Torstag peered at the page. It had lots crossing out, and what looked like a prurient drawing was bleeding through from the other side. “Warlocks?”
“That’s what we are.” Ingar braced his arm to hold the everlight steady. “Read it while I think about what the girl said.”
NOTES ON BEING A WARLOCK
We’re warlocks. We have a voice in our heads called a Tempter and it thinks we’re a bag of fucking numbers. (Seriously, Numbers For Everything.)
We can remember abilities from previous incarnations. Our bodies change to catch up, which can hurt like fuck. Think a year of growing pains in a few seconds. Seriously.
NUMBERS FOR ABILITIES
We have VOCATIONS like “Burglar”, “Warrior” or “Artist” They have Levels to say how good we are, like Burglar 1 is pretty basic. Burglar 6 looks to be top professional.
Vocations are built of FEATS, which help (add +2) when doing stuff like climbing or hiding. You don’t need the feat to do the thing, but it’s handy. (These feats have boring names like “Climb” and “Hide”.) Feats cost Potestas to use, which is kind of power and focus rolled into one. (See below)
The better you know a Feat, the less Potestas it costs.
Learn enough feats and your Vocation goes up a level. Your top Vocation gives your Level. When that goes up, it’s called Levelling Up and you get a Surge.
There are also General Skills that work like Feats but don’t have a Vocation.
Some of this stuff is “Learned” the hard way, not remembered.
MORE FUCKING NUMBERS FOR BASICS WHO WE ARE MIND & BODY
We have a LEVEL, that’s our top vocation score. When that goes up, it’s called Levelling Up and you get a Surge.
We have other stuff too:
VITALITY is hit p how much how tough pretty much what it sounds like. (Vitality = 2 + Half Level)
TOUGHNESS is how quickly we recover Vitality (Toughness = Half Vitality (rounded down)). It seems to also tell us how much of a battering we can take before we’re screwed.
POTESTAS is kind of power and focus rolled into one. We burn it using Feats, but also it measures our Situational Awareness (don’t ask me how I know that term). (Vitality = 2 + Level)
WILL is how quickly we recover Potestas. (Will = Half Maximum Potestas (rounded down)). Sometimes it’s tested, e.g. to avoid freaking out.
FORM that’s the serious biggy. It’s how on the ball we are right now. Seems to range from 0 through to 4. You can grit your teeth and try to improve your form, but that costs a Potestas and doesn’t always go your way.
Actual PERFORMANCE is Form + Vocation, so on a good day we can be a fuck of a lot better than we ought to be.
Torstag turned the page, blushed at what he saw. “Is that it?”
“For now.”
They sat in silence. The wind picked up, bringing with it stinging rain, turning the cliffs black and shiny.
Ingar leaned closer. “I’ve thought about it.”
“Thought about what?”
“What the girl said, you idiot,” said Ingar.
“What did she say?” asked Torstag.
“She has an escape plan for us,” said Ingar. “Obviously.”
“No,” said Torstag.
“How can it not be an escape plan?” said Ingar.
“No, as in I won’t do it. I don’t want to be a hollowed out dead man’s puppet. And, I don’t want to escape only to swap masters. I am my own man.”
Ingar grinned. “So we’re climbing down several thousand feet of cliffs, then escape through a wilderness of unknown type, and doing so while the monks are trying to catch us?”
“That’s your damned plan,” said Torstag.
“It was a stupid plan. I always knew that,” said Ingar. “Ask your Tempter.”
Torstag looked over the side of the promontory to rock face.
Performing Scout at level 7.
He had a memory of seeing the valley floor on a clear day.
The cliffs are a level 4 challenge and would take 2 Watches to descend, including rests, raising the total Challenge to 8. 4 Fatigue would be incurred, resulting in 4 Vitality loss.
He opened his eyes. “It’s doable!”
Ingar shook his head. “Two watches is most of daylight hours, or all night. And 4 Fatigue. We wouldn’t be able to move once we got to the bottom.”
Torstag frowned.
Fatigue recovers at Toughness points per watch.
