackles in order to tear the stake from the ground.
“It’s pointless, Balgur,” the Quagman grunted, clearly recognising Magnus from his time in Ba’rrat’s arena where he used the pseudonym ‘Balgur’ as a tribute to the great dragon slayed by Delvion. “That steel is ‘black-steel’. More spells on that than any dragon can unfurl—least of all you. But, by all means, fight it! The more exhausted you are, the easier it’ll be for Delvion to deal with you.”
Catanya was forced to the ground beside Magnus. Her shackled arms were chained to the same stake he was. The gag from her mouth was pulled free. Catanya spat on the ground next to her and glared at Delik—her eyes wild with anger.
“Catanya!” Magnus slurred his words. Catanya stared at him, blinked, shook her head and stared again.
“Magnus?” Catanya was groggy and her eyes were out of focus.
“You’ve been concussed.”
“How did they catch you?”
“Poison. Somehow… the ale perhaps.”
The three Quagmen left the tent in discussion. Magnus looked at Delik who was pacing nervously. Whatever his agenda was, Magnus sensed it was not going entirely to plan. Catanya shimmied over to Magnus, resting her body on his. Magnus looked at the back of her head where she’d been struck. Blood was matted into her hair and over her neck. He looked at Delik again.
“I assume you know what you’re doing, Delik?” Magnus asked. Delik drew himself tall. “Delvion and the Quag have fallen in Ba’rrat. You’ve a thunder of dragons at your doorstep and you hold us captive?”
Magnus’s words seemed to agitate Delik even more. His pacing quickened and he started to blink erratically. Magnus continued to stare at Delik but his mind was wandering—no doubt an effect of the nightshade. Flashbacks of the violence in Ba’rrat’s arena burst bloodily into sight. A hundred fights. Then Briet, then father killed Crugion, Lucas killing Ganister and Delvion escaping…
“Magnus,” Catanya said.
Magnus blinked and shook his mind free of the past.
“They know you’re the Electus,” she whispered.
“I gathered as much.” Magnus looked Catanya in the face. Her eyes widened and blinked. She was still suffering the effects of concussion. Magnus was furious. It was the fury he’d become accustomed to and knew he’d inherited from Thioci. Thioci had died, but he went down fighting with fury in his eyes. Whether today or another day, he wondered if he would go the same way.
“So it is true then,” Delik stopped his pacing. “You are the Electus.” Magnus stared at him. His manner had done a complete about face. He was calm and snake-like, taking everything in. “When did it happen? When did you receive the blood of a dragon?”
Magnus found Delik’s erratic change of manner confusing. Was he being serious? Was he allowing his curiosity to override the apprehension he felt moments ago?
There was a cracking sound and Catanya moved restlessly. Another cracking sound made Catanya moan. She pushed her head into Magnus’s shoulder and whispered something. Magnus leaned over such that her mouth was at his ear. “I’m free,” Catanya whispered again. Magnus looked into her eyes and saw she was actually awake and focused.
Without looking at her further, and to avoid suspicion, Magnus returned his attention to Delik who was still considering him and Catanya, but kept his distance. Magnus gathered the well-groomed artisan was not sure of what to make of them. “What makes you think there was a dragon involved?” He asked Delik in response to his own question. It was a stupid, cryptic question, but he sensed it would intrigue the inquisitive man. Sure enough, a smirk came to Delik’s face.
“So, you’ve found another means of achieving such powers. I suspected this was the case, seeing that the Fire Dragons are still alive. That’s not the usual custom—”
“And you think no other Realms possess living dragons, do you?” Magnus interrupted Delik, continuing his folly. Delik was silenced. “You’ve spent too long away from the realms. Too long in bad company craving what they crave and can’t have.”
Delik retorted—“A wise man once said to me, ‘all virtuous men come to desire power—’”
“‘But not all are destined for it.’ I’ve heard it myself,” Magnus finished the words Delvion had spoken to him back in Ba’rrat. They gave verification that Delik had been consorting with Delvion. Delik was silenced. “You see Delvion as a wise man? Wise enough to manipulate you, perhaps.”
Suddenly, Catanya was on bended knee with an arm outstretched. Magnus looked at her then back to Delik. He had a knife in his throat. The man staggered while Catanya ignited her lance and used it to split the shackles on Magnus’s wrist. Whatever spell kept him from manipulating the steel of the shackles had little defence against her fire-bronze weapon. Magnus got to his feet and caught Delik before he hit the floor. He lowered the man to the ground in silence and retrieved Lucas’s sword.
Catanya extinguished her lance and sheathed it, then looked at her hands. Both her thumbs were dislocated. To free herself of the shackles, Magnus realised. She snapped her thumbs back into position then felt the back of her head, wincing. “Ouch…” Catanya scrunched her nose.
The three Quagmen re-entered the tent. Magnus stood between them and Catanya. The Quagmen drew their black blades. Magnus drew Lucas’s sword and pointed it at the first Quagman.
A GYPSY’S OATH
The fire was hardly necessary. It was a balmy summer evening with a temperate breeze blowing in from the Neverseas to the south. Still, Bonstaph was glad to have it. The fire seemed to give Sarah something to focus on and perhaps even clear her head.
