The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  Iris looked mildly offended by the question. “Her Majesty and I rode almost daily in the summertime since about the time she had seen twelve summers. I daresay she might be a slight bit better rider than I, but not by much.”

  Creel smiled. “Good. And you?”

  Rafe shrugged. “My family had an old draft horse on our property when I was a lad. I rode it around from time to time.”

  “Hopeless, then,” Iris added, with a superior look at Rafe. Despite her attitude, she expressed no malice, just a friendly jibe between friends.

  The young guardsman looked mildly embarrassed but didn’t reply.

  “Well, just make sure you hang on and keep up,” Creel told him. “That goes for both of you. If you lose your saddle, you’re likely on your own. The guards will have some freshly vacated cells in the dungeon to put you in. I can attest to that.”

  Rafe swallowed hard but gave a curt nod. “I’ll hold on.” He ignored Iris’s teasing look.

  “Wait for me here. I’ll see about getting Brom in position and return shortly.” Without waiting for their acknowledgment, Creel walked back down the alley to where Brom was waiting. “Let’s get you set up.”

  Creel and the dwarf led Perri and her burden over to the next block. There, they stopped at the rear of a large stable. He could smell the horses and hear an occasional snort from within the large barnlike structure. The building was all locked up for the night, but he suspected a stableboy or two probably slept inside to tend the animals and raise the cry for the nearby guards if any horse thieves attempted to make off with their livelihood. Creel didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks, so he led Brom over to the wooden awning above the entryway. It was sturdy and fairly flat and wasn’t built over the building itself, only where mounts were displayed for sale during the day. This way, they shouldn’t make too much noise as to rouse any suspicions. Even better, it provided a good line of sight to the city gates.

  “You remember how to work this?” Creel asked. “I know it’s been a few years.”

  The Goblin-Tosser was a gnomish contraption Creel had commissioned several decades past. It got its name after Brom had casually remarked, “Looks like it could do a fine job o’ tossin’ a drunken goblin.” The device was basically a portable ballista specially designed to fire casks such as the ceramic one Creel had retrieved from his room. The Goblin-Tosser proved a reliable way to clear out monster dens with whatever concoction Creel loaded it up with. The original concept was for it to launch a naphtha payload, although it wouldn’t do so this evening. The idea of the device had occurred to him following the giant-hunting adventure wherein he’d first met Brom and Rada.

  “Aye, couldn’t be easier.” Brom unlashed the Goblin-Tosser from Perri’s back. He set it down then unfolded it on its oiled hinges and latched the supports into place. “Just like so.”

  Creel boosted Brom up to the awning then passed the Goblin-Tosser and the cask up to his friend. They had an anxious moment when he tossed the brittle cask, but Brom caught it sure-handedly. The device creaked and clunked as Brom cranked back the firing mechanism and loaded the cask.

  “Ready to fire. Ride hard, and may Reiktir watch yer back, Creel.”

  “You as well, Brom. If you have to leave the Tosser behind, then do so. Just get out of here and back to your family safely.” They shared a knowing look, then Creel returned to rejoin the youths.

  Rafe and Iris were already mounted, clearly nervous but looking determined.

  Creel nodded approvingly. “Be ready to follow my lead when I break into a gallop. Stay right on my heels, and don’t slow till I say so. I don’t see any mounts nearby for those guards, so once we get clear, we should be fine. Just keep as low in the saddle as possible in case the men on the barbican take a shot at you. And don’t forget to cover your nose and mouth. You’ll be through the thick of it before the horses think to balk. And whatever you do… hold on.”

  He climbed into the saddle of his own horse, then turned and nudged it toward the mouth of the alley. Iris must have a good eye for horseflesh, for these were quality steeds the two had purchased with Selda’s coin. The three rode through the market, hoods of their cloaks pulled low, the youths with scarfs wrapped over their noses and mouths. Creel didn’t bother, for he was accustomed to the caustic gas the cask contained and could hold his breath a long time if needed.

  The gaggle of Calcote mercenaries spotted them right away and watched their approach with great interest. Pikes were picked up, as were loaded crossbows. Men spread out to block their path through the gates.

