The Melding Thief

by Deck Matthews

  Contents

  The Melding Thief

  Map of Varkas

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  "The Melding Thief" is a work of self-published short fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to to actual persons, living or deceased, events or places is entirely coincidental.

  A Varkas Tale

  Copyright © 2018 Deck Matthews. All rights reserved.

  The Melding Thief

  Deck Matthews

  A Varkas Tale

  Life had taught him a dozen ways to kill a man. Kelven could only think of one; he stabbed him.

  It was an oddly peaceful experience, surrounded as he was by the fog of his fortification. Kelven watched in fascination as the battered iron knife bit into the hunter's exposed side, shearing through his flesh on its brief but fatal journey to the heart. Blood flowed freely, like a sour and velvety honey, staining the sleeves of Kelven's coarse woollen tunic. The single thought that bloomed in his mind was of Cyana scolding him for being so careless.

  He could almost hear his wife’s voice. What have you done? she would have asked. Didn’t you think of the trouble this would cause me? She’d always been so pragmatic. He wondered if the dying hunter would meet her in the Afterlands beyond the Morning Gate. The man would be making that journey soon. He sank to his knees, grasping weakly at Kelven’s wrist in a vain attempt to dislodge the knife. His life was abandoning him all too quickly. Already, his mossy eyes were turning to glass, reflecting the dim image of a ruddy bobcat. Like its master, the totem was dying. The hunter gasped, one last choking sound as the final breath danced across his lips. He collapsed in a heap, smothered beneath the quiet blanket of death.

  When it was over, Kelven released his grip on the knife and examined the fleshy ridges the rough bone handle had imprinted on his palm. He didn't bother to retrieve the blade. It seemed more at home in the hunter's flesh than it ever had in his hand. He thought that perhaps the knife had found its proper place in the world. It seemed a shame to disrupt it.

  Instead, he staggered to his feet and went about pillaging the corpse. He retrieved the hunter's knife and short, double-edged sword, strapping both to his belt. With the weapons secure, he turned and trudged deeper into the forests of the Turn.

  Three days to the Bitterblue, he thought. Three days until freedom and the hope of home.

  The sun’s last light was failing when Kelven stumbled across the stream. It was little more than a flow of ice melt trickling down out of the mountains. The still-frigid waters ran the colour of rosewine as he washed himself. He stripped off his tunic, soaking it to remove the stains, just as Cyana had always shown him. He hung it on a nearby branch to dry. The faintest chill of the night air nipped at his skin, raising the hair on his back. Looking down at his chest, he could barely trace the shape of the fading rune. The numbing detachment of the fortification was waning. Soon, more feeling would return—and the pain with it.

  It would take another week before the melding wand would be ready for use again. Another week of enduring the agony of his failing lungs. He wished he'd been able to steal more than a single detachment wand; he'd been fortunate to find one at all. Fortifications of detachment were prized by the Stone Seat, and that made the implements all too rare outside of Zayen. He wondered if the endurance wand would help. Somehow, he doubted it. The fortification might let him push on, but he'd still be carrying the pain along the way.

  Only the numbing helped, and soon that would dissipate. He could already feel too much of the deepening cold. He retrieved the lone blanket from his pack. The wool’s once-red dye had faded to a muddy brown, and while it was weathered and threadbare, it was expansive enough that he could wrap it two times around his shoulders.

  Cocooned and almost warm, he lowered himself to the ground between two thick, gnarled roots. The sword twisted awkwardly at his side. Kelven sighed. The hunter was dead, and by his own hand. He’d meant to leave that life behind. He’d given his word to Cyana.

  Now it was just another broken promise, scattered across the crooked path of his life.

  He closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer to the Graven One. No more killing, he thought. No more death. It was a shallow hope. He knew the Stone Seat would not relent. They would send more hunters. The theft of six melding wands could not go unanswered.