In all the years he had known Sarah—since Ganister has managed to win her gypsy heart—Bonstaph had never seen her like this. Nor have I needed to tell her such horrific news… The day after he saw his best friend slain, Bonstaph told Sarah he was killed by Delvion’s sorcerer. Amidst the dust and confusion of the violent and political skirmish, Ganister was slain in the flash of an eye. Six months imprisoned and Ganister never tasted freedom. Bonstaph believed some justice was paid forward in having slayed Delvion’s son that same day. Twenty years after slaying his eldest son. At least I put an end to his lineage…
Sarah had listened in silence as Bonstaph explained her husband’s death. Not once did she take her eyes off him as he told her everythi
ng that had passed. That was two days ago. Sarah had been silent ever since. She stared into the fire for hours, occasionally reaching out with her hands, feeling the flames lick her palms, then drawing back into herself. Bonstaph knew it was more than just mourning she was going through—Sarah’s mind was at work.
During the intervening two days, Bonstaph had busied himself forging Brindle into a stronghold of defence. The fortifications to Brindle’s west were holding strong, but Bonstaph knew they needed more. He formed a committee with members of the Brindle townsfolk together with refugees who were fleeing captivity in Ba’rrat.
“You need to rid Brindle of its former Quag dictatorship and defend it from invasion. There is no time for lamenting what is lost, nor claiming rights to ownership,” Bonstaph explained to the committee. He was taking the role of Commander, but reiterated the need for the committee to be autonomous. He yearned to move on and had a myriad of reasons for wanting to, but he pushed them aside to focus on the task at hand.
By order of the committee, Brindle’s regime had to be strict. As each person arrived at the western border seeking refuge, they were vetted. Those too weak to work were provided food and medicine. Everyone else was put to task. Cooks, builders, blacksmiths and swordsmiths were utilised for their skills, others became cleaners, scouts, messengers, or joined the fighting regime. The people were split into working shifts around the clock. Local fisherman and farmers would source food to be cooked in homes then taken to the town square for distribution. Everyone met at the town square for two meals each day. Only those forming the wall of defence were fed at their posts.
Two days in, Brindle was finally running with the precision Bonstaph demanded. One of the young refugees quickly won Bonstaph’s confidence and became his right-hand man. He was a tall, wiry lad with curly black hair. Bonstaph guessed he was about Magnus’s age. His name was ‘Walt’. Walt was a healer, but after months as a slave with shackles on his ankles, being forced to heal wounded Quagmen, all he wanted to do was run. Bonstaph soon learned he was good at it. Walt established a network of runners, mostly made of young boys and girls too slight to build fortifications or wield a sword, and too restless to clean or tend to the sick. Yet, they were fast enough to form a network of communication between Bonstaph, committee members, the fortifications that were extending around the entire perimeter of Brindle, and scouts who monitored the lands as far north as the Black Cliffs.
Bonstaph learned that Walt knew Magnus and was taken into custody at the same time as him. During his time in Ba’rrat, Walt had been able to garner information about the battle in the Uydferlands. Bonstaph learned that the defences of Nuyan were holding strong along the banks of the Nuyan River, and the Quag had abandoned their assault to the north along the Quarry border. But this was not all. Walt also explained Lucas’s story in detail, from his altercation with the wyvern until he fled from Csilla’s command in the Uydferlands.
For much of the two days in Brindle, Bonstaph grieved for Lucas, for Ganister, and for the truth that Sarah would someday have to learn. However, no matter how he tried to broach the subject, Bonstaph could not bring himself to do so, for he was sure Sarah did not have the strength at this time to cope with such knowledge.
During the day, Sarah had taken on a remedial role in Brindle serving meals in the town square. Bonstaph could see her role allowed her to avoid conversation and intuitive inclinations—both qualities that Sarah used to thrive on. For three nights in a row, Bonstaph had found Sarah resting atop the hill overlooking an abandoned chancel. It was a peaceful spot and gave Bonstaph an effective vantage spot to survey the township and the fortifications beyond. Bonstaph had lit a fire each night and the two of them would stare at it without conversation.
“Tell me about this sorcerer,” Sarah asked on the third night, finally breaking her silence. “What of him now?” Sarah was pushing. Bonstaph knew she would not relent.
“He fled with Delvion. As I could tell, northward over the Black Cliffs toward the Corville Mountains.”
“You saw it with your own eyes? You saw the sorcerer flee?”
“Aye. Riding a large mountain wyvern. The largest I’ve ever seen.”
Sarah drew a long stick from the fire and prodded, making wood and embers tumble and flare angrily. “And what did you think, when you saw my husband’s killer take his leave?”
Bonstaph was being tested. He should have killed the sorcerer—that is what Sarah wanted to hear him say. “At the time, I cursed after him, swearing I would kill both the sorcerer and Delvion.” It was the truth. Bonstaph recalled shouting words to this effect. Just moments later, Magnus handed me Lucas’s sword.
Sarah threw the stick into the fire and contemplated things a moment longer. “In my lifetime, I will see this sorcerer dead,” Sarah finally declared. “As sure as I will find my son and hold him in my arms again.” Sarah looked at Bonstaph. “As I have held Magnus these past months. I held him dear to me as a son, Bonstaph.”
