Deep Magic - First Collection

by Jeff Wheeler

  They were still walking east because that’s where Twig insisted on leading her. Twig had tried to explain, but she couldn’t understand his gibberish like her sister could. She regretted not taking the time before it was needed. She caught her dirty braid with her fingers, looking at it and then tossing it back over her shoulder. Her hair was no longer golden blond, but dusty brown. She felt the dust all over her body and longed for a stream or something to clean herself in. The dust was even in her teeth, which was uncomfortable and aggravating.

  As the sunlight began to crest the mountains, she turned her gaze backward and dreaded what she would see. The plain was so flat there was no way to hide herself, but that also meant her enemies could not hide themselves either. What had they done after she’d escaped the camp? She had gone all night and not heard sounds from her pursuers, although she did hear the noise of an atrox rattle several times, but Twig guided them away from the path.

  During the night she had also seen the strange light in the distance. She thought it was her father’s light stone and that he was using it to see his way. But it had disappeared during the night, and she’d lost all connection with her father. Just seeing the pinprick of light had been comforting. And then it was gone and she felt alone again. Except for Twig.

  The dawn revealed her pursuers.

  They were several miles behind her but much closer than she had thought possible. Yes, the serpents were still hunting her, leading them to her. And she was going to Battle Mountain, the place they wanted to go anyway, and she didn’t understand why Twig was leading her there. She had wondered if Mattson Kree, Gabe, and Trea would separate to find her, but no—they were sticking together.

  Rista kept walking, enduring the thirst and hunger the best she could.

  “Stay out of sight, Twig,” she reminded the kobold. Had they figured out that Rista was no longer alone? They couldn’t consider the little kobold much of a threat.

  A familiar hum sounded in her ear. She turned as a bee came zigzagging up to her. It landed on her hand. It was a honeybee. The relief she felt hearing its drone and feeling the tickling sensation on her palm made her want to cry. Invoking her magic, she saw where its hive was and her stomach growled. Honey was just what she needed.

  “Come on, Twig,” she said with courage. “I think we could both use some breakfast.” Then she turned her magic to the bee and began to follow it back to its hive.

  * * *

  The beehive Rista found was small and nestled in a dense shrub. With her magic, she kept the swarm calm and extracted a hunk of gooey comb to satisfy her hunger. The sound of the bees was soothing to her nerves and she kept glancing over her shoulder as she watched her pursuers coming after her. They were gaining ground, and she felt the urgency to leave and wondered if she would be able to outpace them throughout the day. The honey was sweet and delicious and she licked her fingers after discarding the comb.

  Twig picked it up and wolfed it down, grinning at her with pointed teeth.

  She heard the rattling of an atrox coming from behind her and felt a surge of fear. Twig chittered at her to run and so she rose and began briskly walking toward Battle Mountain, which loomed in the distance. Her stomach, although sated, was wringing with worry as she walked. She could see Mattson Kree, Trea, and Gabe stalking after her, rising above the thin brush and earth, coming after her with determination and purpose. She could find no trace of her father. Was he lying down in the brush, low against the horizon to conceal himself? He could be anywhere in the vast desolate plain.

  The sound of the serpent faded behind her, but she did not slow her pace. Twig bounded and scuttled ahead of her, testing the air, sniffing and smelling. This arid land was his domain.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, it became unbearably warm, and Rista’s thirst became more pronounced. There were no rivers or streams in the barren landscape. She did not want to risk losing all her water, so she endured the discomfort. The sun beat down on her skin and hair and made the land in front of her shimmer with the peculiar distortion that made the horizon look wet. Glancing back, she saw that her pursuers were closing the distance more, and so Rista increased her pace. She looked for signs of other people, but there were none.

  Past midday, she saw strange shapes ahead in the plains and wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. There were long poles sticking out of the ground at various angles. It was like a grove of skeletal trees, except made of poles, and she couldn’t understand what she was seeing.

  Twig began muttering in his strange, guttural tongue.