  He reached for his pack again, withdrawing the wands and laying them out along the ground at his feet. There was the spent wand of detachment, two of strength, and one each of endurance, healing, and resilience. They were all valuable enough to fetch a fine price from the right buyer. Kelven thought he'd still be able to track down a few of his former contacts—those that were still alive. One or two were bound to be interested.

  Part of him was sorely tempted, but he pushed the thought aside. He hadn’t drugged the guards of the small stonehold in Styrven with nightberry and sneaked into the vault just for a purse of coin. There’d been dozens of wands there. He could have stolen more, but he’d taken only what he needed. Just enough to help Ylana tend the farm by herself. And to help her take care of the girls.

  As the image of his daughters formed in his mind, a feeling like fire blazed through his chest. Hot pain seared his lungs, burning away his breath and setting off a fit of coughing. His chest contracted with all the force of a titan’s grip. Every rib felt on the verge of snapping. It was several minutes before the attack subsided. When it had passed, there was blood on Kelven’s fingers and the taste of tarnished copper in his mouth.

  Yes, he told himself, trying to master his breathing. Ylana will need the wands when I’m gone. His sister was strong and bull-headed, but she could only manage so much on her own. The wands would help. May the Graven One keep me alive long enough to reach her. Just a few more days. He would make it. He had to.

  He sat there for a time, recovering his strength as the cold of the night grew deeper and deeper. The forest was quiet. A few insects chirped. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. He considered moving on, but he was tired, and his tunic was still unpleasantly damp. Donning it in the cool of the night would likely do him more harm than good, and weariness was already gnawing at his bones. Might be best to stay here until morning.

  Willing himself back to his feet, he packed the wands away and set about lighting a fire just large enough to offer a bit of much-needed warmth without illuminating the forest for a half-mile in every direction. He ate a small meal of cold, bitter roots and juice-filled berries that he'd foraged earlier that day. When the cold and hunger had been sufficiently chased from his body, he gathered his blanket and settled under the low-hanging branches of a nearby evergreen. The last vestiges of the fortification remained in his body, shrouding him like a veil of gossamer. It was just thin enough to hold back the fullness of the pain. He drifted into a troubled slumber, haunted by the faces of his two young daughters—faces so much like Cyana’s.

  The last thing he heard was the distant caw of a raven echoing through the night.

  Kelven woke with the certainty that he was not alone. Pain tore him from the depths of his dreams, so jagged and raw that it rendered him immobile. For long moments, he remained in the concealment of the evergreen, struggling to master himself and praying that the stranger wouldn’t kill him where he lay. Slowly, the pain either subsided or he grew accustomed enough to its presence to move again.

  It was still dark. Kelven could hear the crackling of a fresh fire. His own had extinguished before he fell asleep. The faint caress of warmth danced across his face. Clutching the hunter's knife, he stumbled clear of the tree and into the cool night.

  The stranger sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, tending the fire wi
th the butt of a staff. Its polished, silvery wood seemed entirely unaffected by the flames. Bright eyes watched from behind the strands of black hair that tumbled across his ruined face. The cloak about his shoulders was so dark it repelled even the firelight. A raven was perched on his shoulder, its beak like a dull, curved dagger.

  “Hello, Kelven,” said the man. The bird cawed and shook its feathers. “Do you know me?”

  Kelven nodded. “Ravenwalker.” The hunter’s knife quivered in his hand.

  The cloaked man sneered in distaste. “I suppose I am. My given name is Obsidian. Dian, if you prefer. Which I do. Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

  Kelven retrieved his mostly dried tunic and pulled it on as he lowered himself to the forest floor. The cloth felt cool and clammy against his skin. He hardly noticed. Stones! They sent the bloody Ravenwalker. Here was the man who’d cast down the sorcerer Zaymenar. He was a magus of the First Order and a legend among the clans. If even one of the stories they told of him was true, the staff he carried could blast Kelven halfway to Taralius. They’re just stories. By the Graven One, let them just be stories.

