Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3)

by Gregory Mattix

  But this evening, she was in an unusually tranquil mood. The concept of sloth would normally have been unthinkable to her, yet she had been curious as to what it felt like—not a vice she had ever known, nor did she see herself partaking much of it in the future. Yet she had to admit there was a simple appeal to standing aside while events took their course, like sitting on the banks of a swiftly flowing river and watching the current sweep past.

  Most of her plans were in order, save for a couple crucial pieces. She had discovered the location of the Tellurian Engine on a plane known as Voshoth, accessible solely from the Hall of the Artificers. Once the control rod was secured, she would be able to activate the machine at a moment’s notice upon her lord’s command. Her despised sister’s elusive whelp had disappeared once more, causing a possible complication, yet she would find the boy eventually. Of that she was confident. Failing that, the Tellurian Engine was the final option, one that would hand Neratiri a great defeat if not destroy the bitch outright, along with her precious Nexus of the Planes and the tens of thousands of souls therein.

  Nesnys had captured the troublesome girl-queen Sianna Atreus, and her military forces were in position to deal a devastating final defeat to the Ketanians at a time and place of her choosing. One crucial piece still to be placed upon the board was the champion she needed. Perhaps “needed” was too strong a word, but she had invested enough time and effort into her plaything that she wasn’t about to admit defeat on that front yet.

  Hence her current introspective mood. She was sorting through strategies as to how best to win her champion over to her cause. She could simply force him to serve through a combination of psionic suggestions and use of the Soulforge armor, yet she preferred the less heavy-handed—and more effective—approach.

  Let him give himself over to me willingly.

  Her stratagem to slowly corrupt a good man was novel for her, yet it held a delicious appeal. Such subtleties were not ordinarily in her nature, so the game was proving challenging. Yet after so much time spent in preparation, her plans were finally laid and the moment at hand.

  She took another drink of wine as a chill breeze stirred her robe, caressing her naked skin, but the cold didn’t bother her. Her thoughts wandered as she recalled her recent preparations.

  After several days in the infirmary, Elyas yet remained unconscious despite Edara pronouncing his wounds mending well and no longer a threat. He had awoken for a brief moment, only to sink back into oblivion. The thought that he would elude Nesnys and find his peace in such a way grated on her.

  “He is yet sick in spirit,” Edara said.

  Nesnys dismissed the healer from the room. She sat beside the comatose man and extended her psionic talent, pushing into his mind deeper than she had gone before. Within, she found him dreaming.

  She glimpsed images of his blissful home life, training at arms and excursions into town, hunting and fishing and tending to chores around the farmstead—little of interest to her.

  Then she uncovered some most interesting memories—the sight of Elyas’s cousin in his thoughts. Nesnys seized hold of those to study in great detail.

  How fate smiles upon me! The cousin of Elyas is Neratiri’s child—Taren.

  The irony was delicious, and she knew she must turn her champion against his cousin, who was a brother in all but blood.

  Perhaps he shall join me as well, with the right overture. She thought on that for a minute, deciding it was worth the attempt if this boy Taren could be located.

  Nesnys dove deeper into Elyas’s subconscious, rifling through his thoughts and desires, hopes and fears. Psionic manipulation was not a skill she had much finesse with, yet her innate talent was strong. She tried to use care in her manipulations, for fear of rendering the man a half-wit, bolstering those areas of his mind where she found his pride, sense of duty, and self-preservation. She subdued his innate goodness, compassion, and sense of justice, along with the bleak futility he seemed to be currently embracing, which was a drain on his spirit. She stoked his competitive spirit and desire to please. Then she found a desire of another sort—his carnal desire—and delighted to find images of herself within. These simmering coals she breathed forcefully upon until they were a conflagration. Stepping away, she gazed upon her work with pride. Although she was no master at psionic manipulation, she didn’t think she had caused any damage to the man’s mind.

  Such suggestions and influence would be ineffective without the subject’s nature already tending toward such a path, so she blazed a wide, paved road, nudging him to take the first steps.