  “I don’t understand you,” she said, her voice a little croaky from lack of use.

  The kobold repeated himself and she understood a few words. “What is it? Did you say the dead?”

  The kobold nodded vigorously, pointing to the shapes. And then Rista remembered there had been a battle fought in the plains forty years ago. It was part of her father’s tales of his adventures and he had called it the barrowlands. The Overlord’s massive kobold army had been defeated by the King of Stanchion. The kobolds were small and cunning but outnumbered the humans significantly.

  As she approached, she began to discern the shapes. Soldiers had fallen with spears transfixing them. There was nothing but dust, bones, and the rusted shells of armor now. The unforgiving heat and windy plain had scoured the remains. As she drew closer, she saw some burial mounds, but there had been a vast battle and there were many skeletons remaining, mostly that of kobolds. Twig ventured near and began searching the debris, picking up broken sheaths and snapped arrows. He examined many, scuttling from one mound to another for anything interesting. Rista entered the barrowlands cautiously, weaving through the burial mounds and gazing at the shattered remnants. It was desolate and depressing how many lives had been lost in the Overlord’s attempt at conquest. It made her think of what Mattson Kree was attempting again. There were no kobolds around now, the battlefield had been picked over multiple times. Strange how Twig, so small and fragile, had survived the outcome when his more hardy brothers had perished in the war. Twig picked up another broken arrow, examining it with a melancholy slump to his little shoulders. Her heart yearned with pity for him.

  Turning again, she saw that her pursuers were even closer now, their march had increased, and Rista set off again. She had to keep ahead of them until nightfall. The dark was the only protection she had, and she could change directions and try to circle back around them. They had more food and provisions than she did. But she knew her father was in the wastelands somewhere, likely watching them all. He was a smart man, the smartest man she knew, and he was probably working on a plan to help her. She had to keep away from Mattson Kree. And find water. She rubbed her arm across her face and felt no sweat. Her body needed to be replenished. Her strength would fail before her enemies’ did.

  Twig chittered in warning and then she heard the atrox rattles coming from ahead, so the kobold rushed back to her and pointed another way. She followed his direction and suddenly another set of atrox noise announced that way was blocked too. Rista’s stomach lurched and she turned around, going back the way she’d come and trying the other path.

  More noises—more atrox blocking the path.

  Rista began to worry even more. Then she saw the snakes slithering toward her, coming from all directions, converging on the barrowlands in hundreds if not thousands. Her stomach wrenched with panic.

  “Twig, what do we do?” Rista said in desperation. The kobold was panicking, searching for a safe way to flee, but all escapes had suddenly vanished. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the loathsome noise of the atrox drew in like a net around them. Rista stopped, looking around in each direction for a way to escape. The slithering motion of the snakes made her frightened, especially the memory of the venom and how it hurt when one had bitten her earlier.

  Mattson Kree had let her walk ahead, she realized. But he also realized that finding her in the dark would be nearly impossible, so he had set up a little trap to catch
her before dusk. A cold fear burrowed into her bones. She hadn’t escaped her pursuers at all. She’d pushed herself hard all that day for nothing.

  A huge, fat atrox was nearing her, so Rista hurried to a mound and grabbed one of the broken spears to use as a weapon. She climbed up on it and prepared to defend herself.

  “Twig, you have to hide!” she said. “They might have seen you. Hide in one of the mounds. Bury yourself in the ground. You have to get away from here!”

  The kobold scolded her and said he wouldn’t leave. He grabbed one of the snapped arrows and brandished it.

  “No, Twig!” Rista said. “You have to hide. Now!”

  The large atrox was coiling at the base of the mound. Soon they’d converge on all sides. Rista jabbed the spearhead at the serpent and it hissed and reared its head at her, exposing sharp fangs. She wrestled with her fear and jabbed at it again.

  “Now, Twig! Now! Obey me!”

  She knew that Mattson Kree wouldn’t kill her. Not yet, anyway. But Twig had helped her escape. There was a strong chance they had seen the kobold coming along, and they already knew about her father’s kobold, from the cabin. They’d kill Twig without remorse and she couldn’t let that happen.