  “Dismount, citizens!” the lead mercenary commanded. “Prepare for inspection.” He was a tall, lean man with slicked-back hair, a large nose, and a soft chin. His eyes glittered cruelly in the pool of torchlight illuminating the gates.

  Creel continued to walk his horse but made no move to slow or dismount. Nor did he draw steel to alarm them. Fifty paces turned to forty, then thirty.

  Now would be a good time, Brom.

  The mercenary commander scowled. “Oi! I said—”

  Just then, something dropped into their midst with a brittle sound of shattering ceramic. The Goblin-Tosser’s payload impacted at the center of the group of guards, just behind the leader and a couple of pikemen. Immediately upon impact, caustic gas billowed out, a yellowish cloud that burned eyes, noses, and throats. Shouts of alarm instantly turned to gagging coughs, with men hunching over and retching, eyes burning so that they couldn’t see clearly. The trio of men before Creel spun to face the source of the threat.

  At that moment, Creel spurred his horse into a gallop. The beast surged forward, a mountain of equine muscle, its hooves thundering on the cobblestone street. His cowl blew back, and he drew Final Strike in a practiced motion and leaned low in the saddle. A moment later, the hoofbeats multiplied as Rafe and Iris’s mounts broke into a gallop as well.

  A victorious whoop came from Brom’s position on the opposite side of the square, and Creel grinned fiercely.

  One of the nearby pikemen inhaled the choking gas. He staggered away, dropping his weapon, and heaved his dinner onto the ground. The second pikeman must have held his breath, for he backed away fearfully, his tearing eyes blinking rapidly. Creel angled his horse to avoid him.

  The mercenary commander was the canniest of the lot. He processed what was occurring in a brief moment then spun away, moving quickly from the cloud of gas and drawing steel. “Guards! Fire on them!” he roared.

  Then Creel was upon him. The commander ducked low, bringing his sword up to strike the horse’s legs out from under it. Creel nudged his horse to the left, and it veered just past the mercenary’s reach. The man took a step nearer, but that proved an unwise decision. The flat of Final Strike’s blade met the earhole of the man’s helm. Steel rang like a gong, and he dropped like a stone.

  The yellowish cloud of gas enveloped Creel. He squinted his eyes, feeling the burning sensation immediately. Violent coughing and hacking came from all around. An unfortunate man was writhing on the ground a couple paces away. Creel knew they would recover once the air cleared, but they would certainly feel the effects for an hour or more, depending how heavy of a dose they had breathed in.

  With the speed of his galloping horse, he was through the choking cloud in seconds. The horse snorted violently and balked for a moment, but by then, its next breath was clean air, and it continued onward without any more fuss.

  Well-trained horses—worth every crown.

  A sharp pain struck the side of Creel’s head and nipped his ear, the loosed crossbow quarrel a blur that disappeared into the night. He risked a backward glance and saw Iris and Rafe were doing well keeping up although the guardsman looked to be hanging on for dear life. Four or five guards were atop the barbican and adjoining wall, either reloading or lining up shots. Iris cried out and clutched at her thigh.

  A moment later, they passed from the island of torchlight and were concealed by comforting darkness. They continued pounding down the road i
nto the night.

  Creel slowed his mount to check on Iris. The leg of the breeches she’d changed into earlier was torn, a bloody scrape visible where an arrowhead grazed her thigh, as it had her horse’s shoulder, but the wounds were shallow and didn’t pose a threat to either rider or mount.

  “We’ll get you bandaged up when we stop, but for now, we’ll need to put another mile or so behind us.”

  “You’re bleeding too.” Iris pointed at Creel’s head.

  He probed the wound and discovered a long cut across his scalp and a sliver sliced off the top of his ear. It was bleeding fairly heavily, the side of his head and neck sticky with blood, but the wound was minor and would be healed in a matter of minutes.

  “It’s nothing. Just a graze.” He turned his attention forward again.

  “We did it,” Iris said, face flushed and eyes bright. “I can’t believe we did it.”