  Following her telepathic manipulations, she communed with Shaol and asked her lord for a boon. When she had explained her plan, he had agreed.

  Nesnys pushed aside those memories and straightened, gazing at the stars a moment longer before reentering her room and ringing the bell to summon a servant.

  “Send for my gladiator,” she snapped when one of the servants knocked hesitantly at her door then poked his head inside. “And bring more wine.”

  “Gladiator, Mistress?” The man looked confused and terrified.

  “Tell the guard captain I want him delivered here. He will know of whom I speak.”

  The servant bowed and raced off. A few minutes later, another servant delivered a full decanter of wine. She lounged back in a chair, drinking of her replenished goblet. She felt a stirring in her blood, similar to before a battle—bloodlust, yet different—a formidable challenge and the need to conquer it. Yet there was more—a stirring of need, a warmth in her loins that would not be denied much longer.

  The time had come to make her final proposal, one last battle of wills with her plaything. And nothing less than a soul hung in the balance.

  ***

  Elyas took some small amount of solace in his bath at the end of another wretched, demeaning day. His body was bruised and sore, yet that was nothing compared to the raw ache in his missing arm.

  He’d made a total fool of himself earlier, sparring with a new man—a worm—who had recently arrived during Elyas’s convalescence in the infirmary. The middle-aged man was easily the least promising of the new fighters, although he had narrowly survived his initial pit fight by sheer luck, as rumor had it. He was probably nearing his fifth decade, wiry but not especially fit, and missing an eye. The worm wasn’t particularly strong or fast yet was cunning enough to have survived thus far.

  And Elyas hadn’t even managed to pose a challenge for this lowest worm despite his best efforts. His left-handed swordsmanship was pitiful, clumsy and slow. A shield for defense might have aided his cause, yet he couldn’t hold a shield on the same arm that wielded his sword. He’d repeatedly fumbled his blunted training sword when their blades clashed together, dropping it a couple of times and sustaining a number of bruises and welts from his opponent. The pity in the worm’s eyes during the lopsided bout had only added to the sting of defeat.

  There is no reason to even care anymore. Soon enough, someone is bound to put me out of my misery.

  Elyas thought back to the comforting dreams he’d had while in the infirmary. So real were they, he wondered if he had actually crossed over into the afterlife, only to be dragged back to his current woeful existence. He tried to summon those precious images of home, but they were beginning to elude him as dreams tended to do, the finer details lost until he retained only vague glimpses of his family and home, along with the general impression of happiness.

  That happiness was once more denied him since he’d been brought back from the brink. Such a foolish choice he had made in paying heed to those insistent voices.

  He shifted his position, watching the water slop against the sharp stone edge of the bath. He briefly considered whether he’d be able to hold himself under water until he drowned, but he thought it unlikely. Perhaps if I knock my head against the stone hard enough to fall unconscious. The thought was beginning to gain some traction when the tramp of boots and jingle of mail interrupted his reverie.

 
; “Ironshanks,” the lead guard said crisply, “you are to report to the manor at once.” The man was all business. Elyas didn’t detect any pity from him, which he appreciated.

  The same couldn’t be said of the guard’s partner, who looked at him with not only pity but perhaps a touch of disdain as well.

  Elyas barely noticed, for the guard’s order perked him up with an unexpected surge of emotion. Nesnys. Finally, I’ll see her again. Surprisingly absent was the anger and hatred he’d once felt toward her. Perhaps those sentiments died with me.

  “Aye, if you’ll allow me a change of clothes first?” he asked.

  “Make it quick. Be at the gate in five minutes.”

  The guards retreated.

  Elyas nearly ran to his cell. He cast aside his sweat- and dirt-soiled clothes and changed into fresh ones. The early winter night was cool for Nebara but could have been midautumn back home. He was used to the mild temperature and skipped donning a tunic. A minute later, he was at the gate, the lead guard nodding in approval at his haste.