“We’ll just have to toughen up first,” said Torstag.
“That was my plan,” said Ingar. “But two watches…do you think perhaps the Monks might be waiting for us at the bottom?”
Torstag shrugged. “Then we’ll fight them!”
“Really?” said Ingar. “That is insane.”
“Ha!”, said Torstag. His brow furrowed. “Yes, it is. But then your plan is to somehow break into the no-doubt heavily guarded Catacombs of Hesitation and browse the mummies to find our past selves and somehow that will get us safely out of here? Somehow. Somehow. Somehow.”
“If the girl has a plan, then it’ll cover outrunning the monks.”
“If!”
Unlock Warlord, Command Presence?
Torstag saw himself bringing a block of pikemen to attention, making them hold their ground as arrows winnowed their ranks and the sand ran red.
No! I am not ordering my only friend around.
“Torstag,” said Ingar. “Learning to climb is dangerous. The skills we’d need for the catacombs—I don’t know? Sneaking, opening locked doors—will be much safer to get the hang of.”
“Half an hour ago you were insanely brave,” said Torstag.
“Yes,” said Ingar. “I had to be because my escape plan was insane. This is better.”
“I don’t want to end up enslaved by some random girl,” said Torstag.
“I can think of worse fates,” said Ingar, cocking his head at the monastery parapet above them. “Anyway, we can use her plan and do a runner. You don’t have to stick around.”
Torstag chewed his lip. “That seems…dishonourable.”
“Just a couple of hours ago, you were letting an old fucker beat you with fucking stick,” said Ingar. “You don’t have any honour. Besides, what about me? I’m your actual friend.”
“Damn,” said Torstag. He thought for a moment. “But we can make the climbing plan work. We just have to…” A word came to him “…level up.”
Ingar shook his head. “No. Not when there’s a safer way.”
“If you want safe,” said Torstag, “then let’s stick to becoming priests.”
“Five fucking years,” said Ingar. “And they’ll probably send us to different temples…did you think of that?”
Torstag grimaced. “I…Just no. I can’t.”
“Well fuck you Torstag,” said Ingar, “and fuck the goat you rode in on.” He rose and climbed back up to the parapet leaving Torstag alone on the spur of rock projecting out into the void.
For some reason the grey-white clouds rolling past below reminded him of the girl’s skin.
“No.”
Chapter 7: A Visit to the Tasset and Pauldron
An oddly distorted fanfare rang out over the din of the taproom of the Tasset and Pauldron. A voice boomed, “Trophimus!”
The wench screamed and sprang from Trophimus’s lap, spilling his ale. She pointed past him and screamed for a second time, then turned and fled for the door.
Trophimus leapt to his feet, reached for his dagger as he turned.
He found his business partner Cerdic already standing. “Fucking warlocks. Look what we have here.”
The translucent figure of a well-dressed youth towered over the tavern’s clientèle, outsized head just short of the ceiling beams.
“I didn’t uncover the orb,” said Trophimus.
“Apparently that makes fuck all difference,” said Cerdic.
“Trophimus!” repeated the apparition.
The other drinkers suddenly
started moving. They yelled and shoved their way through the door, leaving the two men alone with the apparition.
“Shit, Gronchard,” said Cerdic, “did you have to do that?”
The young demigod drew himself up so that his head almost touched the ceiling. He glowered and Trophimus felt Gronchard’s displeasure they way you feel a north wind. “Mortals!” boomed the divine youth. “You will address me as Divinity or Master!”
Trophimus bowed his head. “Yes, Master.” How could they have been so disrespectful?
“Silence!” said Gronchard. “You will proceed to Yinkesia and pick up the trail of the Sacred Angelica.”
“Yes, Master. But…”
“Do you still have the lodebone?”
“Yes Master,” said Trophimus. “Safe in my coin purse.”
Gronchard’s face purpled. “In your purse?” he shrieked “The relic of my Angelica jostling with profane coins? You are keeping my true love’s thigh bone with your petty cash?”
“Um. Yes, Master.” Trophimus flushed. “I’ll fix it right away. Find some more um respectful bag or container.”