  The magus regarded Kelven for long, hushed moments. “You killed the hunter they sent after you.” There was a tense silence as the Ravenwalker watched him. Kelven nodded. “Deftly done. The wound was clean and precise, directly into the heart. The work of an experienced hand.” This time, no amount of waiting would draw a response. Eventually, the Magus sighed. “His name was Raln. As I understand it, he was only just wed this past year. The Stone Seat will need to pay his death price to his widow. I’m sure it will seem a pittance. It always does.”

  More silence followed.

  “Awkward, isn’t it?” The Ravenwalker attempted a smile. Only half of his face responded to the effort. “I’ve never been good at this. I’ll cut straight to the point. Kelven Strall, I need your help.”

  Suspicion bubbled up in Kelven’s mind. This was the last thing he’d been expecting. He’d fled a hundred miles from Styrven, using every trick he knew to throw off the hunter’s pursuit. In the end, he’d broken his vow and spilled the man’s blood. He’d expected to spend whatever life remained in him fleeing and hiding from the agents of the Stone Seat. Now, one of them sat before him asking for his help. It stank so much of misdirection and trickery that Kelven’s temper flared.

  He had just opened his mouth to voice his anger when a fresh fit of coughing struck. Pain rushed through him again, worse than before. His vision turned murky black. Moments later, he found his face pressed against a bed of cold, fallen needles. The smell of pine and dirt and earthen rot that filled his nostrils was a strange contrast to the burning agony in his chest. He writhed, sucking in air, desperate for enough breath to calm his treacherous lungs. He wondered if the Last Wind had finally come to bear him away.

  Then he felt something hard against his chest. There was a moment of intense pressure, followed by a sudden, blissful release. The pain melted away into a dull ache. He swallowed a mouthful of fresh air, as cool and sweet as chilled cider. The Wind blows on. I’m not finished. Not yet.

  When he opened his eyes, he found the Ravenwalker standing over him, all black and dour. Shadows danced along the ridges of his scars, and his cloak billowed like living shadow. The butt of his staff was pressed firmly against Kelven's chest. Its grained, silvery surface was alight with a dim, evanescent glow. Yet for all the grimness of his appearance, there was a softness to the man's eyes that Kelven would not have expected.

  “Are you well?” the magus asked.

  “I—“ Kelven began, half expecting another attack. “I think so.”

  The Ravenwalker nodded. He extended one hand, helping Kelven rise from where he’d fallen. “Come and sit by to the fire. The warmth will help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Not sure I follow,” muttered Kelven, wiping the warm blood from his lips as he seated himself near the fire.

  “The black lung? How long has it been with you?”

  Kelven looked up. “How’d you know?”

  “I am a magus.” His laugh was hard and bitter. The raven, now perched on a nearby branch, cawed as though this was some private joke. “Isn't it my place to know?”

  “I suppose,” Kelven conceded. He was uncertain of this man. One moment, he seemed filled with empathy. The next, he was as hard and cold as granite. “It’s been a few months. Six at the most.”

  The magus nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sorry for it. It’s a terrible sickness.”

  Kelven shrugged. “I can’t deny that, but there’s not much I can do about it. I’ve seen a half-dozen healers. Even one of those Flameborn physickers. The answer’s always the same. There’s no cure for the black lung.”

  “Yet here you are.” The implication was clear. Yes. Here in the middle of the wilderness, running from the Stone Seat with six stolen melding wands.

  “Just doing what needs doing,” said Kelven.

  The Ravenwalker poked at the fire with the butt of his staff. “And what does a dying man need with six melding wands? I can understand taking the wand of detachment. There must be some relief in that. But the others? That remains a most peculiar mystery.” Kelven struggled not to stare at the magus’ scars as the man paused to push a strand of hair away from his face. “You were a thief once, weren't you? They say you're the only man to have escaped the Blackclaw.”