  Four guards marched him up to the manor house. On the previous occasion he’d been summoned there, Elyas’s wrists had been manacled, but since he’d lost his arm, they no longer bothered with trying to bind him, which dealt another wound to his decimated pride. They entered the house through a servant’s door then passed through the kitchens and up a narrow flight of stairs to the third and top floor. He had never been inside the building before but barely spared a glance around himself, his thoughts focused entirely on the impending encounter. They reached a door at the end of the hall, and the lead guard knocked.

  “Come,” came the reply.

  The lead guard opened the door and bowed deeply. “The gladiator Ironshanks, Warlord.”

  “Send him in. You may leave us be.”

  “Yes, Warlord.” The guards prodded Elyas into the chamber and closed the door behind him.

  At first, he didn’t see Nesnys, as the room was dim, illuminated by only a pair of candles and the starlight from the open balcony door. She shifted slightly, drawing his attention to where she was reclining in a comfortable chair, one long leg hooked over the armrest. She wore a diaphanous silk robe hanging open and revealing her naked breasts.

  Elyas’s breath caught in his chest at the sight of her.

  “Come to me, Ironshanks.” The last word was said sarcastically, and a smile teased her lips. Her eyes roved across his body as he approached, unflinching at the sight of his maiming.

  He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous and fighting down his sense of shame at his injury. “You summoned me?” He felt foolish the moment the words were out but didn’t know what else to say.

  “Obviously. As I’ve said before, I have a use for you, Elyas, son of Wyat.” Nesnys sinuously rose to her feet, not bothering to cover her nakedness with the robe. “Perhaps more than one.”

  Elyas swallowed hard, trying with great difficulty to focus on her face. Her body was an alluring blend of sensual curves and lean muscle. A part of him yearned to explore it, and he was ashamed to feel his body reacting accordingly.

  “A use for me? But I failed in my challenge. The Sledge… I should have died.”

  Nesnys ran a hand casually across his bare, muscled chest, walking slowly around him to study him from all angles. “When it came to my attention that the fight was subverted, I took that as a personal affront. The perpetrator has been punished accordingly, as no doubt you’ve seen. Yet I still believe you might’ve prevailed had you not been injured previously. You did well enough, considering. Besides, this game amuses me.”

  He gave a sharp intake of breath when her hand slipped down across his belly, teasing the waistband of his breeches, her breath hot on his neck. She stepped away, returning to the side table beside her chair and refilling her goblet with wine.

  “Drink.” She offered the goblet to him, pinning him in place with her eyes—devouring him, one might say.

  Elyas drank, grateful for the way the wine soothed his suddenly dry throat.

  “As I’ve said before, I wish you to join me in my crusade. Serve me—lead my men to glory.”

  She had made the offer previously, but now that he was in a position to accept, he found himself at a loss for words. “You want me to lead your men?” he asked stupidly, unsettled by both the intimate setting and her sensuality.

  “You heard me. I told you before if I was pleased with you, I’d offer to make you a partner in my war.” She plucked the goblet from his hand and drank.

  He teetered on a razor’s edge of embracing her darkness, but then he pushed those tempting thoughts aside. “I… no, I despise everything you stand for—everything you’ve done! My father killed, my home torched! My cousin lost, somewhere… Thousands of men slain in battle, not to mention the innocents murdered or run off their lands. Harlan killed in this meaningless combat in the pits.” As the words tumbled out, he was surprised and a bit horrified to realize the old passion was gone. He felt like a thespian merely reciting words from a well-read script.

  “Do you truly despise me so?” she asked, her intense gaze inscrutable.

  He stared, dumbstruck, totally unhinged by how he was feeling. His past seemed but a dream, unreal to him. Nesnys was real, standing here before him now. She is asking for my service—she believes in me enough to make this offer.

  “Those past events you speak of—what have they led you to, but to prepare you for this—for the glory you were born to seize by the might of your sword!” Her pale eyes were filled with a sudden fire.