Cerdic nudged him in the ribs. “What the fuck, Tro? He’s diddling with your mind.”
A flash of rage blew away Trophimus’ obeisance. Who was this kid to force him to abase himself like this? Just another warlock with a bag of magic tricks.
“Was there something else, Master?” asked Cerdic.
“Make haste and you shall be doubly rewarded.” Gronchard raised his arms, which was the usual signal that he was about to depart.
“Master, wait!” said Trophimus.
Gronchard sighed. “What is it?”
Trophimus took a step forward. “Master, we need to know more about her.”
“I am a God! Do you take Me for some kind of messenger!”
“No, Master.” Trophimus bowed his head to hid his smirk. “I take you for a God who wishes to restore his consort to his side. There may be just one chance to ‘rescue’ her.”
The apparition stared at him.
Trophimus discretely bent his knees, ready to dodge left or right—not that it was likely to help if the demigod started tossing around magic.
Five long heartbeats later, the apparition spoke. “Very well, Trophimus.” The kid folded his skinny arms. “The Shell has succeeded in appropriating some of Angelica’s accomplishments, meaning she has at least some wizardly powers.”
“A wizard,” said Cerdic. He shook his head. “Wizards cost extra.”
“Your greed will be the death of you, mortal,” said Gronchard.
Cerdic shrugged. “Sure, Master, but then you don’t get your Angelica back.”
Trophimus held up a hand. “Be reasonable, Master. We’ll need to hire a bigger team.”
“She is only a wizard!” said Gronchard. “She is not a goeticist with fireballs at her command, nor a necromancer with undead servants. At worst she can make your pants fall down.” He smirked.
“Yes,” said Cerdic. “But wizards can be tricky bastards. Slippery. We need more people. You’re a fucking God, for crying out loud. You’re good for the money.”
“Very well,” said Gronchard. He named a very large sum indeed.
“Master,” chorused Trophimus and his comrade, both bowing deeply.
“Wait,” said Gronchard. “I also require discretion. This blasphemous episode must be erased.”
“Of course, Master,” said Trophimus, jerking his head to signal his partner to be silence. “We shall manage.”
Gronchard’s spectre simply vanished.
Trophimus stared at the empty space, mind racing.
“We’re fucking screwed,” said Cerdic. “Did you hear that? Erased? How do you erase a blasphemous episode? You erase the fucking people involved. I bet the bastard was always going to do that.”
Trophimus laughed. “Don’t you see? We’ve finally got some leverage over him.”
“You’re talking shit. We’re dead. We should just leg it down the nearest portal, and the one after that and keep going till we reach the Edge of the Ten Thousand Realms.”
“No,” said Trophimus. “If we tell everybody about his Sacred Angelica…”
“Who’s going to believe that? A warlock god running around after some totty for a thousand years?”
“Nobody, unless he erases us. And the more people we hire, the more people he’ll have to erase, the more it will confirm the story.”
“Ten or so should do it,” said Cerdic.
“Yep,” said Trophimus. “Any more and we’ll be tripping over ourselves. Wizard or not, it’s just one girl.”
Chapter 8: Axe Girl and the Kid
“No,” said Axe Girl. She frowned, making her lined forehead runkle. “I’ve retired.” She set down her gilded wine cup and flexed scarred fingers. “I’ve got my nephew to think about now.”
“You’re literally whoring him to the wives of half the city’s Patricians,” said Trophimus.
“And the Patricians themselves,” said Axe Girl. “It’s a good career. That plus my savings…” She waved a meaty hand around the parlour of her town house. “It’s nice to sleep in the same bed every night and know that’s not going to change. It’s nice not to spend my life on a bloody horse chasing runaway slaves and defaulting peasants.”
“Fuck that for a game of poke the fish!” said Cerdic. “This is real money.”
An upper class voice interrupted them. “Did somebody say real money?” A man in his early prime swaggered in through the door. He was tall, with a well-trimmed beard and a ridiculous red codpiece. Trophimus had seen the type before; the by-blow of some patrician household living off a small remittance, too classy to work, too illegitimate to use his family connections to find a better living.