  The kobold snarled and poked its pitiful weapon at the snake.

  Rista stomped her foot, startling Twig. “Hide! Now!”

  The kobold hesitated.

  “Please, Twig! If you don’t hide, how can you help me later? You need to hide! They’ll be here soon.”

  The kobold looked defiant. He was fiercely loyal to her and her family. He was willing to give his life to protect her.

  The atrox started slithering up the mound and another appeared behind them. Rista jabbed at the snake again, driving it off, and then hurried to the other side to repeat the maneuver.

  “Please, Twig. You’re very brave. But I need your help. I need you to hide, to help me later. I need you to find Father and guide him to us. Please! Go find Father and help him! Get far away from me. Please!”

  A third snake had reached the mound.

  “Go!” Rista nearly screamed at him.

  The kobold glared at her, grunting something, and then sped off the mound, dodging past the snake and moving low to the ground, reaching one of the burial mounds and digging inside it to conceal himself.

  Rista was relieved for a moment and then realized her situation was getting worse. The atrox swarmed around the mound she was on and came at her from all sides. She swung the spear at them, jabbing with the point. Some snakes got close enough that she poked them with the spear. Rattles and hisses erupted around her as she felt her strength waning. In the hazy distance, she saw Mattson Kree, Trea, and Gabe advancing relentlessly.

  Rista had a deep well of stubbornness inside her. She fought off the atrox far longer than a girl her age should have been able to. Her head was dizzy with the effort and her body weakened by thirst. Her sturdy boots protected her from several atrox bites as they lunged at her. They seemed to take turns climbing up the mound, but she realized that Mattson Kree was controlling them. They had herded her to a mound and now prevented her from leaving. The area around the mound was a river of snakes with the strange diamond-shaped pattern on their backs. As she fought them, her fear of them began to wane. These were animals caught under a magic’s power. It was unnatural for them to converge like this, but Mattson Kree’s power controlled them absolutely. They were forced to do his bidding, just as the bees did hers.

  The sun had begun to sink in the sky by the time Mattson Kree and the others arrived. The sea of atrox parted to allow them through. An antagonizing smirk was on the Serpentarium’s face.

  “It was quite a chase, Rista,” he said smoothly. “I’m sure you are very thirsty.”

  She nodded at him, feeling weak and trembling. Her throat was so parched she could hardly talk. “Are you going to kill me?” she asked defiantly. “I will always try to escape from you.”

  Mattson Kree shook his head. “No, I won’t kill you, Rista. Not yet. But I can’t let that pesky kobold run loose anymore. I believe it helped your father last time.” He looked at Trea and Gabe and then pointed. “It’s burrowed in that mound over there. The snakes can smell the creature. Kill it.”

  Rista started with panic. “No!”

  Mattson Kree smiled at her, a chilling smile. He gestured for the two to obey him. Trea looked pleased by the order. Gabe looked conflicted.

  “No!” Rista said, staring at the mound where she had seen Twig enter. It was the same one the Serpentarium had pointed to. “You can’t!”

  “I don’t make idle threats, Rista,” he said coldly. “I’m not sentimental like you and your father. Do it!”

  Trea and Gabe stalked over to the mound. Gabe motioned for her to go one way, he went the other. The serpents slithered away from them, some hissing at them in annoyance. Rista was anguished. This was her fault! She tried to rush off the mound, but Mattson Kree caught her in his strong arms and held her against him. She tried to wrestle herself free, but he was twice her size and she was exhausted by the ordeals of the day.

  “No, I beg you! No! Not Twig! He can’t hurt you! Leave him alone!”

  She watched in growing desperation as the two motioned to each other. Gabe grabbed a spear from the burial mounds. Trea had an arrow nocked in her bow.

  “If it runs, I’ll get it,” she said.