  He shook his head. “This is wrong. I cannot. It’s… evil.”

  Nesnys waved his denial aside. “Good, evil… Those are simplistic terms. The multiverse is not simply black and white. You must have learned that by now. Where were all those good people you were loyal to in the past when you needed them the most? They shed not a tear, gave not a single shite about your fate. I was the only one to stand for you, to give you the chance to become something greater than you ever could’ve dreamed—to be a champion!”

  “A champion!” He laughed bitterly, looking down at the ugly ridge of flesh marking his missing arm and remaining portion of shoulder. “I’ve tried my damnedest to wield the sword left-handed, but it is useless. The weakest untrained worm out there defeated me with ease!” He gestured angrily out the open balcony door.

  Nesnys ran her hand down his muscled left arm, and Elyas flinched but didn’t pull away. He stood his ground. Nesnys took his hand in hers then closed her eyes and began speaking softly in a foreign tongue.

  “Why wouldn’t you just allow me to die? At least give me the honor of killing me yourself.” Emotion leaked into his voice as he regarded her.

  Her voice grew louder, and he shuddered involuntarily at the vile intonations of her speech as it slithered inside his ear like a parasitic worm.

  Nesnys reopened her eyes and smiled at him, surprising him, for this smile seemed out of place on her face—without the usual malice or mockery, it seemed. She released his left hand and stepped away. “I have spared you because you shall serve me well. Now give me your hand.”

  He reached out to her, but she swatted his left hand away. “Your sword hand—give it to me.”

  “What game are you playing? This is nonsense…” He trailed off at the intense gaze she was focusing on his missing arm.

  Elyas looked down and gasped, reeling back a step in shock. His missing sword arm, which often pained him like a phantom limb, was there again, although not completely. It appeared as the phantom limb it often hurt like—ghostly in outline.

  “Balor’s balls! What—”

  “Silence,” she commanded. “I said, give me your hand.”

  Elyas watched helplessly as his ghostly arm rose seemingly of its own accord until it was captured by Nesnys’s hand. And by the gods, he could feel her hand, the warm skin and strong fingers gripping his own, even the rough warrior’s calluses on her palm.

  She chanted some more in the speech that made his
head ring with discordant sound. Splashes of color sparked in his vision, and he felt as he once had in the moments before he blacked out after downing too many ales.

  But this time, his vision cleared once she finished speaking. He gasped, shocked beyond words, for his arm was whole again. The limb was chiseled with slabs of muscle, honed from months spent training for the pits, the skin crisscrossed with scars and bronzed by the sun, just as it had been prior to his defeat by the Sledge.

  His eyes met hers, and he was speechless.

  Nesnys smiled, again without malice, almost warm even. She sauntered across the room and picked up a sword in a leather scabbard that was lying on a dresser, unnoticed by Elyas earlier. She tossed it to him, and he was thrilled to hold his father’s old sword, which he had thought lost, sheathed in the fine scabbard Princess Zylka of the elves had gifted him.

  “Draw your sword,” she commanded.

  Elyas did so. He slid the blade free and took a couple practice swings, the keen steel feeling perfectly weighted in his hand, his stroke powerful and controlled once more, the way Anhur intended.

  “I-I don’t know what to say.” He had to blink back tears of relief and astonishment.

  Nesnys stepped toward him, clearly undaunted by him being armed while she was not. He lowered the blade, the thought of attacking her not even crossing his mind.

  “Join with me, Elyas. Be my champion! Together, we shall conquer this world.” Her words rang inside his skull, and he felt a sensation stirring inside him—a fierce gratitude for this woman, sudden and unexpected. He had been ready to die a miserable husk of a man, and she had restored his hope. She was the only one who thought he was worth sparing.

  She’s using me—this is but another of her games! But the warning voice was faint and easily ignored, lacking in urgency and crumbling to ash, disappearing before a gale of sudden gratitude and desire.