“This your latest piece of rough, eh Axe Girl?” said Cerdic. “Bit young for you.”
Axe Girl blushed and her scarred cheeks actually dimpled. She got to her feet. “Actually, this is my husband, Dekan.”
Trophimus stood and held out his hand. “Trophimus and Cerdic. Pleased to meet you, sir. You’re a braver man than the two of us put together.”
Dekan grinned. “Oh, I’ve learned to go with the flow with my Alice. No courage required.”
Axe Girl swatted his rump. “Not in front of other people.”
They both giggled like lovestruck youngsters.
Trophimus glanced at Cerdic.
Cerdic gave a little nod.
“Sir,” said Trophimus. “We are old bounty hunting colleagues, and we have come to offer your lady a share in a particularly rich prize.”
“Sacred Angelica, consort of Gronchard the Flayer, God of the Flying Tooth Garden?” said Dekan. “I heard.” He gestured for them to sit. The maid poured more wine and they made small talk about weddings and the couple’s plans for the town house’s garden.
Eventually Dekan leaned back in his chair. “So, messirs, tell us about this bounty.”
“A tragic story,” said Trophimus. “And a chance to reunite true lovers separated by time.”
“And make a shitload of money,” said Cerdic. He mentioned what Axe Girl’s share would be.
“I’m retired,” said Axe Girl. “I quit while I was not dead.”
“It’s just one girl,” said Trophimus.
“Then why are you and Cerdic recruiting?”
“She’s a wizard,” said Cerdic. “They’re slippery, that’s all.”
“It doesn’t sound very dangerous,” said Dekan. “Money like that would buy us an estate, a small one, yes, but we’d be proper gentry.”
“No,” said Axe Girl.
“You’d be Lady Axe. Or Axe Lady. Or Lady Alice of the Axe.”
“No.”
“Take me, messirs,” said Dekan. He flexed his fingers. “I know how to use a blade. I’ve killed my man before.”
“No!” hissed Axe Girl.
“For us,” hissed Dekan.
“No, sir,” said Cerdic. He held up his hand to forestall objections and m
anaged to speak without swearing. “I’m sure you can fight one-on-on, but you have no experience of teamwork.”
“Actually, yes,” said Trophimus, with a wink only his partner could see.
“Shit, Dekan,” said Axe Girl. “You’ll get killed and I’ll be alone.”
“Then come and keep him safe,” said Trophimus. “Come on, Axe, it will be like old times.”
Axe Girl sighed.
“Just one itsybitsy fucking wizard girl,” said Cerdic.
“Count me in.” A long-haired youth, not much more than a kid, emerged from the back room. He was beautifully groomed and wearing a white silk shirt open to show a smooth chest. He spoke with a drawl, whether from genuine lushness or affectation, Trophimus could not tell.
“Shit,” said Axe Girl. “But you like being a Companion.”
“Indeed,” said the Kid, “but this sounds exciting. Bounty hunting!”
“No,” said Axe Girl.
“If he’s old enough to…put himself about, he’s old enough to help out,” said Trophimus. “But you’ll have to make yourself useful, lad, tending the fire, fetching and carrying, acting as groom.”
“Manly stuff! I shall positively enjoy roughing it.” The Kid turned to Axe Girl. “And you can’t stop me, Aunty. This is my chance to be a real man.”
“Oh shit, shit shit,” said Axe Girl. “Shit shit shit.” She stopped to take a breath. “But three professionals and two newbies isn’t enough.”
“No it isn’t,” said Cerdic. “We’re going to recruit another six professionals.”
“She’s a wizard,” said Axe Girl. “Isn’t she going to be impossible to track?”
Cerdic and Trophimus exchanged a nod. Trophimus extracted the lodebone from his purse and let it hang on its thread. It spun clockwise, then anticlockwise, then abruptly froze. “Made from her thighbone.”
The Jungle Tomb of the Ice Queen (The Flying Tooth Garden Book 1) Page 5