  Rista grew frantic. She leaned down and bit Mattson Kree’s hand. His grip tightened reflexively, startled by the pain, but he did not release her. Instead, he squeezed her so hard she couldn’t breathe. Spots began to dance in front of her eyes.

  “I see it,” Gabe said warningly, moving slowly like a hunter. “It’s wedged inside a skeleton.” He cleared some of the dirt and tangled rags away.

  “Get it!” Trea shouted.

  Rista released her bite and Mattson Kree relaxed his grip so she could breathe again. There were bite marks on his hand and blood oozed from the wound.

  “Gabe, no!” Rista wailed.

  Suddenly the man’s spear jabbed out, a quick and powerful stroke sinking into the mound. Gabe held it with both hands, using all his weight.

  “I got it!” he said triumphantly. He cleared some of the dirt away with his boot and peered into the mound. Then he looked at Mattson Kree, and a brief look of shame clouded his expression, replaced by a cold shrug. “It’s dead.”

  Trea stalked around the mound with her bow and examined the spot where the spear still quivered. Rista felt tears of disbelief flooding her eyes. No, no, no, no!

  The hunter peered into the mound, squinting, her bow ready. Then she relaxed the draw and straightened. “The kobold is dead,” she said with a malicious smile.

  Rista hated her. She hated them all.

  “Blood for blood,” Mattson Kree said, releasing Rista and chafing his bitten hand. Then in a gruff voice he said, “Gabe, tie her wrists with a lead rope. One of us keeps a hold of it from now on. We each of us take a turn. Rista is our new pet.”

  A quivering sob came from Rista’s throat as she stared at the spear in the mound.

  “Are we camping here?” Gabe asked, twisting his pack around and producing a rope from it.

  “No, we’re going to walk all night,” Mattson Kree said. “We’ll reach Battle Mountain by dawn if we do. I want to get there before the Beesinger and set my trap. His daughter is the bait. Don’t weep, Rista. This is where the kobold should have died forty years ago.”

  As Gabe wrapped her wrists with the rope, she stared at him with hatred in her eyes. He had a contrite look, but he said nothing to her as he obeyed the orders.

  * * *

  For the first time since her abduction, Rista began to worry that things would not end well. She had clung to her conviction that her father would outthink and outsmart Mattson Kree and that her first adventure would be the dawning of a great future. As she stumbled and doggedly walked through the bone-chilling night, there were no specks of light coming from behind that showed that her
father was near. They had only slept a few hours until sunset and then continued the march. She felt alone, sick with grief at Twig’s murder, and vulnerable. The cold skies glittered overhead and she stared at them, sending her thoughts into the aether.

  Father, can you hear me? Father, I’m frightened. I don’t want these people to hurt you. She felt tears sting her eyes at the very real possibility that the situation might end poorly for all of them. Her father was only a Beesinger. How did that power compare to a man who could rouse the fury of serpents? Had her father been bitten already? Was he dying in the wastelands, his body to become like the skeletons of the barrows? The thought triggered horrible emotions, made her squirm against the bonds at her wrists.

  Gabe glanced back at her, still holding the lead rope. He shook his head in silent warning not to test the ropes. She wanted to spit in his face. Rista wanted to yank the dagger from his waist and stab him with it. Her heart felt like ashes after a great fire had burned away the hunk of wood. She’d wept for hours, quietly grieving for the kobold, wondering how she would break the news to her sister and brothers. They’d be devastated.

  Father, can you hear me? she thought pleadingly. I could not bear it if I lost you. You are always so patient with me. I know I’ve not been the best daughter. I’ve tried to learn the magic. I’ve tried to make you proud of me. But I fall short so many times. If . . . if one of us must die, it would be better if it were me. I couldn’t take your place. You should go back and warn the king at Stanchion. You should make sure the others are safe.

  Her boot kicked a rock and sent it skittering into a stunted shrub. Her muscles were aching and tired. The night was deep and absolutely still. The sound of the insects was gone. Only the wind and the crunch of their boots could be heard. But she wished her thoughts could reach her father. She wished for a way to speak to him.