Bonstaph was without words. Sarah reached beneath her tunic and drew a blade. Wrapping a fist around it, she pulled the blade free, slicing through the flesh of her palm. Blood ran between her fingers and she reached the hand out over the fire. The fire sizzled as her blood dripped over the glowing embers. “A gypsy’s oath…”
“Sarah, don’t.” Bonstaph moved to pull her hand free of the fire but she warned him off with the other hand that still held the blade. Sarah held her bloody hand over the flames that licked at her wound, scorching it. She did not flinch.
“Born of blood and bond of fire. This sorcerer I will see dead in this life.”
Sarah’s gypsy oath was sealed.
MARSALA
“It’s a ghost town. That’s all Thwax is.” Catanya rubbed her thumbs.
“You’ll have aching bones when you’re old if you keep dislocating joints like that,” Magnus said, smiling. He could not help himself. Catanya frowned and shouldered his arm.
The parched wooden sign marked ‘Thwax’ lay covered in dust and dead leaves on the overgrown roadside. True as Catanya said, the town seemed to be abandoned. Arriving at night did little to make the place seem inviting. A southerly wind blew misty, salted air from the ocean, cloaking the moonlit coastal town in a blue fog. “So, this is where Eamon says we will find Marsala.” Magnus had his doubts. But then… Nothing is ever straightforward with Eamon.
It had been two days since they left the artisans’ camp east of Brindle. They could have made the journey in one and were inclined to, having slain the three Quagman and Delik. However, Magnus recalled and regretted telling Willem they were headed east. By staggering their progress to Thwax and doubling back a way every few hours, they were certain no one had tracked them.
Magnus felt uneasy with the way he dealt with the three Quagmen back at the camp. He used none of his powers as he did to defeat Briet in the arena, or the Quagman at the river. ‘Why was that?’ Catanya had asked him. He could not think to explain to himself, no more to Catanya, why he took them on with sword only. It was a conscious decision that came with risk. But here now in Thwax, cloaked in the blue fog, it seemed to come to a clearer mind.
“It was Briet,” Magnus lamented. Catanya had been scouting Thwax for any signs of life. She stopped to give her attention to Magnus. “I was always afraid of confronting him again. I’d always run from him. In the arena, I had to face him but I hesitated.” Magnus recalled how he wounded Briet, cutting him deep in the thigh. “It was right then, I stood back and hesitated. It was as though I had done what I feared I couldn’t do, but then couldn’t believe I had done it.”
“You hesitated but you overcame him again. He only cut you with his sword after you halted the fight with the blow of the Quag horn.” Catanya’s voice grew stern. “He broke the rules of the fight and you improvised.”
“Aye…” Magnus’s thoughts wandered. “I dropped my guard.”
“And this is why you fought these Quagmen as you did?” Catanya said. “To reassure yourself that y
ou can beat Delvion’s warriors as Magnus-the-swordsman, without the assistance of Magnus-the-Electus?”
“I guess so, yes.” Magnus stroked his beard, feeling the sea mist moisture in it.
“Then tell me now, are you reassured? If it comes to it, are you going to take on Delvion with your bare hands for further assurance?”
Magnus was unsure how much Catanya spoke in jest, but she made her point. “I am reassured, Catanya. And I’d rather not face Delvion for any reason.”
Catanya stroked Magnus’s beard herself. “I think that’s a healthy attitude to have.”
Magnus and Catanya walked through every building ruin and down every overgrown street of Thwax searching for any sign of Marsala. In time, the ocean breeze abated. Stillness overtook the town. Each step Magnus took crunched over broken rubble—sufficient to give away their whereabouts to any onlooker who may be watching.
“Are you thinking we’re being watched?” Catanya asked.
“Aye. By the dead or the living?” Magnus said. Catanya stopped. She reached for her lance. “Catanya. I was making a joke—”
“Over by the jetty. Beneath the lamp.” Catanya pointed. A little over fifty yards away, a jetty jutted out over the ocean and into the night. At the very start of the jetty, a lamp was dimly lit. Beneath it was the dark silhouette of a person sitting on a chair.
“That lamp was not lit before.” Magnus was sure of it.
“I walked down that jetty earlier, while you were over there.” Catanya pointed off to her left.
“What?” Magnus whispered. “We’ve not left one another’s side. Not once the fog blew in.”
Magnus and Catanya locked eyes. They looked back to the stranger, unmoving and dark beneath the lamp. Slowly, they walked toward the jetty. Catanya held her sleeping lance. Magnus was ready to draw his sword. Twenty yards short of the jetty lamp, the stranger lifted their head and looked to them. It was a woman. She had the palest of skin and the wildest of hair in every colour imaginable. Some hair sat tall, some hung in matted lengths down her body. Her cheeks each had a small tattoo and her eyelids were painted as dark as her lips. She sat cross-legged on her chair in silence. Having considered Magnus and Catanya, her head lowered. She was knitting what appeared to be a shawl. Without lifting her eyes from her knitting, she spoke.