  “Twice,” Kelven muttered. And the first time, I wasn’t alone. That was something he preferred not to dwell on. I’ve paid my penance and set it right. As right as I can.

  “Then you did go back?” asked the Ravenwalker. “Why?”

  “To settled a debt.”

  The magus pursed his twisted lips. “Still, that was many years ago. You left that life behind, didn't you?” His silence was as good as an open confession. “What drew you back? After all these years, why steal the melding wands?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “And I can only assume those reasons are founded in some desperate need. As it turns out, I also have a need, and it occurs to me that we may be able to help each other. Tell me, Kelven, what would you say to one more job?”

  “I’m listening.” Cyana would be furious.

  “There is a man named Skeeves. He was a magus once, but no longer. He abandoned the Way in the pursuit of personal gain. I intend to deal with him.”

  “You mean to kill him?”

  The Ravenwalker’s jaw clenched. Something like pain and revulsion flashed in his bright eyes. “If it comes to that, yes. He is experimenting. Digging through ancient lore and seeking to master forbidden secrets.”

  “And what is that to me?” asked Kelven.

  “An opportunity. I’m asking you to help me in this. In return, I will do what I can to help you.”

  “Why do you need me? You’re the bloody Ravenwalker. Didn’t you kill Zaymenar?”

  The magus winced. “The realities surrounding those events are somewhat more complicated than what the minstrels sing. Zaymenar died; I was there when it happened. I'll leave it at that. The reason I need you is simple. I've acquired many skills over the years, but stealth has never been one of them.”

  “You snuck up on me easily enough.”

  “You were asleep. Skeeves has surrounded himself with mercenary guards. Approaching unseen will be far more difficult—”

  Kelven eyed the magus carefully. “You’re asking me to sneak you into the guarded lair of a disgraced magus?”

  “Sorcerer. He’s no longer worthy of the title of magus.”

  “I’m not sure that makes any difference.”

  “Semantics are important.”

  “You know,” grunted Kelven. “You're a strange man, Ravenwalker.” He regretted the words the moment they passed his lips. Insulting a powerful magus. Brilliant.

  “You’re not the first to say so. And please, call me Dian. But to your point, yes, I am asking you to sneak me past Skeeves’ guards. Once
that is done, you can leave the rest of this unpleasant business to me.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  The magus shrugged. “Then I depart and leave you to your affairs.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Certainly. But then, your primary concern will be the three hunters making their way over the rise. They’ll be here any moment, I think.”

  Stones! Kelven considered the possibility that the magus was bluffing, but there was a familiar ring of truth to his words—the simple truth of a man who knows he’s in a position of leverage. Kelven understood. He’d stood in that exact position himself.

  “Seems you’ve left me little choice.”

  “There’s always a choice. But I suggest you make this one quickly.”

  “Very well, magus. You have yourself a deal. I’ll get you to your sorcerer.”

  “Done.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask what I want?”

  Leaning on his staff, the Ravenwalker pushed himself to his feet. “This may not be the best moment for that particular conversation.”

  All at once, the three hunters broke from the trees—two men and a woman. Clad in thick furs and light, studded leathers, they announced their intentions with weapons drawn. Kelven was all too familiar with the language of flashing steel. There would be no hesitation this time. They’d come to take him down. If he was lucky enough to survive, they might ask questions later. More likely, they would drag his corpse back to Styrven, or perhaps all the way to the Hewn Hall itself.

  Kelven reached for the sword at his hip. The Ravenwalker was faster. With speed born of melding, the magus threw himself between Kelven and the closest hunter, a gangly man with a shaved head and a long, braided beard. The white staff flashed, a blur of shimmering wood. The hunter fell, spitting blood and clutching his gut. The magus ignored the man's gurgled moans, pivoting and raising one hand toward another of the hunters. The broad-nosed woman tumbled backward, as though she'd been struck by a titan's cudgel.