  Rafe didn’t say anything, but with the big grin on his face, he didn’t need to.

  Creel couldn’t help but smile as well, for that had turned out about as well as could be expected. He knew Brom could fend for himself just fine. Calcote’s sellswords would be incapacitated for at least several more minutes, the worst of them much longer, giving the trio plenty of time to get away clean.

  “Onward to Carran!” he shouted.

  Chapter 42

  Ferret stared at the parchment spread out on the table before her. The fanciful whorls and flourishes made the letters even harder to decipher than usual, but she was more interested in the scripted notes accompanying each line. She knew a song when she saw it although she could understand even less of the musical notation than she did the lyrics.

  She grudgingly admitted Mira had been right when she suggested Ferret should learn her letters and sums if she wanted to amount to anything. The monk’s words hadn’t been so blunt, but the meaning was clear. Yet just looking at all those words on the page made her want to crumple up the sheet of parchment and toss it aside in disgust. She was certain that if she were still able to get a headache, then she would have had one. Trying to piece together meanings from the scrawled runes on the pages was a lot of work.

  After having been in Nexus for a couple weeks and having spent slightly less time studying with Yosrick, she was beginning to learn the basics of her letters. The gnome praised her as a quick study, yet she still felt a dullard. Any educated child half her age could read through the song with little trouble. But at least she’d graduated from a list of the alphabet and simple children’s rhymes a couple days earlier.

  “Take your time,” Yosrick said encouragingly. He puffed on his pipe as he waited.

  They were in the castle library, a large room filled with towering rows of bookshelves, laden down with everything from massive tomes to fragile scrolls to clay tablets. The room seemed to ventilate itself, for the pipe smoke dissipated once it curled up toward the ceiling.

  “Aren’t you afraid an ember will catch these old scrolls and books on fire?” she asked, needing to take her mind off her studies a moment. “This whole place would go up like a bonfire.”

  Yosrick grinned around his pipe. “Well, I’ve warded the pipe against stray sparks escaping the bowl. Even were I to drop it, any particles escaping would instantly extinguish.” He traced a neatly scripted line of runes around the bowl. “But besides my humble precautions, the entire library is warded, and quite powerfully at that.” He pointed at glyphs on the wall behind him. “These even purify the air to remove the smoke and prevent it from becoming either too dry or too humid and musty, for that could damage all of these wondrous works.”

  “Ah, that was my next question—about removing the smoke.”

  The gnome nodded and tilted his head back, exhaling a large smoke ring into the air. It floated up and abruptly dissipated as if swept away by an invisible broom. “What do you make of that song?”

  Ferret sighed and read what she’d deciphered thus far. “‘Long was the road and t-t-tr…’”

  “Treacherous,” Yosrick supplied without even glancing at the paper. He was a wellspring of patience, for which Ferret was grateful, and the gnome was content to watch his smoke rings waft upward to where they were abruptly snuffed out while she puzzled out the text.

  “‘Treacherous the… journey. Dark as his heart, the night c-c-con… tained?’”

  “Concealed.”

  “Ah. ‘Concealed deeds of illest intent.’ Those first few lines are all I’ve got. Yet this sounds familiar somehow…” She trailed off, trying to think where she’d heard it or something very similar before.

  Yosrick beamed. “I thought you might’ve heard it before. That’s why I chose a ballad you might be familiar with. The Ballad of Black Bogdan the Barbarous.”

  Ferret perked up at that. “You mean Black Wardley the Wicked.”

  “Aye, I imagine that could be a variation of the song.”

  Now that she knew the gist of the material, she had an easier time figuring it out, humming the tune to herself as she went along. Soon, she had deciphered the entire first verse and transcribed it onto a new sheet of parchment, though her handwriting was sloppy and childlike.

  “Hmm… not bad, not bad.” Yosrick peered at her transcription closely. “Don’t worry about your scribing so much for now—that will become easier with practice. I daresay we’ll make a bard of you yet someday. Unfortunately, the musical portion I cannot help you with, for I’ve the voice of an ill frog.” He grinned at her, which Ferret would’ve returned had she been able. The praise warmed whatever metal cogs served as her heart.

  Yosrick rose and knuckled his back a moment before giving a pleased sigh and standing straighter. “I hate to leave you adrift, my young friend, but I’ve a matter to attend to this afternoon. Please continue on with your transcription, and I’ll check in with you on the morrow.”

  Ferret smiled inwardly at the opportunity given. “Aye, I’ll keep scratching away at it.”

  If the gnome sensed what she intended to do, he gave no sign. “Very well, then. Good afternoon.”

  She waited about five minutes after he’d departed before sliding her parchments aside. She fastidiously wiped off the quill as she’d been taught and restoppered the ink jar. A few minutes later, she was outside and nearing the fortress gates.

  “Headin’ into town again, eh?” one of the guards asked. He was a stout older man with a bushy mustache who she knew from past conversations had a loquacious disposition.

  “Aye. Need to absorb all of this while I’ve the chance so I can eventually put the more interesting bits to verse.” Ferret gave a flamboyant wave at the bustling streets past the gates.

  The guard chuckled and pulled open the small side gate used for foot traffic. “Enjoy yourself then, lass.”

  Ferret wasn’t sure how he knew she was a lass, for she kept her disguise in place, but she suspected word had gotten out about the curious guests the Lady of Twilight was currently entertaining. She bade the man good day and entered the exotic and fascinating flow of traffic.

  Now this is the right way to spend a day in the city, not cooped up squinting over some chicken scratchings on a parchment.

  She appreciated what Yosrick was doing for her, but a lass needed a day to herself now and then. And the city seemed to have no end to its marvelous sights or interesting ways to spend the day.

  ***

  Trying to keep the indrawn magic from polluting his inner well, as Nera termed it, was of no use. Taren could hold a tremendous amount of mana and had even improved his control manipulating the energy. Yet eventually upon wielding the magic, whether for a prolonged period or after some threshold of an indeterminate amount was reached, the same fatigue and exhaustion unfailingly overtook him.

  Nera seemed puzzled. “Allow me to guide it this time. Pay me no mind.”

  Taren withdrew a steady stream and began unleashing various attacks on a set of magic-nullifying targets arrayed before him, which Nera had set up. They looked like dark voids in his s
econd sight, and when he poured magic into them, they absorbed his attacks completely.

  “That’s good, keep going. Don’t hold back—give it your all.”

  Nera stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. He could feel her doing something inside him, a gentle probing around the channel the magic was taking.

  The magic was an unending fount, bursting from the city around him, and he was a mere conduit, shaping and channeling the power as he continued to draw upon it. His nerves tingled, and he felt invincible with so much magic flowing through him. He poured more and more into the targets, blasts of fire and lightning, air bursts and stony fists and wicked icicles.

  After a few long minutes, Nera withdrew her influence, and that rushing weakness came down on him like a collapsing mountainside. Taren crumpled nearly instantly, but she caught him with strong arms around his chest and lowered him to a seated position. He sat there dumbly, barely able to stave off unconsciousness.

  Nera placed a hand on his head, and his senses cleared, renewed strength filling him. She sat down cross-legged in front of him, chin resting on one hand thoughtfully as she regarded him with her rust-colored eyes. In that moment, she looked surprisingly young and not vulnerable, perhaps, but ordinary, as if she was simply a typical young woman, albeit one with exotic features, rather than the Lady of Twilight, demigod ruler of the entire city.

  “I can deflect it and prevent the pollution, but only temporarily,” Nera said after a long moment. “I’m afraid you’re simply made this way, Taren. I hate to meddle too much and somehow damage something inside irrevocably. Your father was a true conduit, his power fearsome, yet he lacked control the more he drew upon it, until he became in danger of being overwhelmed.”

  Taren thought of that incredible feeling of invincibility that had filled him and understood that particular siren’s call.

  “Yours is perhaps a mechanism that prevents you from burning yourself out,” she said, “a condition that could happen to corruptors if they pulled too heavily and irrevocably lost control.”